Blameless (5 page)

Despite their two demanding careers, the tight money, and the fertility problems that were supposed to drive couples apart, Craig was her best friend. She loved him passionately, but also loved him in a richer, more profound way. She pressed his palm to her stomach, knowing that despite all the craziness of the past week, she was still the luckiest of woman. “How come you’re sleeping in so late?” she asked him.

“Hard to get up when you’re sleeping with such a beautiful woman.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls.”

He gave her a quick hug, then swung away. “True,” he said, standing and stretching. “But it’s easier than admitting I’m just a lazy bastard.”

“Yeah, right,” Diana said. The last thing Craig Frey was was a lazy bastard. A senior project architect at one of the most prestigious firms in Boston, Craig also had his own business on the side. His dream was to open his own firm: Frey and Associates it was to be called—even if there were no associates for a while.

Craig’s dream of Frey and Associates kept him sketching family room additions and small office buildings on weekends and in the early mornings. He had a drafting table set up in the far corner of the great room and spent as many of his at-home hours there as he did asleep. Diana wished he wouldn’t work so hard, that he would get more rest and they would get more time together, but, knowing how much it meant to him, she also wished for his success.

Diana watched him as he shrugged into his bathrobe, thinking how nice it would be to pull him back into bed, but knowing that they both had to get to work: Mr. Frey and Dr. Marcus, the disciplined professionals. Diana had not changed her name when they married because she had already published a few articles and achieved a certain level of recognition in the field as Diana Marcus. Whenever anyone commented on this fact, Craig would pronounce that “he had decided to keep his own name.” She wondered how anyone could
not
love a man with a line like that.

Diana reluctantly sat up and grabbed her own robe from the narrow slice of floor between the bed and the wall. As she was tying the belt, the telephone rang.

“You get it,” Craig said, sticking his head back into the bedroom from the hallway. “I’ve got to get into the shower—big presentation this morning on the new mall above the Central Artery.”

Diana hesitated before reaching for the phone that sat on Craig’s night table. It was far too early in the morning for casual chitchat. But the phone’s warble demanded attention. She lifted the receiver.

“Dr. Diana Marcus, please,” a wide-awake, no-nonsense voice requested.

“Who’s calling?” Diana asked, a shadowy image from her dream creeping through the back of her mind.

“Is this Dr. Marcus?” the clipped voice persisted.

“Yes it is,” Diana said, giving up the game. Who else could she be at this hour? “And to whom am
I
speaking?”

“Risa Getty.
Boston Globe
.”

“What can I do for you?” Diana asked, relieved. Probably just a request for a story on suicide, or borderlines, or perhaps even a comment on James. She glanced at the clock. At seven-thirty in the morning?

“Dr. Marcus, I’m sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour, but I’m the medical reporter for the
Globe
and—”

“It’s okay,” Diana said, her relief returning: a medical reporter. “No problem. I’ve been up for a while.”

“Great. Because I was hoping you’d be able to help me with something.” Risa’s words came more slowly. “Yesterday afternoon the city desk passed on a tip—and I’ve been checking it out.”

“Tip?”

“About a complaint to be filed in court first thing this morning and, well, frankly, I just don’t know what to make of it.”

“Complaint?” Diana’s heart sank.

“I’m real sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but”—Risa’s voice was kind—”according to this, you’re being charged with malpractice.”

Diana sat down hard on the bed, afraid she already knew the answer to the question she had to ask. “By whom?”

“James Hutchins’s family,” Risa said. “Or to be more precise, his sister.”

“Jill?”

The sound of flipping paper seemed to reverberate across the phone lines. “Jill Hutchins is the complainant.”

Diana stared at the black-and-white abstract pattern on the closed drapes and said nothing. It happens to almost everyone, she reminded herself. It had happened to Gail and to Alan Martinson. It had even happened to Adrian. Twice. In the litigious nineties, malpractice suits were becoming a standard occupational hazard for psychologists.

“Dr. Marcus?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, but it gets worse.”

“Yes?” Diana’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

“They’re also accusing you of wrongful death.”

“Wrongful death?” Diana repeated, unable to believe what she was hearing. “You mean they’re saying that it’s
my
fault James killed himself?” she demanded, feeling the blood draining from her face. “They’re charging
me
with a crime? In court?”

“It’s civil court—not criminal court.” Risa paused. “But in essence, that’s the gist of it.”

“That’s absurd,” Diana said, her fear sparking anger. “Therapists can’t be held responsible for their patients’ suicides. No one would be able to practice.”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Risa said quickly. “I wanted to hear your side of the story.”

“I don’t have a side.” Diana shook her head to clear it. “Except to say that sometimes people kill themselves.”

“People like James Hutchins?”

Diana hesitated; she had to be careful. This woman was a reporter, after all. “I’m not really at liberty to say.”

“Let’s be frank here, Dr. Marcus. You know James Hutchins committed suicide and so do I—what’s the big deal about saying he was at risk?”

“All kinds of people are suicide risks,” Diana said slowly. “Depressives, alcoholics, schizophrenics. That normal-looking, middle-aged guy who sat next to you in the Mexican restaurant last night.”

“Did James fall into one of those groups?”

Again Diana hesitated.

“I could look it up in any number of reference books,” Risa pressed. “But I’m sure you can give me a more accurate picture.”

“James was one of the normal-looking ones. Most of the time he was highly functional—charming, bright, terrific sense of humor. Exceptionally kind ….” Diana swallowed a lump in her throat, remembering James giving Ethan his favorite leather jacket because Ethan had no winter coat, remembering James driving Sandy to Worcester in the middle of a snowstorm because she had finally decided it was time to confront her grandmother.

“And?” Risa prompted.

Diana took a deep breath. “Hardly anyone would have guessed there was anything wrong with him.” But James had known. He had a recurrent nightmare of being curled up, fetal and naked, inside a transparent eggshell. Of watching helplessly as huge fingers wrapped around his shell and cracked him into a hot frying pan.

“But there was?” Risa persisted. “Something wrong?”

Diana grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her. “Whatever was ‘wrong’ with James Hutchins was caused by what others did to him.”

“Dr. Marcus, did he have a borderline personality disorder?”

“Borderline personality disorder isn’t easy to diagnosis,” Diana answered quickly. “Nor is there even a strong consensus in the field on exactly what it is.”

“It would really help me a lot if you could be more specific. The more I know, the better I can cover the story. And,” Risa added pointedly, “the fairer I can be.”

Diana was silent for a moment, then in her best professor voice she said, “Borderline personality disorder is actually just a name given to a cluster of symptoms: instability of self-image and mood; chronic feelings of emptiness; inability to sustain long-term career goals or relationships; lack of control over anger …” Diana tapped the corner of her mouth with her finger, her conviction growing that Jill was clearly barking up the wrong tree: Holding a therapist responsible for the suicide of a borderline was an impossible contention to support—in or out of court.

“Are they dangerous?”

“More often to themselves than to others,” Diana said. “They walk a kind of tightrope between sanity and insanity: They can function, appear perfectly normal—and they rarely have hallucinations or lose touch with reality.”

“Doesn’t sound too serious to me.”

“We’re beginning to think that they’re just normal people who have been damaged by some horrible childhood trauma. And, unfortunately, that can be very serious indeed. These people are often desperately unhappy. Threats and attempts of suicide—and other kinds of self-mutilating gestures—are all too common in the more severe forms of the disorder.”

“Which James Hutchins had?” Risa pressed.

“It’s a fuzzy line,” Diana hedged. “Specific diagnostic criteria for levels of severity have never been definitely established by—”

“But he
had
tried to kill himself before?” Risa interrupted.

Diana didn’t answer.

“It’d be real easy for me to find out,” Risa said quickly. “And if he actually had tried before, telling me will only help your case. All I have to do is check with a few of his friends. Call in a few favors at the hospitals closest to his apartment …”

“Twice,” Diana said slowly. “But only once for real.” The first time almost didn’t count: It had been such a blatant plea-for-help gesture. That frantic call New Year’s morning almost two years ago. James’s roommate hadn’t come home as he had planned, and James was afraid the tranquilizers he had taken might really kill him. “You’re the only one who can save me,” James had pleaded. “Please come.”

And she, the great rescuer, had gone to his aid, dragging him into the bathroom, making him vomit, forcing him into a cold shower, and finally, after determining that he hadn’t taken nearly enough pills to really hurt himself, stripping off his wet clothes and putting him to bed. She had held his hand, fingers pressed to his pulse, until he had fallen asleep. Then she had lightly brushed his damp hair from his high forehead, pressed her finger to the deep cleft in his chin. So handsome. So sad.

“Look,” Risa said. “Not to worry. This sounds like it’ll all come to nothing. People are filing complaints against each other all the time. Hoping to get money. Trying to get someone in trouble. My editor was just interested in the suicide-wrongful death angle—and I’ve got to admit, it’s an unusual take.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Diana said, letting her breath out in a long sigh. “This stuff can get pretty hairy.” Craig stuck his head in the room and raised his eyebrows. Not wanting to worry him, Diana waved him away; she heard him going down the stairs.

“But what I don’t get,” Risa was saying, “is why the sister’s bothering at all.” She paused. “Any bills in dispute?”

“No,” Diana answered. “James had money. A trust fund. Apparently quite large.”

“Oh?” The pitch of Risa’s voice raised. “The sister too?”

“No,” Diana said. “Just James.” When Hank Hutchins’s pornography ring had been broken, almost a million dollars in cash had been found along with tins of 8mm movies and cartons of photographs. The four boys who had been victimized had been awarded a quarter-million each. It would be worth twice that much now—if not more—after almost twenty years of careful investment by a bank in Connecticut.

Risa was silent for a few moments. “Got any idea who’s the beneficiary of the will?”

“Jill, I suppose,” Diana said, although the vague stirring of an elusive memory caused her to shift uncomfortably on the bed.

“Have you ever met the sister?”

Diana once again heard Jill’s words at the funeral. “A couple of times.”

“What’s she like?”

“Bright. Capable. A little hotheaded, perhaps.”

“Oh?” Risa’s voice registered high interest again. “Did you fight with her? Do you think she’s out to get you?”

Again Diana warned herself to choose her words well. “These things are very complicated, Ms.—?”

“Risa. Risa Getty.”

“Family members often don’t understand, Risa. Sometimes they can’t face the suicide of a loved one and need someone to blame. Sometimes the patient says things that aren’t true—makes things up to hurt the people he feels have wronged him. And it isn’t unusual for the therapist to be perceived as one of these people.”

“So you
did
have some kind of argument with Jill Hutchins?”

“I suppose you might call it that,” Diana said carefully. “But nothing that explains the complaint. And definitely nothing that makes her absurd accusations any less absurd.”

“Let me do a little more digging,” Risa said. “I’ll sit on this for a while, and, if it all checks out and the sister’s substantiation remains weak, well, there’s really not much here to run with. You wouldn’t believe the number of ridiculous jacked-up court cases that are just Cousin Bill’s petty personal vendetta against Aunt Elma—or how many crackpots there are out there.”

“Given my business,” Diana said with a laugh that sounded forced even to her ears, “I would believe.”

“Guess you would, at that.” Risa chuckled. “Listen, figure the sister’s just one of those crackpots, and don’t spend a lot of time stewing over this. I’ll give you a call if I need any more information—or if I get my hands on anything that might help you figure out what’s going on. But my bet is, as long as TV doesn’t get wind of the story, I’ll have nothing to run.”

“TV?” Diana croaked.

“Yeah,” Risa said. “Once it’s on the local news, we’ve got to cover it—they make it news.”

“Local news?”

“Not to worry. With all the craziness going on in the world—and only half an hour of airtime—my bet is that they’ll never even bother.” Risa’s voice was confident and cheerful. “Thanks for your cooperation. I’ll be in touch.”

Diana put the receiver in its cradle and stared at the telephone, at its innocent buttons and numbers. The black foreboding prescience of her nightmare slowly returned.
You’ll be sorry
, Jill had said at the funeral.
You’ll be sorry …

6

D
IANA TAUGHT AT
T
ICKNOR
U
NIVERSITY, HER GRADUATE
school alma mater, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wasn’t an official member of the psychology department—senior Lecturer was her title—and she liked it that way. Diana had never wanted to be a professor. From the moment she took her first abnormal psychology course, she knew she was going to be a therapist.