A Guilty Mind (5 page)

 

Chapter Nine

G
EORGE SQU
INTED AT
his watch and sipped the icy beer. Sarah wasn't due for another half hour. Beads of perspiration on his brow congealed to a single trickle down his cheek. He turned on the fans, avoiding running the air conditioner. He didn't need prying questions from his father. Checking the time again, he sighed.

Outside, he watched the sunlight reflected on the water. Dancing sparkles like diamonds popped up and disappeared in the ripples before reappearing again. A pair of boats cruised into view, their wake disturbing the crystal beauty of the water. He grabbed a lawn chair and another beer. Moving closer to the river, he sat under a large oak tree. He took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth. George had avoided his friends and Mary Helen for days. He'd kept to the library during the day and escaped to the cottage each evening. The separation from Sarah, although less than a week, felt like an eternity. In the heat, his T-­shirt clung to his skin. He stretched his legs and shut his eyes to the glare of the sun. His mind drifted.

“George?” a woman's voice called his name, the lilting tone tinged with irritation. “George, are you listening to me?” His eyes popped open. “Good God, are you asleep?”

“No. No.” He raised his head and sat up straight. “I'm awake.”

Mary Helen glared at him. “We were saying how important it is to establish where you were last night—­the whole night.” She emphasized the final three words.

“That's right,” Larry said. He held a memo pad in his hands. “So, George, what time did you arrive at the club?”

“I don't know exactly. Before six, I guess.”

“Can't you be more specific?” his wife asked.

George bowed his head and let out a breath. He stood and walked to the great window overlooking the front yard. Condensation in the windows crept from the corners to the middle. He reached up and traced the lines in the windows with his finger. “Five forty-­five.”

“That's fine, George,” Larry said, making notes. “Can you tell me who saw you, what you ate, how long you were there?”

The pain in his head throbbed and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened. “Jesus,” he said, and wheeled around, “is this necessary? I haven't done anything.” No one spoke. Larry shifted in his chair and looked down at his notes. Mary Helen stiffened, her tiny hands gripping the arms of the settee. He rubbed his temples and sank onto the sofa. “I'm sorry,” he said, avoiding Mary Helen's piercing gaze. “I just have this terrible headache and I don't know why we're doing this.”

An awkward quiet settled over the room. Knowing he'd been rude, knowing he'd been uncooperative, George was still more perturbed than sorry. With each passing minute, he grew more agitated. Why was Mary Helen putting him through this torture? Why did she always think she knew what was best?

“I need a drink.” At the bar, he poured a vodka, splashed in a smidge of tonic, and added a lime for good measure.

“Feeling better now, darling?”

George tensed at her sarcastic tone. “Yes, yes I am,” he said, and lifted his glass to them both. He guzzled the drink and reached for the bottle. “In fact, I think I'll have another.”

Mary Helen's eyes, hard as blue marbles, followed him to the sofa. “If you're quite through?”

George took another sip. He did feel better. “What do you want to know?”

Clearing his throat, Larry rattled off one question after another. He wrote down each answer, gradually taking George through the events of the previous evening. “Where did you go when you left the club?”

“Home. To my apartment.”

“You're sure? You didn't stop anywhere? Get gas? Buy cigarettes? Anything like that?”

Frowning, George didn't answer. He thought maybe he had stopped for cigarettes, but he couldn't remember.

“Well?” Mary Helen pursed her lips.

“I don't remember.” He wanted a cigarette at that moment, but his wife didn't allow them in the house. “I might have stopped, but it could have been the night before. I might be mixed up.”

Larry put down his pen, eyes questioning. “You don't know whether you stopped anywhere?”

“No,” he said. “I had a lot to drink at the club.”

His wife snorted. “Imagine that.”

Ignoring Mrs. Vandenberg's sarcasm, the attorney focused on George. “Fine. You think you went straight home. We'll go with that for now. Did you go straight to bed? Watch TV?”

George remembered the clothes strewn across the bedroom and bathroom. “I think I went straight to bed.”

“He probably passed out,” Mary Helen said. “I tried calling him about eleven or so and no one answered. I wanted to remind him about his conference call with Daddy, although I don't know why I bothered.” George cradled the empty glass and belched. She shot him a look. “Perfect.”

Larry pressed his lips together. “Well, it's good that a lot of ­people saw you at the club.” He picked up his notepad, stood, and addressed Mary Helen. “I'm sorry I have to go. Lucy and I are going to the ballet tonight, and she'll kill me if I'm late.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Larry.” Mary Helen followed him to the door, her smile strained. “You'll let me know if you find out anything?”

“Of course.” The lawyer shook their hands.

“Find out what?” George asked after the attorney was gone.

“What do you think? For God's sake, George, sometimes you are so dense. Dr. Michael's murder! I'd like to know what happened to Dr. Michael. Wouldn't you?” Averting his eyes, he made no comment. Trailing him back to the bar, Mary Helen kept at him. “The police will probably find out who all his patients were and start asking questions, and who knows what they'll dig up. What if they find out about you, George?” Unresponsive, he flopped on the sofa, a fresh drink balanced on his chest. “You don't even care, do you? Even if you didn't have anything to do with whatever happened to that doctor of yours, what about us? What if they find out about you and what you did before?”

“I didn't kill Dr. Michael.”

“How would you know?” She threw her hands up in the air. “You can't even remember if you stopped for cigarettes. How do you know what you did?”

“I didn't kill Dr. Michael,” he repeated, the denial a little less definite, the words a little quieter.

“What if you had one of your episodes? Maybe that's why you don't remember,” she said, eyes narrowed.

The blood rushed to his head, pounding again. “Don't.”

“And sometimes you can't control your temper, George. Don't forget that.”

“How could I when you're constantly reminding me?” He jumped to his feet and pushed past her. “I'm going up for a shower.”

“George,” she said, her voice bordering on shrill, “we are not finished.”

“Oh yes, we are.” He took the steps two at a time. In the bathroom, he slammed and locked the door behind him.

“Damn you!” He heard the shout from the stairs as he turned the shower on full blast, drowning out the sound, drowning out everything. The water hit his face and pelted his skin, the heat loosening some of the strain in his neck and shoulders. He stood like that for several minutes, allowing the water to wash over him. Just for a moment, he felt clean and new. Then it was gone. The meeting with Larry and the fight with Mary Helen, it all made him so tired. All he wanted to do was forget.

Later, clean and changed, he snuck back downstairs and shut himself in the library, a nightcap in his hand. Almost welcoming the dream now, he closed his eyes, letting the past rush forward and fill his mind, erasing the misery of the present.

Down by the river, he waited for Sarah and dozed under the hot sun. The sound of her car on the gravel drive startled him. He watched as she parked in front of the guest cottage. He held his breath, resisting the urge to turn and drink in every step she took.

“George? Is that you down there?”

“Here.” She came to him, long legs flashing, sinewy arms swinging at her sides. The halter top and shorts she wore clung to her body and her tan skin glowed in the afternoon light.

George sucked in his breath. “God, you're beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”

 

Chapter Ten

“I
S THIS I
T?”
Cancini asked. He tapped the black book lying on the desk.

Smitty nodded. “Mrs. Watson said it lists all of Michael's appointments in and out of the office. I've got Wilder checking out her computer, but she says she hardly used it. She swears this is all we should need.”

Cancini pulled his head to the right, his ear close to his shoulder. He repeated the stretch to the left.

“You okay?”

“Headache.” He opened the appointment book. “How far back does it go?”

“Five months. To January. I think the ones from previous years are in the files.”

He turned the pages until he came to the day of the murder. The appointments were written neatly in the book, first initial followed by a last name, each marked in one-­hour blocks of time. Two periods were left blank, the first hour of the morning and lunch. “Do we have the full names of the patients?” Smitty handed him a folded piece of paper. Cancini copied the list in his notebook. Then flipping back, he added the names of the patients who had come in the day before, too. “Mrs. Watson said he went out to pick up a sandwich for lunch.”

“Yep. There's a deli on the corner he went to every day. Brought it back to the office and ate at his desk,” Smitty said. “Real creature of habit, this guy.”

“So, no change in routine this week?”

“Nope. Mrs. Watson said he used lunch to catch up on his notes.” Cancini glanced at his young partner. “I know what you're going to say, but she wouldn't give me those. The warrant was pretty narrow. Notes and files weren't covered. Sorry.”

Cancini wasn't surprised. “Doesn't matter. If we need them, we'll take a run at getting another subpoena later. What did you find out about the wife?”

Smitty sat down at his desk. “Some, but not a lot. No kids and no close family. Only marriage for both. She's a lawyer with Harkin & Fenner, works in tax litigation, high-­priced clients. Nobody in her office had much to say about her. Professional, always polite, good at her job, that kinda stuff.”

“How long has she been there?”

“Five years. One odd thing though. I didn't get to talk to everyone but it doesn't seem she socialized with her coworkers. She didn't do the office Christmas party or the summer cookout. Ate lunch alone in her office. Apparently, the lady is business-­friendly, but, and I quote, ‘snotty.' ”

“Snotty?”

“Yeah, as in stuck-­up.”

“Anyone ever met Dr. Michael?”

“Nope.”

Cancini leaned back, eyes on his partner's face. He thought briefly of the woman who'd sat before him only hours earlier. The description didn't seem all that far off. Smart and classy but no kids and no close friends. Other than her husband, the woman liked to be alone. This last part, at least, he understood. “Okay. Where was she before Harkin & Fenner?”

“Boston. That's where they're from. She stayed even after her husband had set up practice here. According to the personnel lady at the firm, she moved to Washington because Dr. Michael was complaining about the weekend commuting.”

The pain at the base of his neck radiated up the back of his head. “How long had the Michaels been married?”

“About fifteen years.”

“And they never had kids? No other family?”

“Just the dead brother for her. Dr. Michael's folks died when he was in his twenties. No siblings.”

“Odd,” he said. It appeared both their family trees were dying out. Was no children a conscious choice? He ran his hand over his short hair. If it was, he wondered if it was significant. “Interesting.”

“What's interesting?” Smitty asked.

Cancini reached in his drawer for a bottle of aspirin. “I'm wondering why Mrs. Michael had to be convinced to move to the same town to be with her husband. I want to know why Mrs. Watson made it out as though Mr. and Mrs. Michael were lovebirds, him always so anxious to get home to her.” He swallowed two pills with cold coffee. “There's something about this relationship I find curious. I need to know more.”

“I'll see what I can find out. I have a friend in Boston.”

“Anything he can get. Work history, friends, neighbors.” He tapped on the desk. “Could be a reason, a local reason, she wasn't in any hurry to move closer to dear old hubby.”

Smitty arched one eyebrow. “You think she had a little something on the side?”

“I have no idea.” Cancini shrugged. “She's attractive, smart, has money. No kids to weigh her down. Could've been one of those modern marriages.” In his mind, he pictured her again. “You never know.”

“I guess. She's still a looker, that's for sure.”

“Still? Are you implying she's old?”

Smitty's face flushed. “No. That's not what I meant, but she's older than me. That's all.”

“So's most of the population.” Standing, the detective picked up his notebook and slipped it in his jacket pocket. “I'm going to track down some of these names and check out some alibis.”

“Sure. I'll call my buddy in Boston now. Might take another run at Mrs. Watson, too,” Smitty said. He started to pick up the phone, then turned back to Cancini. “By the way, did you get the report from the print guys?”

Cancini picked through the files on his desk and tossed a manila folder to his partner. “The knife was clean but the door and the knob weren't. Prints were all over the office, most of them smudges or partials. So far, no matches with FBI files or any other files. My guess is they belong to patients, Mrs. Watson, and the doctor himself. Speaking of prints, what about the cleaning ser­vice?”

“Commercial company. A crew of two came in at six-­thirty according to their records. Emptied trash cans, cleaned the floors and bathroom. Gone by seven and on to the next office. Said the door was locked when they came in; they used their company passkey and locked it again when they left.”

“Anyone see Dr. Michael?”

“Yep, both of 'em. He was working at his desk. Both are immigrants and don't speak much English.”

“That's convenient. How can we be sure they didn't knife him, intend to rob him, but something went wrong?”

“We don't. Seems unlikely, though, since a call was made from the doctor's desk phone around nine and our cleaning ser­vice was working in another building by then. There are witnesses.”

“What about the call? Have we traced it yet?”

“Still working on it.”

“Let me know.” Cancini mind turned over the little evidence they had. “Let's assume all we've been told is true. That means Dr. Michael was still alive in his office after seven
P.M.
, after the cleaning ser­vice had left. Let's also assume the door is locked as they claim. After that, someone, either the victim or possibly our perp, used the phone at approximately nine
P.M
.” He paused, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “For now, based on the fact that no blood was found on or near the doctor's desk, I'm going to assume the doctor himself used the phone. With me so far?”

Smitty nodded.

“He's alive at nine. Is the perp already there? We don't know.” Cancini paused and stretched his neck again. “Damn, that hurts.”

“You're old.”

“Tell me about it. All right, I think we can safely assume the murder took place at the secretary's desk and not in Dr. Michael's office. Since we have no evidence to place the perp in the office where the call was made, let's assume the perp hadn't yet arrived. Sometime after the call, Dr. Michael is knifed in the back.”

“Makes sense, but how did he get in?”

Cancini's eyes came to rest on the younger man. “That's the question, isn't it? Did the perp come in with a key or was he let in by Dr. Michael himself?”

“According to Mrs. Watson, only she and Dr. Michael had keys,” Smitty reminded him. “He must have let his killer in.”

“Maybe,” Cancini said. “Let's look at it a different way. The murder weapon was clean and the doorknob wasn't. Based on that, I think it's safe to assume the perp was wearing gloves.”

“Or wiped the knife clean.”

“I don't think so. First, if you take the time to wipe the knife clean, you're going to wipe everything you touched. The print guys didn't find any other surfaces that had been wiped. Second, although the knife handle was clean of prints, there were blood spatters that weren't wiped away. He must have been wearing gloves.”

Smitty considered this information. “Okay, I'll buy it. He was wearing gloves, but that also implies the murder—­or some other crime that led to the murder—­was planned, at least to some degree.”

“Exactly. So, until we get something that disproves our theory, the murder was at least partially premeditated. Our perp is either someone who knew the victim and was let in or had access to his office through one of the keys we know about. If we assume premeditation, our perp knew enough to know the victim would work late that night.”

“Like one of his patients?”

“Could be.”

“The wife? Someone he worked with?”

“Any”—­he pulled on his faded leather sport coat—­“or all of the above.”

A desk officer approached the two detectives. “Cancini, a Sandy Watson is on the phone for you. Line four.”

“Speak of the devil.” He sat down again. “Cancini here.”

“Detective,” she said. “It's Sandy Watson. I . . . I don't know if I'm doing the right thing.” Near tears, her words were barely audible. “But if it helps you to find out whoever killed Dr. Michael . . .” A choked sob came across the phone line.

He pressed the phone to his ear, kept his voice low and soothing. “Mrs. Watson, anything you can tell me may be helpful. I know you cared a great deal for the doctor, so if you know anything . . .”

Her crying slowed then. “It's about Dr. Michael, but I don't know if it means anything. He'd been preoccupied, anxious about something this week. I think he was worried.”

Cancini jotted down the time, the lady's name, and a line about the doctor's worries. “What makes you think something was bothering him, Mrs. Watson?”

“Well, when something was on his mind, he would become distant, give one-­word answers. All week he never asked about how I was doing, didn't thank me like he did each day, barely touched his sandwich. It just wasn't like him. The doctor was the kindest man.” Her words broke off. A minute went by before she spoke again. “I'm sorry. I still just can't believe it.”

“It's fine, Mrs. Watson. You were saying about the doctor?”

“Oh. Right. Well, like I said, he always took an interest in ­people and how they were doing. This week he was different, not rude or anything, just, you know, preoccupied.”

“Okay. Was he worried about a patient maybe?”

“I honestly don't know. He didn't talk to me about his cases.”

“But you knew something was wrong,” the detective asked, pressing. “Did you ask him if everything was all right?”

“Oh no, Detective, not this time. I assumed whatever was bothering him was none of my business.”

“This time? Has he been like this before?”

“Only once.” She spoke haltingly, the words hanging in the air. “I—­I don't know if I should say anything more.”

He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Watson, it could be important to the case.”

“We-­ell, I guess it would be all right. It was right around when Mrs. Michael's brother died. The doctor was not himself at all. He was short, even with Mrs. Michael. She even went—­” The woman hesitated, breaking off. “Well, things were, I don't know how to put this, but I guess they were awkward.”

“That was about a year ago, right?”

“Yes, Detective.”

He put down his pen. He already knew about the brother's hit-­and-­run death. “Well, Mrs. Watson, I think it's understandable they would both be upset after the death of Mrs. Michael's brother. I'm sure it was a difficult time for everyone.”

“Oh no, Detective, it wasn't after the accident,” she said, then stopped.

Cancini leaned forward, picking up his pen once again. “Yes?”

“You might not understand,” she whispered. “Dr. Michael loved her so much. He was devoted.”

He heard the protective, maternal tone in her voice. “If there's something I need to know, Mrs. Watson, now is the time.”

There was silence, followed by a ragged sigh. “The doctor, he was upset, worried, for quite a while. He seemed, well, kind of unhappy.” A moment passed while he waited. “Not after the accident, Detective. Before.”