A Guilty Mind (20 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Nine

T
HE HA
IR ON
the back of his neck stood up and goose bumps rose on his arms. He drove slowly, unable to shake the feeling he was being watched. George's eyes darted between the rearview and side mirrors, but he saw nothing. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel. The police visit had left him spooked. Dispatched after a terse call from Mary Helen, the young policeman at his door did not inspire confidence. Possessing more pimples on his cheeks than hairs on his chin, he brought to mind a kid playing cops and robbers. George doubted the boy would be much use stopping a trespasser, especially as he didn't appear to carry a gun.

George wanted a drink so badly his stomach hurt and his hands still got the occasional shakes. He felt like shit and he couldn't avoid the glazed eyes and sallow complexion that greeted him in the mirror. George took several deep breaths and concentrated on the road. He uncurled his fingers and let them rest lightly on the wheel. At least the car was still under his control.

George checked the time on the digital display. Larry had agreed to meet with him on short notice. “I took the liberty of contacting Washington yesterday at Mary Helen's request, and I think you were right to call me. It's fair to say you've been elevated to more than a ‘person of interest,' ” Larry had said. “I'll need to know everything, George. Otherwise, I'm afraid I can't help you.” George knew he did not misread the warning, but it didn't matter. He would cooperate. Larry was his best chance to learn what was going on with the investigation into Dr. Michael's murder.

He pulled off the twisty road and stopped at a dusty convenience store. Since giving up drinking, he'd found himself chain-­smoking at an alarming rate, substituting one addiction for another. At least his head was clear, he told himself—­sort of, anyway. A small dark sedan pulled in behind him. Inside, he bought cigarettes, Coke, and a candy bar.

The old man behind the counter grinned, dark tobacco stains on his teeth. “Helluva breakfast, buddy.”

George shrugged and smiled. The guy was right, but he'd eaten nothing that morning and not much the day before, either. “You know how it is. A little caffeine, a little nicotine, a little chocolate. The three basic food groups.”

The old man cackled and shoved the items in a paper bag. “Come on back anytime,” he called after George.

Driving away, George lit up, inhaled and exhaled, white wisps of smoke curling from his nose and mouth. He relaxed against the seat. He finished the cigarette and pulled another from the pack. Checking his rearview mirror, he frowned. The dark sedan followed a few yards back. Had he seen the driver go into the store? Had he not been paying attention? He stubbed out the burning cigarette, his fingers trembling again. Could the car be following him? He thought it through and dismissed the idea. Surely it would hang back and try not to be seen.

He sped up, his thoughts returning to the dream of the night before. It usually didn't get that far. Yet now that Dr. Michael was gone, the dreams and recollections had taken on a more foreboding tone. Worse, the dreams were haunting him long after he was awake. He'd never relived the entire fight before, not the worst part anyway, and certainly never the life-­altering event itself. He sensed it would happen now. The memory was there, always threatening to break through, floating just on the edge of his conscious state. The nausea returned and he swallowed hard. George glanced up and saw the sedan was closer, almost on his bumper. He considered waving the driver around him, but passing was difficult on these curvy, one-­lane roads. He sped up again and gave the car some space.

He dreaded the meeting with Larry. Things were moving fast. He felt trapped on a railroad track, his foot stuck in the tie, the rails vibrating with the power of an oncoming train. Larry needed to hear everything and George knew that was right, but he was afraid. Giving the tapes to the police had been easy. That hadn't required him to do anything. The knowledge he'd been labeled a suspect in Dr. Michael's murder changed everything. He sensed the locomotive barreling toward him at full speed.

The sedan tapped his bumper. George's eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. The car followed closely, no more than a foot or two behind him. What was the hurry? The car hit him again, this time harder, and his head bobbed forward. He looked ahead, to the left and to the right. Dense trees and heavy overgrowth lined both sides of the old road, dirt shoulders practically nonexistent. Although he'd never minded, his wife had always complained about these roads, too narrow for two cars, one going east and the other west.

He checked the rearview mirror again. He would pull over into the oncoming lane as far as he could and let the driver pass. Flipping his blinker on, he slowed and moved his car to the left, careful to keep an eye out for oncoming traffic. He breathed a sigh of relief as the sedan moved to pass. When the other car came parallel, he slowed further. The sedan slowed, too. He strained to see the other driver, but the car's opaque windows made it impossible. The sedan matched his speed, turned toward him, and forced him farther onto the shoulder. Pine branches scraped the side of his car. Something was wrong. He jammed his foot on the gas pedal and jerked his car out in front of the sedan. He turned the wheel to the right, taking him back to his lane. The sedan sped up, too, instantly regaining its position on his rear bumper. George increased his speed, watching the needle creep higher and higher on the speedometer. His eyes shot back and forth between the car behind him and the road ahead. His tires squealed when he took the turns at crazy speeds and he clutched the steering wheel now as though it were a lifeline. Sweat dripped from his temples and wet moons appeared under his armpits. There were no sounds other than the pounding in his chest and his own raspy, labored breathing.

He drove on, his fingers cramped and aching. Coming out of the last turn before the one-­lane bridge, George spotted a pickup truck barreling toward him. The driver flashed his headlights and blared his horn. The truck slowed, waving his arm for George to get out of the way. Behind him, the sedan gained speed. Trapped between the two vehicles, George slammed on his brakes. His car spun once, the rear end catching the trees. The pickup, screeching to a stop, crashed into the side of his car, throwing George's body against the steering wheel and the driver-­side door. George heard glass smash and the crunch of metal. An airbag punched him in the face. Eyes fluttering, he lost consciousness, vaguely aware the sedan had slowed and inched by the two wrecked vehicles before speeding away and out of sight.

 

Chapter Forty

C
ANCINI SLIPP
ED INTO
Father Joe's office late in the day.

“Michael. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The priest waved his arm at an empty chair.

“Thanks, Father,” Cancini said. He remained standing. “I only have a minute.”

The old man folded his hands in his lap. “Of course. How can I help you?”

Cancini stood, feet spread, his hands deep in his pockets. “I'm thinking that being a priest, one who hears confessions, is not completely different than being a shrink, someone who listens to problems and gives advice.”

Father Joe spoke slowly as though considering his words. “Yes, there are similarities, but I wouldn't say they're the same. As a priest, I'm in the business of helping ­people toward absolution. Of course, we offer counseling, but we don't have medical training and can't handle chemical issues or severe mental disorders.”

“But you're still bound by a code of ethics. You can't repeat what's been confessed to you and neither can a shrink. Right?”

Deep lines creased the old man's forehead. “Where are you going with this, Michael?”

“What if you gave someone advice and they didn't want to take it? Maybe they were even afraid to take it. Maybe they even got angry when you kept telling them what to do. Would you keep pushing that advice?”

Father Joe hesitated, then said, “That depends. There are so many circumstances where that would not seem wise or in the best interest of the other party and I'm not even sure it's entirely ethical. Then again . . .”

Cancini's body shifted forward. “Then again, what?”

“If you could be absolutely certain of the outcome and there were no other logical solutions, you might feel compelled to insist on a certain course of action.”

“What if you weren't certain? Couldn't be certain?”

The priest raised his palms up to the sky. “Then I would probably limit my advice to gentle suggestions and leave it at that.”

“That's about what I thought,” Cancini said, unsmiling. “Thanks, Father.”

“Any time. By the way, your father phoned this morning. He told me you came to see him last night. Said you stayed until he was asleep.”

Cancini avoided the priest's eyes. His father had seemed frailer than usual, tiring after only a few minutes of idle small talk. He'd stayed, watching the old man sleep, counting his labored breaths. “Yeah, well, I had some free time. Thanks again.”

“In the middle of a case?”

Cancini hesitated. He understood the priest thought he was being a good son. Cancini decided he didn't have the time to remind him otherwise. He offered a quick thanks and ducked out, leaving the question unanswered.

Later, seated behind Dr. Michael's desk, he turned his ear toward the droning voices of the psychologist and his patient. Dr. Michael urged Vandenberg to confess over and over. Cancini had to agree with the department shrink. The advice seemed reckless and naive. Not only could Vandenberg face legal consequences, he stood to lose his family and friends. Why was Dr. Michael so relentless?

“You know the old saying, Doc, the one about the truth shall set you free?” George had asked on one of the most recent session tapes.

“Yes, George, I know it.”

“Is that what you're trying to do with me? If I tell the truth, I'll be set free. My pain will go away. I'll stop feeling guilty. The sadness won't come so often. Is that your theory?”

There was a rustling sound, like the sound of pages being turned or papers being shuffled. “Something like that. I do believe the truth is like a healthy drug. It can make you better.”

The patient didn't sound convinced. “Let's suppose I did confess. Who would I talk to? The police?”

“Yes. A lawyer or someone in law enforcement.”

“What if they decide to charge me with something?”

“It was an accident, George. Isn't that what you've told me?”

“What if they don't believe me? I kept it a secret so long they might not find me credible. They might want to arrest me.”

“I doubt that, George. Besides, if I'm not mistaken, some crimes have a statute of limitations. Maybe it wouldn't even matter.”

Vandenberg was quiet. Cancini stood up and paced the small office to keep his blood flowing. “You think I should do this, don't you?”

Dr. Michael didn't give a direct answer. “George, you've felt guilty all these years because you never took responsibility for your actions. Once you have, then I think some of the guilt will slip away. You'll start to feel better.”

“I don't know.”

“Look, I'm not suggesting you're not going to feel bad about what happened ever again, but it will be better. It will be a lot better. This is the road to recovery. I promise.”

Cancini hurried to the tape player and played the last minute again.
This is the road to recovery. I promise.
He thought back to Father Joe's words. He decided the promise seemed reckless.

“I don't know, Dr. Michael,” George said, sliding back from the suggestion again. “I'll have to think about it.”

Cancini changed tapes again, listening to the men discuss the events immediately following the death of Sarah.

“When I left, she was still lying on the ground. I could see the blood. It was so hot that night.” George's description took on an ethereal quality, as though he'd been merely an observer. “I wanted to stop looking at her but I couldn't. It was Mary Helen who made me get up, move away, stop acting like a zombie.”

“She told you to go?”

“Yes. She pulled me to my feet, pushed me toward the car. I remember that because my feet felt like lead and I don't think I've ever moved so slowly in my life. One time I tripped or something and started crying again.”

“And Mary Helen?”

“Mary Helen?” George repeated the question. “She waited. She probably wanted to comfort me, but I think she could tell from before, when I wouldn't let her touch me, that I didn't want her to. I remember I could barely stand to look at her. I mean, I knew she was trying to help me, but she was alive and, well, Sarah wasn't.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “So, you left and didn't come back that night?”

“That night? Hell, I didn't go back for years.”

“That's right, you said that before.” There was the sound of pencil to paper and a sneeze. “What did Mary Helen do with Sarah's body?”

Cancini's head came up.

“Excuse me?” George asked.

“Well, Mary Helen is a fairly small woman, what did she do with the body? How did she move it?”

The detective sat forward, his face only inches from the tape player.

“Jesus, I don't know. I never asked her.”

“And she never told you?”

“Shit, no. She came to see me the next morning, at my apartment. I think I was still pretty out of it. It's such a blur. I do remember she looked pretty beat. She said something like there was nothing to worry about. She said she took care of everything, stuff like that. Then she said she never wanted to talk about it again. At the time, that was fine by me. All I wanted to do was drink myself into oblivion and forget any of it had ever happened.”

“I see.”

“You know what's so ironic about that?” George asked, and answered his own question. “Forgetting is exactly what I told Sarah I didn't want to do. She was the one who wanted me to forget about her and I said I couldn't. I wouldn't. And then I wished I could. But it didn't work. I guess you already know that.”

Cancini clicked off the tape. He banged his notebook against his leg. He'd learned more than he anticipated. While Vandenberg's actions might not have been premeditated, his behavior after was irresponsible and criminal. Not reporting a dead body, especially when you caused the death, implied something to hide. He'd allowed Mary Helen to act as coconspirator, and then later recast her in the role of scapegoat. It crossed his mind that perhaps Sarah had been more right about her partner than she realized. He pushed play again.

“George, I still don't understand how the accident happened. Could we possibly go over it one more time?”

“I'd rather not.” The patient sighed. “I don't like to remember that part.”

“I know you don't, but we'll do it differently this time.”

“What do you mean, differently?” Suspicion crept into the patient's tone.

“Let's lay it out sequentially. Try to tell me each thing in the exact order that it happened. Don't skip around. If you do remember something later, tell me where in the timeline it occurred.” The doctor's voice took on an expectant edge. “I'll write everything down and sketch it out.”

“Timeline? What would be the point?” Cancini's hand lingered over the fast forward button. He'd heard about the accident several times already. “I've already told you everything before.”

“True, but not in the exact order it happened. Your story jumped around, and other times we only talked about certain parts.” The therapist was undeterred by his patient's reluctance. “It could be useful later, if you decide to confess.”

“I still don't see the point.”

“George, we need to try different things, look at the accident in a new way. Think of it as an analysis exercise, part of your treatment. It might be helpful.”

There was a moment of silence, typical for the patient whenever he was expected to make a decision or answer a tough question. “Okay, I guess.”

“Great,” Dr. Michael's voice pitched higher. “Just let me get a fresh pencil and notebook.”

Cancini stopped the tape again. He scratched at his chin, then spun the chair around to the cabinet behind him. In the last drawer, he found a pile of notebooks. He sifted through the books until he located the timeline. He spread it out with his hands, pressing down the pages and smoothing the creases. Four pages in width, it covered Sarah's arrival at the boathouse and the ups and downs of their fight, and ended with George's departure. He read it from left to right, noting the erasures and scratches where events had been added and moved. His gaze drifted to the single lamp next to the sofa, its twin destroyed in a moment of passion. He swallowed and studied the pages again, his fingers stopping at each tick on the timeline. Finished, he folded the timeline over three times and replaced it in the notebook. A question—­less than an idea—­popped into his head. He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and pulled the next tape from the box. His outstretched hand paused over the play button and he looked again at the empty space where the lamp had stood. The minutes ticked by in silence until the question grew to a hunch and then to a full-­fledged idea that promised to keep him up most of the night.