Sacred Sins (22 page)

“Me? I don't understand.”

“Joey identifies with his father, a drunk, a failure both in business and in family life. You are everything his father, and therefore Joey, is not. Part of him wants to cut himself off from his father and model himself on you. The rest of him simply doesn't feel worthy, and he's afraid to risk another failure. It's gone beyond that even, Mr. Monroe. Joey is fast reaching a point where he's too tired to bother at all with life.”

His fingers were clenching and unclenching. When he spoke, it was his calm, board of director's voice. “I don't follow you.”

“Suicide is the third highest cause of death among teenagers, Mr. Monroe. Joey has definite suicidal tendencies. He's already playing with the idea, circling around it with his fascination with the occult. It would take very little at this point in his life to push him over the line—an argument that leaves him feeling rebellious, a test in school that makes him feel inadequate. His father's ambivalent behavior.”

Though her voice was calm, the underlying urgency was communicating to him. Tess leaned forward, hoping to take it to the next step. “Mr. Monroe, I can't stress how vital it is that Joey begin structured, intensified treatment. You trusted me enough to bring him here, to allow me to treat him. You have to trust me enough to believe me when I say I'm not enough for him. I have information here on the clinic.” She pushed a folder across the desk. “Please discuss this with your wife, ask her to come in and talk it over with me. I'll rearrange my schedule so that we can meet any time it's convenient. But, please, make it soon. Joey needs this, and he needs it now, before something pushes him over.”

He took the folder, but didn't open it. “You want us to send Joey to a place like this, but you didn't want us to have him change schools.”

“No, I didn't.” She wanted to pull the pins out of her hair, run her hands through it until the pressure at her temples was gone. “At that time I felt, I hoped, I could still reach him. Since September Joey's been pulling away more and more.”

“He saw the change in schools as another failure, didn't he?”

“Yes. I'm sorry.” “I knew it was a mistake.” He let out a long breath. “When Lois was making the arrangements to transfer
him, he looked at me. It was as if he was saying, please, give me a chance. I could almost hear him. But I backed her up.”

“There's no blame here, Mr. Monroe. You and your wife are dealing with a situation where there are no easy answers. There is no absolute right or wrong.”

“I'll take the papers home.” He rose then, slowly, as though the folder in his hand were weighty and leaden. “Dr. Court, Lois is pregnant. We haven't told Joey.”

“Congratulations.” She offered her hand while her mind weighed how this news might affect her patient. “I think it would be nice if you told him together, making it a family affair. The
three
of you are expecting a baby. It would be very important to Joey to be made to feel included rather than replaced. A baby, the anticipation of a baby, can bring a great deal of love into a family.”

“We've been afraid he might resent it—us.”

“He might.” Timing, she thought—emotional survival could so often depend on timing. “The more he's brought into the process, into the planning, the more he'll feel a part of it. Do you have a nursery?”

“We have a spare bedroom we thought we might re-decorate.”

“I imagine Joey would be pretty good with a paint-brush, given the chance. Please call me after you've discussed the clinic. I'd like to go over it with Joey myself, perhaps take him there so that he can see it.”

“All right. Thank you, Doctor.”

Tess closed the door behind him, then pulled out the pins in her hair. The band of tension eased, leaving only a dull ache. She wasn't sure she could rest easy until Joey was being treated in the clinic. At least they were turning in the right direction, she told herself. Monroe hadn't been enthusiastic about her suggestion, but she believed he would push for it.

Tess locked away Joey's file and his tapes, holding on to the cassette from their last session a moment longer. He'd spoken of death twice during the session, both times in a matter-of-fact way. He hadn't termed it as dying but as opting out. Death as a choice. She kept the last tape out, and decided to phone the director of the clinic in the morning.

When her phone rang she nearly groaned. She could leave it. Her answering service would pick it up after the fourth ring and contact her if it was important. Then she changed her mind, holding Joey's tape in her hand as she crossed over and picked it up.

“Hello, Dr. Court.”

In the silence that followed she heard labored breathing and the sounds of traffic. Automatically she pulled a pad over and picked up a pencil.

“This is Dr. Court. Can I help you?”

“Can you?”

The voice was only a whisper. She heard not the panic she was half expecting, but despair. “I can try. Would you like me to?”

“You weren't there. If you'd been there, it might have been different.”

“I'm here now. Would you like to see me?”

“Can't.” She heard the deep, gulping sob. “You'd know.”

“I can come to you. Why don't you tell me your name and where you are?” She heard the click.

Less than a block away, the man in the dark coat leaned against the pay phone and wept in pain and confusion.

“Damn.” Tess glanced down at the notes she'd made of the conversation. If he'd been a patient, she hadn't recognized his voice. On the off chance that the phone would ring again, she stayed another fifteen minutes, then gathered up her work and left the office.

Frank Fuller was waiting in the hall.

“Well, there she is.” He slipped his breath spray back into his pocket. “I was beginning to think you'd moved out of the building.”

Tess glanced back at her door. Her name and profession were neatly printed on it. “No, not yet. Working a bit late tonight, Frank?”

“Oh, you know how it goes.” Actually, he'd spent the last hour trying to drum up a date. He hadn't been successful. “Apparently this police-consultant business has kept you pretty tied up.”

“Apparently.” Even for someone whose manners were as ingrained as Tess's, small talk after the day she'd put in was stretching things. Her thoughts drifted back to the phone call as she waited for the elevator.

“You know, Tess…” He used his old trick of resting his hand against the wall and surrounding her. “You might find it beneficial, professionally speaking, to consult with a colleague on this. I'd be glad to make some room on my calendar.”

“I appreciate that, Frank, but I know how busy you are.” When the elevator doors slid open, she stepped inside. She pressed the button for the ground floor and shifted her briefcase as he stepped in beside her.

“Never too busy for you, Tess, professionally or otherwise. Why don't we discuss it over drinks?”

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss it at all.”

“We can find something else to discuss then. I have this bottle of wine, a cocky little Zinfandel I've been saving for the right occasion. Why don't we go back to my place, pop the cork, and put up our feet?”

So he could start nibbling her toes, Tess thought, and sent up a quiet prayer of thanksgiving when the doors opened again. “No thanks, Frank.”

She made tracks across the lobby, but didn't shake him.

“Why don't we stop in at the Mayflower, then, a quiet drink, a little music, and no shop talk?”

Champagne cocktails at the Mayflower. Ben had told her that was her style. Perhaps it was time to prove to him, and Frank Fuller, that it wasn't. “The Mayflower's a bit staid for my taste, Frank.” She flipped up her collar as they stepped into the chilly darkness of the parking lot. “But in any case, I haven't the time for socializing. You should try that new club around the corner, Zeedo's. From what I hear, it's almost impossible not to score if you dig in for the evening.” She pulled out her keys and slipped one into the lock of her car door.

“How do you know about—”

“Frank.” She clucked her tongue then patted his cheek. “Grow up.” Delighted with herself and his astounded expression, she slid into the car. She glanced over her shoulder as she reversed, but barely spared a glance at the man standing in the shadows at the edge of the lot.

She'd hardly gotten through the door and shed her coat and shoes, when someone knocked. If it was Frank, she'd stop being polite, Tess promised herself, and give it to him right between the eyes.

Senator Jonathan Writemore stood in his Saville Row overcoat, holding a red cardboard box of chicken and a slim paper bag.

“Grandpa.” Most of the tension Tess hadn't been aware of having slipped away. She drew a deep breath and all but tasted the spices. “I hope you're not on your way to a hot date.”

“I'm on my way right here.” He dropped the box of chicken into her hands. “It's still hot, little girl. I got extra spicy.”

“My hero. I was about to fix myself a cheese sandwich.”

“Figures. Get the plates, and plenty of napkins.”

She slipped into the kitchen, setting the chicken on the table as she went by. “Does this mean I'm not invited to dinner tomorrow?”

“This means you eat two decent meals this week. Don't forget the corkscrew. I have a bottle of wine here.”

“As long as it's not Zinfandel.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Tess returned carrying plates, linen napkins, two of her best wineglasses, and a corkscrew. She set the table, lit the candles, then turned to give her grandfather a bear hug. “I'm so glad to see you. How did you know I needed a boost tonight?”

“Grandfathers are born knowing.” He kissed both her cheeks, then scowled at her. “You're not getting enough rest.”

“I'm the doctor.”

He gave her a swat on the rear. “Just sit down, little girl.” He turned his attention to the wine bottle when she obeyed. Tess lifted the lid while he dealt with the cork. “Give me one of those chicken tits.”

She giggled like a girl, and placed the fast food on her mother's best English bone china. “Think how shocked your constituents would be if they heard you talking about chicken tits.” She chose a drumstick and was delighted to discover a box of fries. “How's the Senate business?”

“It takes a lot of shit to grow flowers, Tess.” He drew the cork. “I'm still lobbying to get the Medicaid Reform bill passed. I don't know if I can pull off enough support before we adjourn for the holidays.”

“It's a good bill. It makes me proud of you.”

“Flatterer.” He poured her wine, then his own. “Where's the ketchup? Can't eat fries without ketchup. No, don't get up, I'll get it. When's the last time you've been to the store?” he asked the minute he opened the refrigerator.

“Don't start,” she said, and took a bite of chicken. “Besides, you know I'm the expert on takeout and eat-ins.”

“I don't like to think of my only granddaughter forever eating out of a carton.” He came back in with a bottle of ketchup, easily ignoring the fact that they were both eating out of a carton. “If I wasn't here, you'd be over at that desk with a cheese sandwich and a stack of files.”

“Did I say I was glad to see you?” Tess lifted her wineglass and smiled at him.

“You're overworking.”

“Maybe.”

“How about I buy two tickets for Saint Croix and we take off the day after Christmas? Have ourselves a week of fun in the sun.”

“You know I'd love to, but the holidays are the roughest on some of my patients. I have to be here for them.”

“I've been having second thoughts.”

“You?” Bypassing the ketchup, she began to nibble on fries and wondered if she had room for a second piece of chicken. “About what?”

“Getting you involved with these homicides. You're looking worn out.”

“It's only partly that.”

“Having a problem with your sex life?”

“Privileged information.”

“Seriously, Tess, I've spoken with the mayor. He's told me how involved you are with the police investigation. All I had in mind was the profile, maybe showing off my smart granddaughter a bit.”

“Vicarious thrills, huh?”

“The thrill takes on a different complexion after the fourth murder. Only two blocks from here.”

“Grandpa, that would have happened whether I was involved with the investigation or not. The point now is, I want to be involved.” She thought of Ben, his accusations, his resentment. She thought of her own
well-ordered life and the sudden small twinges of dissatisfaction. “Maybe I need to be involved. Things have been pretty cut and dried for me up to now in my life, and my career. My part in this has shown me a different aspect of myself, and of the system.”

She took up her napkin, but only kneaded it in her hands. “The police aren't interested in the workings of his mind, in his emotional motivation, yet they'll use the knowledge to try to catch him, and to punish him. I'm not interested in seeing him punished, yet I'll use what I can learn of his mind, his motivation, to try to have him stopped and helped. Which of us is right, Grandpa? Is justice punishment or is it treatment?”

“You're talking to a lawyer of the old school, Tess. Every man, woman, and child in this country is entitled to representation and a fair trial. The lawyer might not believe in the client, but he has to believe in the law. The law says that this man has the right to be judged by the system. And usually the system works.”

“But does the system, the law, understand the diseased mind?” Shaking her head, she set the napkin down again, recognizing her kneading as nerves. “Not guilty by reason of insanity. Shouldn't it be not responsible? Grandpa, he is guilty of murdering those women. But responsible, no.”

“He's not one of your patients, Tess.”

“Yes, he is. He has been all along, but I didn't understand that until last week—the last murder. He hasn't asked me for help yet, but he will be asking for it. Grandpa, do you remember what you said to me the day I opened my office?”

He studied her, seeing that even with her intense and troubled eyes, the candlelight made her beautiful. She was his little girl. “Probably said too many things. I've been alive a long time.”

“You said that I'd chosen a profession that would
allow me into people's minds, and that I could never forget their hearts. I haven't forgotten.”