A Guilty Mind (14 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Seven

B
EING SUMMONED TO
the captain's office did not improve Cancini's morning. He slouched low in the chair, bone-­weary, heavy bags encircling his eyes.

Martin hit him with questions. “Did you talk to the D.A.? Can you get the search warrant or what? How soon do you think?”

Cancini swallowed a slug of coffee, his head aching already. “I talked to her and she's going to see Judge Cramer as soon as he gets in, around ten or so. Jackie's gonna call me or Smitty when she has it. Until then, I'm going back to the doc's office to see what else I can learn.”

The toothpick in the captain's mouth splintered and he spit it into the wastebasket. He plopped another between his lips and nodded his approval. “You'll meet at Vandenberg's apartment?”

“That's the plan.”

“Good. Listen, I got a call from Mrs. Michael's attorney this morning at seven. Do you think she knows what's up?”

Cancini scratched his head. “Well, she was the one that gave me the tip that one of the patients had scared her husband, but I don't see how she could know how far we've gotten. Even I can't believe Vandenberg gave up his privacy rights so easy.”

The captain agreed. “So, tell me, how solid is what we've got on this guy?”

Cancini bristled. George Vandenberg had been moved to the top of the suspect list. He was prone to wild mood swings that might make him capable of capital murder. Adding in that he'd already killed a girl and covered it up did not help. Still, without more evidence than the tapes and the broken lamp, it was circumstantial at best. “It's a beginning—­not conclusive, though.”

“But the widow's out as a suspect? Is that right?”

Cancini finished his coffee. Most of the reasons he'd liked the wife as a suspect had not gone away. Her reluctance to move from Boston to be with her husband, the repeated trips back to Boston for long periods of time with no explanation, the calls to the unknown cell phone the night her husband was brutally murdered—­these questions had not been answered to his satisfaction. In spite of her helpful revelation about the violent patient, he resented the wasted time spent on the note and the brother's hit-­and-­run accident. The missing glasses bothered him, too. They'd verified the widow's story that Dr. Michael had a habit of losing them, but his secretary was sure he'd had them the day he was murdered. “Sorry,” Cancini said. “I can't rule her out yet. Why?”

The captain flicked another toothpick into the trash can. “The talking head says the widow wants to know when she can go back to Boston. I didn't even think the husband had been buried yet.”

“He hasn't. His body's still at the coroner's.” He sat up straighter. “What did you tell him?”

“What could I say?” Martin said with a shrug. “She's not under arrest.”

Cancini leaned forward, the headache pounding. Until the searches of Vandenberg's apartment and his car were done, he'd prefer to have Mrs. Michael close by where they could watch her.

“Then he got snotty with me, implying we were bungling the case.” Fingering the toothpicks in the jar, the captain selected one. “Naturally, I told him if she left town, it might be construed as a hostile action to the investigation. After all, what's the rush?”

Cancini sat back, breathing a sigh of relief. He and Martin would never be friends, could never be friends, but he could usually count on the captain to do the right thing on the job. Never a great detective, Martin excelled in management, possessing that special talent that let him deal with the brass and kiss up whenever it was required. It was a job Cancini could never do. The two men were polar opposites. For Cancini, it boggled the mind they had both chosen the same woman. Not surprisingly, his ex-­wife preferred a captain to a lowly detective.

The captain stood. “I want you to keep me posted on all developments. This ain't no one-­man show here. No bullshitting around, Cancini.”

Cancini stood and frowned. Yes, sometimes he preferred to work alone. He didn't like mistakes. It wasn't about the glory or anything else. Martin should know that by now. Cancini didn't need the additional hassle of keeping the captain updated on each and every tidbit, constantly reminding him who was boss. On the other hand, Martin had handled the lawyer and he'd kept the widow local. It was something. He bit back on his resentment and nodded once. “No problem, Captain. Promise.”

Smitty and Wilder, faces grim, waited for him at his desk. Smitty spoke as soon as the older detective came within earshot. “Someone doesn't want us to find out much about the widow.”

“What do you mean?” Cancini asked, sinking into his chair.

“We've got the basic stuff—­you know—­graduation date, marriage date, job history, all verified by the city of Boston and Northeastern University, but that's it. There's no credit card history we can find, no real paper trail. Most everything was in her husband's name. House, cars, everything. There was nothing out of the ordinary we could find there. She does have her own bank account and a 401(k) through work but without a subpoena, I don't know if there's been any unusual activity.”

“See if you can get one.”

“Sure.”

“Anything from neighbors, coworkers?”

Wilder chimed in. “No one will say much. The neighbors liked the doc a lot, but I can't find anyone who can tell me much about the wife. Everyone kinda clams up.”

“Maybe she doesn't make friends easily,” Cancini said. With her icy manner, it didn't shock him she might put ­people off. “What about anyone in Boston?”

“So far, the same,” Smitty said. “It's tough not being able to canvass the neighborhood, and I've run into the same thing as Wilder. It's almost like she barely lived there.”

Cancini ran his hands through his hair. Why was she so eager to return to her hometown of Boston? “Do we have anyone who can do some legwork up there?”

“I can ask my buddy,” Smitty said. “If he's not on a case, he might be able to lend us some help.”

“Good.”

“I don't get why no one will talk about her.” Smitty folded his arms across his chest. “You'd think she'd have at least one good friend who could tell us something. It feels like we're getting blocked at every turn.”

Cancini couldn't disagree, but it wasn't enough. “Not much to find is not the same thing as someone not wanting you to learn anything.” He eyed Smitty and Wilder. “Just find out what you can. Wilder, try her local grocery, dry cleaner's, anyplace she would have frequented. Smitty, maybe you can have your friend go a little further back, before she was married. She must have dated, had high school or college friends, something, anything . . .” He stared at the file folder lying on his desk. “George Vandenberg” was written across the front. Thoughts of Nora Michael disappeared as the man's voice, his confessions and his crying, seeped back into the detective's brain.

Smitty reached across his shoulder and tapped the file. “The background on Vandenberg. It pretty much jibes with what we heard on the tapes. But there is something else—­an arrest.”

Cancini opened the folder and looked up at his partner. “The assault charge?”

The blond man's eyes bugged. “How did you know?”

Weary, the detective decided he could never bear the burden borne by therapists and psychiatrists. Knowing every facet of a person's life, particularly the spots where they were weak and ashamed, was more responsibility than he ever wanted. “Vandenberg told Michael in one of their sessions.” Shortly before his marriage, young George had gotten in a fistfight in a bar and been charged with assault. “It was dismissed, wasn't it?”

“Yes, but I think it goes to show a pattern of violence. I wouldn't be surprised if we find some other incidents that weren't reported.”

Cancini agreed but said nothing. George had a temper, particularly when he drank, which it seemed to the detective he'd done regularly for most of his life. It hadn't been lost on him that the fight in the bar occurred shortly after the girl's death but prior to his wedding. Still, if the evidence supported charging him with the murder of Dr. Michael, the earlier arrest would not look good in court. The broken lamp showed that even more than twenty years later, Vandenberg still wrestled with his demons.

After Wilder returned to his desk, Smitty spoke again, voice low. “Did you get the name?”

Cancini had told everyone on the case a girl had died and only Dr. Michael knew George's most horrible secret. Around the squad room, the woman had only one name, Sarah. He'd had to listen to dozens of tapes before he ever heard the last name, and even then, it was only once.

“She was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen,” George had said, his tone gushing as he described their first meeting. “She brought a pitcher of beer and walked away. I wanted to talk to her, but she had a bunch of other tables so I had to wait to get her attention again.” Vandenberg had chuckled a little. “I was with one of my frat brothers and he caught me mooning after her and started ribbing me right away. I didn't care. We finished the pitcher and she came back. I don't know why, but I couldn't talk for a second. So, my friend did it for me. He pushed me to my feet and told her my name, laughing because I was so nervous. God knows I was.” The patient had paused.

“And then what happened?” asked the therapist.

“She told me her name. She said, ‘I'm Sarah Winter. It's nice to meet you.' Just like that. Not embarrassed at all.”

“Ah.” Dr. Michael let out a long breath as he spoke, elongating the word as though he'd just been told an extraordinary thing.

“Yeah. She was something,” George said, the voice fading away, “but that was a long time ago.”

Cancini picked up the slip of paper with the name, folded it, and handed it to Smitty. “I want you to look into this quietly, okay? No leaks.”

Smitty shrugged, his face blank. “Whatever you want.”

Cancini tucked the file under his arm and grabbed his keys. He had tapes waiting, and while there was no doubt the therapist had been brutally murdered, the cause of death for Sarah Winter remained undetermined. He hoped the results of an autopsy or a police report would turn up, though he knew old records were often hard to locate. Cancini needed facts, not hearsay and emotions. As fascinating as he found the tapes, they were not the complete story. Was Sarah's death an accident or homicide?

 

Chapter Twenty-­Eight

“I
DID SOMETHING
terrible this weekend, Dr. Michael.” Cancini settled back in the chair, Vandenberg's voice familiar to him now.

“Terrible? How do you mean?”

“I scared my son. Really scared him. I didn't mean to. I didn't even know he was there. He can barely look at me. God, I'm an idiot, a damn idiot! I know what you're thinking. He's pathetic and—­” Vandenberg stopped when the therapist interrupted him.

“Take your time, George, you're not making sense.”

“Right. I got drunk,” he said, his tone bitter. “Big surprise, huh?”

Cancini thought he caught the sound of a sigh. “I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't drink, George. It doesn't seem to help.”

“I know, and I was only going to have a ­couple of pops, but then Mary Helen started in on me about something or other. I swear I can't even remember what it was now and Wills wasn't supposed to be home yet,” the patient said, voice breaking. “Jesus, it must have been awful for him.”

“You can't blame Mary Helen for your drinking, George.”

“Why not? She drives me to it. You don't know what she's like.”

Dr. Michael disagreed. “She is not the reason you drink.”

“Well, she sure as hell's part of it,” the patient said, the words louder now. “She drives me crazy! Always pick, pick, picking at me.”

“Calm down, George. That's not what we need to talk about today. Remember?”

Vandenberg did not respond for several minutes. The detective waited, listening to dead air. On a notepad, he wrote Mary Helen's name, thinking it might be time to pay the lady a visit.

“Better?”

“Yeah, I'm sorry. I guess I got off track,” George said.

“It's okay. But the drinking . . . it's not good. Let me remind you about that treatment facility, the one I told you about.” Cancini listened as the therapist described a rehab hospital.

“I know you mean well, Dr. Michael, but I'm not sure I can do that right now. I'm not ready.”

“Even after scaring your son?” There was a gasp. “I apologize for the way that sounded,” came the voice of the therapist, “but I don't think I'm wrong in guessing you had another one of your episodes.”

The detective sat up straighter in the chair. What was an episode? Had there been other episodes discussed on the tapes he'd skipped?

“No,” George said, reluctance in his voice, “you're not wrong.”

“Do you want to tell me about it now?”

Cancini leaned forward, turning his ear toward the tape recorder.

“Yeah. Okay.” He heard the indrawn breath, no louder than a whisper. “I'd had a few, like I said before, and Mary Helen was screaming at me. I'm such a disappointment. I'm a miserable husband. Her father tolerates me at work. Why can't I do more? So, I had a few more, and, you know, she screamed a whole lot more. It must have been about eight or so and Wills wasn't supposed to be home from the movies until nine. I grabbed the scotch bottle and started chugging. I know it was stupid . . .” The man sounded sorrowful. “I did it to piss her off.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh sure. Then again, everything I do pisses her off.” There was a brief pause.

“What happened next, George?”

“Do you want her version or mine?”

“I think it might be best if we start with hers.” Cancini noted the doctor's response. Why would he choose to hear what the wife said happened?

“Yeah, okay.” He cleared his throat. “I started in with my own insults, something I don't usually have the courage to do when I'm sober.”

“And she got angrier?”

“Yeah. She'd had enough and tried to leave the room. I grabbed her hard and yanked her by the arm.” George's voice got quiet. “She showed me the bruises the next day.”

“I see. Is there more?”

“Unfortunately.” Vandenberg's voice cracked and a few seconds passed. He spoke again. “When she was struggling to get away from me, I stumbled and we both fell. Mary Helen thinks she sprained her wrist. Then she jumped up and ran out. I was so incensed, still so drunk, that I threw an ashtray at her head. Luckily, I missed, but it hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces. I don't think I meant to hurt her. I would never do that on purpose.” There was silence for a full minute. “Mary Helen told me Wills was standing in the doorway and saw the whole thing.” A choked sound came over the tape, the sound of a muffled sob, then quiet again. “You should have seen his face the next morning. I think he hates me. I can't say I blame him. I'd hate me, too.”

Cancini's shoulders tightened and he clutched the pen until it dug into his hand. The man had physically hurt his wife. He'd bruised her skin and become violent when she tried to leave. The detective dropped the pen and stopped the tape. He understood the hatred between the ­couple, familiar to him after his own disastrous marriage. He even understood the fleeting desire to inflict harm, but it was a line no man should ever cross. Vandenberg had crossed that line, yet Cancini sensed the man's remorse was genuine. He shook his head. The man had assaulted his wife. There could be no excuse. No matter how vulnerable the man seemed, this recording told the story of a different man, a violent man. He pushed play again.

“So, you had a fight,” Dr. Michael said. “You were drunk and things got a little rough. Sadly, your son had to witness this.”

“Yes.”

“George, I have to ask. Did you and your wife argue about the accident?”

“I don't know. I can't remember.”

“Do you remember your son's face or what happened right after he witnessed the argument?”

“No. I don't even remember throwing the ashtray or Wills being in the room.”

“Then you did have another episode,” the therapist said. “Everything you've told me today is strictly what your wife told you happened. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Cancini's eyes locked on the turning wheels of the tape. Did the doctor doubt the veracity of Mary Helen's story?

“You don't remember the fight? You don't remember hurting your wife? You don't remember your son being there?”

“No,” Vandenberg said. Cancini thought he sounded sad, defeated. “No, I don't.”

Dr. Michael's tone weary, he asked, “George, do you remember anything at all?”

“Not after I chugged the scotch. No.” His answer was no more than a whisper.

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. She said I passed out after that. I woke up on the sofa, still in my clothes.”

Seconds ticked by and the meaning of the episode seemed to weigh on both men. Cancini could not turn away from the recorder. The therapist cleared his throat. “Look, our time is up for today, but this is important. It means something.”

“Means something? Like what?”

“Well, I think we can both agree you've been carrying around some deep emotions for a number of years, repressing them most of that time.”

“Wow. It sounds a little better the way you put it.”

“Either way, in tandem with your increasing inability to repress these emotions, your drinking has escalated, too. With that comes behavior you can't control, don't even remember. Don't you see that?” There was no audible response, but the doctor went on anyway. “Good. You and I are working hard on the emotional areas, but the drinking is something else. It's getting out of control. You can't continue to use alcohol as a drug.” Dr. Michael's words became more insistent. “George, this is your second episode of alcohol-­induced amnesia in two months. Do you realize how dangerous this is? We need to get you into a program.”

Cancini listened and wrote,
Alcohol-­induced amnesia?

“I'm afraid. I don't know if I can do it, Dr. Michael.”

“I understand, but surely you realize all of this, our sessions and the blackouts and the accident, they're all related.”

“I guess.”

A touch of exasperation crept into the therapist's voice. “You can't afford to guess anymore, George. These blackouts are not benign. It's not as though you are passing out here. To everyone else, you're functioning, aware of what you're doing. Mary Helen is not going to be understanding forever. Plus, the next time, you could hurt someone, maybe seriously. Is that what you want, George? Is it?”

The detective shut off the machine. According to the doctor, Vandenberg experienced blackouts where he remained functional. During those blackouts, he often became violent but remembered nothing. Was it possible? On the night of Dr. Michael's murder, Vandenberg drank heavily, a fact corroborated by the bartender and several witnesses. Had he become violent that night as he had other nights when he was drunk? He'd fought with the doctor earlier in the day. Did he return to the doctor's office and brutally stab him to death? And if George had committed the murder, slaying his own therapist, did he even remember?