Night Terrors (10 page)

She quickly cut me off. “Not a good time, Danny. Besides, Biegler just stuck his head out of the conference room door. Looks like we're resuming the briefing.”

“Okay. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

It wasn't until after we hung up that I realized she never did tell me why she'd called.

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

I got to my office about a half hour before Maggie Currim was scheduled to arrive. Unoccupied for two days, both my consulting room and waiting room were cold enough to hang meat. I turned the wall dial to the warmest setting, but had enough experience with the building's erratic heating system to stay bundled in my coat.

With some time to kill, I booted up my laptop and reviewed the latest information about the Meachem murder case. I watched again the video of Police Chief Block and Detective Sergeant Randall perp-walking Wes Currim into custody. Though a new video had since gone up, from a press conference given by the Wheeling, West Virginia, District Attorney, with Block and Randall positioned prominently behind her. It was hard to tell which of the two cops was more uncomfortable on camera. I turned up the volume.

Given the horrific nature of the crime, and the public outcry that followed, the DA explained she'd pushed to get Currim arraigned as soon as possible. However, the confessed killer's defense counsel, a local attorney hired by the family, objected, claiming he'd barely had time to interview his client. The matter was still being argued.

Intrigued, I did a quick Google search on Currim's attorney, a trial veteran named Willard Hansen, and gleaned enough to know that he was smart, had an impressive record on behalf of his clients, and wasn't known for taking charity cases. Which made me wonder where the family had come up with his pricey retainer.

A few more clicks, a few more links, and I got my answer. Wes Currim's two older brothers, both married with children, had come to the rescue. One had taken out a second line of credit on his home, another had secured a sizeable bank loan. The brothers co-owned a successful chain of auto parts stores, and apparently had had little difficulty raising the money to hire a good lawyer for their youngest brother.

I sipped from the Starbucks I'd picked up across the street. Still hot, thank God. And by now, the central heating had chased away most of the room's chill. I pulled off my coat.

Switching my focus, I read a few follow-up stories about the victim, Ed Meachem. His obit from the Wheeling daily paper was online, as were a couple articles detailing his rise to vice-president of a major coal mining company. On the personal front, he seemed your average, conventional business executive: family man, weekly church-goer, avid golfer. He'd just turned sixty-four a month before his murder. A sidebar article included a recent photo of a fit-looking Meachem standing with his two teenage daughters at a soccer field.

From here, I trawled over to the latest on the investigation itself. The coroner's office reported that the remains found in the old house's kitchen were indeed those of Ed Meachem, and that the DNA matched that of the severed head found on top of the snowman. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the skull, weapon unknown. No bodily fluids or blood traces that did not belong to the victim were found on or near the body, nor anywhere else in the house.

Other than confessing to the kidnapping and murder, Wes Currim was refusing to reveal any further details of the crime. As he'd said when first arrested, he chose Meachem in that parking lot because the businessman looked rich and Currim needed money. Probably for drugs. According to local police records, he had a long history of drug use, dealing, and petty theft. Plus a couple of DUI's.

I glanced at the clock. Almost eleven, when I expected Maggie Currim. But before I logged off, one particular item caught my eye. I leaned forward, staring at the screen, having a hard time believing what I was seeing.

Apparently, soon after news of what Currim had done with Meachem's head hit the media, grotesque parodies of the crime started appearing online. YouTube had a number of videos showing snowmen with dummy heads on top, some with fake blood painted on the face. Also circulating was a cell phone photo taken by a medical student in the midwest, who'd used a cadaver skull from his anatomy class as the head of a snowman. By the time succeeding links led me to a crudely-animated dancing snowman, with a human head CGI'd on top, over which played a song called “The Ballad of Ed's Head,” I'd had enough.

I closed the laptop and finished my coffee. Maybe I was getting old, but some of the places the Internet took us nowadays didn't offer much balm to the difficult, often sorrowful state of the human condition. If anything, it often reinforced the impression that things were swirling out of control, tilting toward chaos. Madness.

Unless, as has been suggested many times—starting with Freud himself—such barbaric levity in the face of tragedy was an inborn defense mechanism, a way for us to keep the horror at bay. I recalled how quickly similar cold, unfeeling jokes flew around the country after the Challenger space shuttle disaster.

Regardless, that last online image left me with a bitter, melancholy aftertaste that I had to struggle to dispel. Seeing the signal light go on over my office door helped. It meant someone had entered the waiting room and flipped the call switch.

My eleven a.m. patient. Maggie Currim.

***

I guess my prejudice was showing, because the woman I ushered into my consulting room was not what I'd pictured. Given Wes Currim's flippant, surly manner, I admit I'd expected an older, female version of the stereotypical rural redneck he embodied. Or else a simple, terrified woman overwhelmed by the machinery of a justice system about to eviscerate her son.

Maggie Currim was neither of these, but a seemingly poised, well-dressed woman in her early sixties. She was tall and slender, and wore a blue blouse and black slacks under a heavy winter coat. Her raven-black hair was tied up in a bun. Her face, though handsome, was drawn and haggard, obviously drained by stress.

However, as we shook hands before she took her seat opposite me, her eyes shone clear and steady, gazing into mine. Proud. Determined.

As she busted me with her very first words.

“I suppose you were expecting some grizzled old Appalachian woman in a shawl, Dr. Rinaldi.”

Great start to the therapy, I thought. So I did something about it.

“You're right, Mrs. Currim.” I shifted in my chair. “I did have a different image in mind of what you might be like. It was unfair and I apologize.”

She paused, then offered me a stern smile.

“At least you're honest. And you can say you're sorry. Most men I've known can't seem to manage that.”

She took a long breath, exhaling slowly, letting herself settle into her seat. Then that steady gaze again.

I took the hint.

“Angela Villanova told me why you'd contacted her. I understand you're having difficulty dealing with what's happened with your son Wesley. The crime, the arrest.”

She waited a moment before replying. Struggling to quell the agitation spreading on her face.

“I…” Maggie Currim looked off, toward my office window. At the bright coldness beyond its frosted glass.

I leaned in, but just slightly. “Yes..?”

“I don't want to talk about myself. My feelings. I mean, everything I told Mrs. Villanova is true. I can't sleep, can't eat. But—”

“And the panic attacks?”

“Oh, I have them, all right. Any time of the day. I just start shaking, and I can't catch my breath…I keep thinking I'm having a heart attack.”

I nodded. “Most people who suffer a panic attack feel that way, Mrs. Currim. And there
are
things we can do to help alleviate them. Including, if appropriate, medication. But we can discuss that later. First, however—”

“
First
, don't call me Mrs. Currim. Maggie will do.” She cleared her throat. “And I already said I'm not here to talk about my feelings, or get help with my jitters.”

“I think they're more than jitters, Maggie.”

“Think whatever you want, Dr. Rinaldi. I'm here to get help for my son. For Wesley.”

“I'm not sure I know what you mean.”

“I mean, he needs
help
. And he trusted you, right? He asked you to come with him when he showed those policemen the dead man's body.”

I hesitated. “But he didn't really
know
me. He'd seen me on the news, that's all. Formed some kind of impression of me that prompted him to reach out to me.”

“I don't care why he asked for you.” Maggie was firm. “I just know he did. And that's good enough for me.”

I let a silence build between us. Discussing the thoughts and motives of a person who wasn't in the room rarely made for effective treatment. In this case, it was also a way for Maggie Currim to deflect the conversation away from herself and her own needs.

I tried again. “Before we go any further, Maggie, I'll need to know a bit about you and your family.”

Her mouth turned down. “Therapy stuff, eh, Doc? Just what I didn't want. I want to talk about Wesley.”

“Okay, I'm willing to start there. Tell me about Wes.”

For the first time since entering the room, her face softened. Eyes growing moist.

“Poor Wesley…” Her voice had lost its wary edge as well. “He's my youngest, you know. His two older brothers are both smart, hard-working. Did well in school. But Wesley…well, as my own folks used to say, Wesley was sorta the runt of the litter. And not just because he turned out skinny and frail.”

“How so?”

“It was the way he acted. At school, at home. Lazy, always mouthing off. Skipping classes, cursing at his teachers. Like he was…I don't know…resentful, I guess you'd say. Mad at the world.” A pained swallow. “By the time he was a teenager, he was already getting in trouble. Drinking, smoking marijuana. Shoplifting.”

“That must've been hard for you.”

She gave me a strange, quizzical look. “Do you have children, Dr. Rinaldi?”

“No I don't.”

“Then you can't know. A mother who loves her son, who loves the way
I
loved Wes…Lord, you can't know what that means. His two older brothers were fine, and I loved them, but they didn't need me. They were more their father's sons. They even went to work for him at the auto parts store when they were teens. Heck, they
run
the business now. Built it up into a chain of stores…”

Her voice trailed off.

“But Wesley needed me. And
I
needed
him
. I'm not ashamed to say I doted on that boy, no matter what he did. No matter what kind of trouble he got himself into. And he felt the same about me. Wesley loved me. Doted on
me
. Told me everything. His fears, his hopes. Believe me, he could be the worst kind of devil out there in the world—a world that had no use for
him
, either, I might add—but he was always an angel to me. Never hurt me, never lied to me.”

“What about his father? How was their relationship?”

“What relationship? Jack gave whatever love he was capable of giving to the two older boys. He
hated
Wes, and the feeling was mutual.”

“Where's your husband now?”

“Who knows?”

I waited. A sheen of embarrassment colored her cheeks, and then she visibly recovered herself.

“Jack ran off with his secretary.” A bitter smile. “Real original, eh? Some young thing he hired, after the business started growing.
I
offered to work the desk, but he wouldn't hear of it. I could've really helped out, too. I have a college education, for one thing, which was more than Jack could say. But he wouldn't budge. Then I found out they were sleeping together.”

“Did you confront him about it.”

“Yes I did. Next thing I know, he and this bitch take off together. Haven't seen or heard from either of them since.” A deep sigh. “No loss there, believe me. For Wes
or
for me. The little slut can have Jack.”

By now, Maggie was blinking back tears, though her expression was resolute. She noted the box of Kleenex on the table beside her chair and, as though impatient with herself, quickly snapped up a few sheets.

“Sorry, Doctor.” As she dabbed her eyes. “I don't normally use such language.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

She shook her head. “I just don't want to get sidetracked. I'm here because of Wesley. I can deal with my own troubles my own way.”

“I understand, but—”

She bolted upright in her chair, bristling.

“You don't understand a thing!”
Voice quivering with anguish. “I'm a mother whose son is charged with murder! A horrible, sickening murder!”

Clearly mortified by her sudden outburst, she put a trembling hand over her mouth. Face ashen.

I said, “It's okay…Really…”

“No it
isn't
! I—I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have—”

“Look, Maggie, I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, and—”

“No you can't!” Another long breath. “But it doesn't matter. What I
feel
doesn't matter.”

“Then what
does
?”

“The truth. The truth matters!”

I watched as she struggled again to compose herself. Bring her tumult of emotions under control.

Finally, I said, “I'm listening, Maggie.”

Her voice now calm. Measured. “I know that Wesley confessed, Dr. Rinaldi. I know he led the police to where Ed Meachem's body was. But I also know something else.”

Her eyes found mine. “I know that my son didn't kill that poor man. And I can prove it.”