Dial M for Meat Loaf (13 page)

22

On Friday night, Sophie and Bram took in an early movie. The only show that appealed to both of them was at Centennial Lakes in Edina, so that’s where they ended up. On the way home, the subject turned to John Washburn. They were still discussing him when they entered their apartment at the Maxfield Plaza around eight. Ethel greeted them at the door with a green tennis ball in her mouth.

Bram tugged it free and rolled it playfully into the dining room.

Ethel gave him a look of pure loathing.

“What’s up with her?” he asked, disappearing into the kitchen.

Sophie stayed by the door to pat Ethel on the head. “She’s not into exercise this late in the day, honey.”

“Since when?” he called.

Sophie could hear the refrigerator door open. “Since her last birthday. I think the big thirteen really hit her hard.”

“She’s a dog.”

“Your point is?”

Bram appeared in the doorway with two glasses of ice tea.

Ethel cast a dour eye on him.

“Should I get the ball for her?” he asked, his exasperation showing. It had hit the table leg and rolled under a chair.

“Maybe you should.”

Bram pulled it free with his foot, then gave it a tap, rolling it straight for Ethel.

Instead of grabbing it with her mouth, she glared at it as if it were made of plutonium.

“Now what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I think she wants you to pick it up and hand it to her.”

“Oh,
pullease
. If we’d raised our kids this way, they’d both be in jail.” Still huffing, he handed Sophie her glass of ice tea, then picked up the ball. Crouching next to Ethel, he held it up to her nose, and said, “Forgive me, oh great dog spirit. I have sinned.”

Ethel stared at the ball for a few seconds, then gave his hand a tiny lick.

“I think you’re forgiven.”

“Lucky me.”

Clamping the ball in her teeth, Ethel stood up and seesawed forward, dragging her weary body around the corner into the living room.

“So,” said Bram, making himself comfortable on the couch. He patted the spot next to him, waiting for Sophie to sit down. “You’ve gathered all this information about John Washburn’s past. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, kicking off her shoes and joining him. “If I’m jumping to conclusions, expressing my concerns to Bernice would be a total disaster. But what if her father really did murder those two women? The idea that he got away with it makes my blood boil. And if he murdered twice already, maybe he did it again.”

“Runbeck.”

She nodded. “I just wish I had more insight into the kind of mind that could assume false identities and marry more than one woman.”

“He had to be clever. And inexhaustible. I wonder how he came up with those aliases? Did he just pick the names out of a hat?”

Sophie shrugged.

“Hey, why don’t you talk to Helen Domrese?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s not late. Maybe she’s home.”

Helen was a psychotherapist with a thriving practice in downtown St. Paul. She also happened to live at the Maxfield Plaza in one of the hotel’s penthouse apartments. “Do you think she’d mind if I called her?”

“With the story you’ve got to tell, I think she’d be fascinated.”

Fifteen minutes later, Helen was sitting in their living room listening to Sophie explain what she’d learned about John Washburn. Bram stood by the drinks cart mixing a pitcher of martinis.

Helen was in her middle forties, with dyed red hair, bright-red lipstick, and—out of the office—a rather ribald sense of humor. She listened attentively and didn’t interrupt. When Sophie was finally done, she said, “That’s quite a tale of woe. You know, I’ve been in practice for over thirty years and I’ve known more than one bigamist in my time, but I’ve never heard anything to rival that.” She sipped her drink and thought for a few seconds. “If what you say is true, my first inclination is to wonder if the man isn’t a sociopath.”

“Define sociopath,” said Bram. He was sitting on the arm of a club chair, fishing an olive out of his glass with his finger.

“In a nutshell, a sociopath is someone who thinks he’s the center of the universe. Everyone else was put on earth to service his needs and desires. In fact, some personality theorists actually believe the sociopath thinks of other people as less than human. You can see why they make such great dictators and CEOs. Sociopaths are often highly successful, productive citizens. They aren’t hampered by normal human guilt. If there’s a problem, they externalize—it’s always somebody else’s fault. John Washburn might be a sociopath, but it’s also possible he simply has sociopathic traits. Most abusers do.”

“Could you elaborate?” asked Sophie. “What are some other sociopathic traits?”

“Oh, things like failure to conform to social norms— like a bigamist. They often walk a thin line between the legal and the illegal. They con others for personal profit or just for pleasure. They’re impulsive and aggressive. They usually have problems with anger. They aren’t able to sustain personal relationships and they often don’t honor financial obligations. They also have a distinct lack of remorse for having hurt others. The flip side of the coin is, these people can be highly seductive and charming. If you meet a sociopath, I can almost guarantee you’ll like him—at least initially, until you get conned or swindled. If the sociopath is highly intelligent, and many are, he may never get caught. Outwardly, he may seem like a success story. But again, once you start looking a little more closely, you see the dysfunction. One caveat. Once you start discussing personality disorders, you see pathology everywhere—and I mean
everywhere
. And that can be misleading. Most people have some negative personality traits, but it doesn’t make them inflexible or unable to change. What I’m saying is, it doesn’t mean they have a full-blown disorder.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Bram, looking relieved.

Sophie grinned at him.

Helen set her martini glass down on the coffee table, then continued, “Just for your information, my personal expertise is in the areas of spousal abuse—both psychological and physical—and also religious cults. At first glance, you might think those two are worlds apart, but they’re not. What they have in common is mind control. Psychological manipulation. The manipulator, whether it’s a spouse or a religious guru, uses similar techniques to persuade, often to the detriment of the person being persuaded. Whether or not John Washburn is a true sociopath, if what you tell me is accurate, he may have used some common mind control techniques on his various wives.”

“Like what?” asked Bram, rising to refill the martini glasses.

“Well, speaking about cults in general terms, the forms most often used are control of information, which then limits alternatives from which the members can make choices. Also, outright deception. Group pressure. Intense indoctrination into a belief system that considers the world outside to be threatening, evil, or in error. Isolation from social supports, especially friends and family. And, in my opinion, the most effective tool in the mind controller’s arsenal is alternating threats of physical violence with human tenderness, love with harsh disapproval. It keeps the members off-balance, and makes them yearn to do whatever is necessary to feel they’re once again basking in the glow of acceptance and love. It’s the same with spousal abuse.”

Helen held her martini glass as Bram poured. “I’ve thrown a lot of theory at you. Let’s get down to specifics. One of the key points in your story about John Washburn is that, with the exception of his current wife, he seems to have isolated his wives, either by moving them away from their family, or moving them out to the country. He also lavished them with love and attention. It’s not a huge leap to assume that when he withdrew that love, it had a big impact. It’s what I call ‘tending and narrowing’ behavior. You bombard the person you’re after with total adoration. You literally whisk them off their feet. Then you slowly begin to isolate them, cut them off from opinions that might differ from yours. This ultimately leads the victim to second-guess her own thoughts and opinions. If the victim is a woman, society has already programmed her to blame herself for problems in a relationship. If the family of the victim should happen to suggest that her loved one is less than saintly, the victim takes the blame herself. It’s her fault if he gets angry. Her fault if he hits her. And perhaps even more importantly, her fault if he withdraws his love. It becomes an insidious cycle. The more abuse, the more guilt the victim feels. I’ve seen it so many times, but it still surprises me.”

Sophie mulled it over. “Maybe Laura Walters did commit suicide. Her husband drove her to it.”

“The problem is, Sophie,” said Helen, taking a sip of her drink, “if your man did marry all these women, if he did have a hand in two deaths, it’s going to be virtually impossible to prove so many years after the fact. Your theory might be correct, or you could be way off base. There’s no way to know for sure.”

“But what about the tattoo?” asked Bram.

“It proves the bigamy, but it hardly proves Washburn was a murderer.”

“But he admitted to a murder,” said Sophie. “He killed a man in his hometown because the man was blackmailing him. I’ll bet a million bucks it has to do with his past.”

“That’s highly likely,” admitted Helen.

“Isn’t the bigamy bad enough?” asked Bram.

“It’s illegal,” replied Helen. “But in the scheme of things, it’s certainly possible to love more than one person at the same time. If it was love, not manipulation, it doesn’t make him a monster, just a felon. There’s a lot of room for interpretation.”

Sophie immediately thought of Nathan. Her own life was living proof that a person could love two people at the same time. And if two, why not three? Or more? Sophie loved Bram deeply, passionately, but that didn’t erase her feelings for Nathan, as hard as she willed it to be so.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” said Helen, finishing her martini. “But hopefully, I gave you some psychological context.”

When Sophie looked up this time, she saw that Bram was watching her, his eyes narrowed, his expression intent. Had her face given something away? Did he know she was thinking about Nathan? Perhaps, in the end, nobody’s life was free of secrets. Or maybe that’s what she wanted to think to rationalize her own disgusting behavior. “No, Helen, you’ve been a huge help.” She forced a smile.

“I’m usually around evenings and weekends if you need any other questions answered.”

“Or a little family therapy,” said Bram. The comment was obviously meant as a joke, except that the smile that accompanied it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

After almost ten years together, Sophie still wished she could read her husband better. There were times when she had no idea what he was thinking. Bram probably had moments when he wished he understood her better, too. If she wasn’t mistaken, this was one of them.

23

Milton settled himself into a green plastic chair in his brother’s hospital room. Before John’s therapy session today, his nurse had decided to let him sit up in a chair so that he’d be ready for breakfast. He spent the better part of each morning in physical therapy, and every afternoon he saw a speech therapist. Slowly but surely, he was returning to life. There were tears in Milton’s eyes when he looked at him now. He was so glad that, for the moment, John was out of danger. He couldn’t imagine a life without his big brother.

The Washburn family had been taking turns to be with him, just in case he felt the urge to talk about the Runbeck murder again. They couldn’t allow that to happen. Mary stayed nights—from eight in the evening until seven in the morning. That left the breakfast, lunch, and dinner shifts to be divided up among Milton, Bernice, and Plato. Bernice was taking the afternoon shift today—twelve to four. John would be whisked away right after breakfast and when he got back, he’d be too tired to talk, so this was the best time to do it. Because it was Saturday, there were fewer people around. Right now, before the food arrived, Milton had a green light.

Pulling his chair directly in front of John, Milton sat forward, trying on his friendliest expression. “How are you feeling today, buddy? You’re lookin’ so much better.” He could tell his brother was tired, but happy to be out of bed and sitting up.

“I’m o . . . kay,” said John, nodding. The right side of his face lifted easily in a slight smile.

“Listen, Johnny, I know this might not be the best time, but I need to talk to you. It’s about Kirby Runbeck.”

The smile faded. He looked away.

Milton felt his brother’s resistance, but plunged ahead. “Why did you admit to the murder? That was so . . . so incredibly stupid.”

“Mm . . . be . . . I . . . um . . . shtupit.”

“Of course you’re not. Don’t get all melodramatic on me now.”

Again, John looked away.

“They say Kirby was blackmailing you before he died.”

“Nnnn . . . a . . . your . . . bish . . . nush.”

“Of course it’s my business. Ten minutes after you found out the guy was dead, you had a goddamn stroke.”

John shrugged his right shoulder. “Co . . . ennn . . . shi . . . dence.”

“Don’t lie to me. That was no coincidence. I saw the look on your face, saw how agitated you got. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”

John looked over at the bed. Finally, his eyes averted, he nodded stiffly.

“Why?”

He puckered his mouth, then said, “We . . . all . . . shinners, right?”

Milton folded his arms over his chest. “Look—”

“No,” John said with surprising vigor. “E . . . nfff.”

“I won’t let you squirm out of this. We’ve got to put our cards on the table. It’s the only way out of this mess.”

John gave his head a determined twist.

Milton was at a loss. If his brother refused to open up, there was no way he could figure out what to do next.

They sat for a few moments just looking at each other. To Milton, it felt like a staring match, like when they were kids. Who would blink first? But Milton wasn’t the gullible kid brother any more. He’d be damned if he’d give in.

Finally, John’s eyes dropped to the tray table in front of him. After a long moment, he raised his chin. “I . . . love my . . . kilren. I love . . . my wife. En . . . I love . . . my bro . . . er. You . . . are all my . . . life.”

“We know that, John. We all love you, too.”

“Do . . . ou?” He met Milton’s gaze directly. “I know . . . wa . . . you’f done, Mil . . . en. I . . . know the truff.”

Milton’s mouth tightened. “What are you saying?” Before John could answer, the nurse pushed through the door with his breakfast tray. She was early. Damn it all.

“They’re all ready for you down in physical therapy,” she said, setting the tray in front of him. Removing the plastic dome covering the plate, she added, “Since the trays came up a little early, I thought I’d bring yours in first. Give you a head start.”

John looked up at her. “Gooh,” he said, the right side of his mouth curling into a smile.

“We’ve got your favorites today. Low sodium chicken broth, a big glass of apple juice, and some chocolate pudding.”

John raised his eyebrows, glancing at his brother. “My . . . favoritesh,” he said.

Milton could read the sarcasm in his tone, even if the nurse couldn’t. For a man who’d been living on wheat grass and carrot juice for the past year, hospital food must feel like torture. Not that John wasn’t taking it all in stride. His characteristic humor had even returned, something he’d lost entirely before the stroke.

“Here, let me fluff that pillow behind your back before I go.”

“Th . . . ank . . . uo, Ca . . . ol,” said John, easing forward.

“You’re welcome. Remember, if you need anything, just push your call light.”

Milton turned his head and watched her go. As she pushed out the door, he saw that there was a cop standing outside. Why didn’t they leave his brother the hell alone? He wasn’t going anywhere. It was harassment, pure and simple. When he looked back, he saw that John had seen the cop, too.

“I’m a . . . fwight rishk,” said John, a twinkle in his eyes.

Milton shook his head. “We’re not done with our conversation.”

“Yesh . . . we ah.” He picked up his spoon. “Wou . . . you care to . . . join me?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not eating that pig shit.”

The right side of John’s mouth spread into a grin. “I . . . for . . . give ou, Mil . . . en. We won’t shpeak of . . . ish . . . again. Come on. Dig in.”

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“I do . . . know . . . that. Thass my pro . . . blem.”