Mind Games

by Hilary Norman

  ‘What’s up with you, Dad?’ Sam asked, surprised.

  David shook his head and grunted.

  ‘Dad’s mad at you because of the girl in the hospital,’ Saul Becket informed his older brother. ‘He told Ma not to say anything to you about it, but you know Ma.’

  Sam was aware that Judy was still claiming to be pissed with him for being too busy to make it to the Seder the previous Friday, but he was also aware that she understood perfectly well that if he could have made it in time, he would have. His father’s anger was a rarity.

  It was just after ten o’clock, and they were all sitting around the living room in the house in Golden Beach that the Beckets had lived in for more than twenty-five years. The TV was turned down low because David wanted to watch the news but Saul was supposed to be working on a school assignment. There was a shabbiness about the room that Judy – a petite, trim woman with brown, silvering curly hair and intelligent hazel eyes – sometimes complained about, but the truth was she loved every soft, snug inch of the battered old furniture she and her husband had lived with since before they’d become parents. Every scuff and scratch on Judy Becket’s mahogany cabinets and bookcases reminded her that she and David had brought up two happy sons who’d always felt free to enjoy their home rather than treat it as a showcase.

  ‘Cathy Robbins is doing okay, isn’t she, Dad?’ Sam asked his father.

  ‘Compared to what?’ David answered, dryly.

  ‘I know,’ Sam said, quietly.

  ‘You may know, Sam, but do you really understand?’ David’s tone was quiet, but full of rebuke. ‘Do you understand that she collapsed at the station yesterday because she’d already bottled up a whole ocean of stress, and she just couldn’t take one more question – one more outrageous accusation?’

  ‘No one’s —’

  ‘Don’t tell me no one’s accusing her of anything,’ his father interrupted heatedly, ‘because you and I both know better than that.’ He shook his greying head. ‘Your brother’s right – I am mad about this, and I’m sad and I’m tired, too, about the things that have been happening to this child.’

  ‘What makes you so sure she’s innocent?’ Judy asked her husband.

  ‘Instinct makes me sure.’ David shrugged. ‘My eyes – my ears. My experience. I look at her and I listen to her, and I see and hear a little girl who’s lost her mother and father. Who’s seen and touched their dead bodies, for God’s sake.’ He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a weary but still angry gesture. ‘And instead of going and looking for the real maniac behind these slayings, the Miami Beach police – including my own son – are harassing this poor child.’

  Sam leaned forward. ‘Dad, I do understand, believe me. I feel the same way.’

  ‘But you were there, at the questioning.’

  ‘Sure I was there,’ Sam said. ‘I’m the lead investigator – it’s my case. There were questions that had to be asked.’

  ‘Did they have to be asked there, in the police station, with your chief and a lawyer present?’ David wanted to know. ‘Couldn’t they have been asked in her aunt’s house, with someone who loves her beside her?’

  ‘No, they couldn’t,’ Sam replied. ‘Dad, three people have died —’

  ‘I know,’ David broke in again. ‘And Cathy Robbins is the common denominator between them, I know that too. But maybe if you and your chief and your other colleagues looked a little further than the ends of your noses you might find someone else who fits the same bill. And hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe there’s someone out there who just wants it to seem like Cathy could be the killer?’

  ‘Who would want to do such a dreadful thing?’ Judy asked. ‘If she’s as sweet and innocent as you seem to believe.’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ David answered. ‘But then, I’m just a middle-aged Jewish doctor, not a shrink or a detective.’

  ‘Middle-aged enough, maybe,’ his wife suggested, ‘to stop giving your son a hard time for doing his job the only way he can.’

  ‘I’m not giving him a hard time,’ David said.

  ‘Could have fooled me,’ Judy retorted.

  ‘Dad’s giving us all a hard time,’ Sam told his mother. ‘The department, the system. And I can’t say I blame him. If I were in his place, having to try to fix up a fourteen-year-old girl distressed enough by questioning to need to go to the hospital, I’d feel the same way.’

  ‘Do you think she did kill her mom and dad, Sam?’ Saul, a young, male, carbon copy of his mother, who’d been staying quietly under cover of his school books, sounded more anxious than curious as he asked Sam the crucial question. It was one thing living close to a city where you knew that too many kids carried knives or guns, but it was another thing entirely when you thought about a girl from a nice, regular-sounding family – a girl just one year older than yourself – doing what the TV news people at the Coconut Grove crime scene had all-too-graphically described.

  ‘I don’t know, Saul,’ Sam said, troubled by the fear in his brother’s voice and eyes. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘What does Grace Lucca think about it?’ their father asked.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘You’ve talked to her about Cathy, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sam paused. ‘Grace says she doesn’t think Cathy’s guilty of anything. Frankly, though, I think she feels the way I do.’

  ‘Which is?’ David asked.

  ‘I don’t want Cathy to be guilty,’ Sam said. ‘I hope like hell she’s innocent.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’ Saul asked.

  ‘Not as sure as I’d like to be, no.’

  Judy Becket was sitting up a little straighter than she had been.

  ‘So you and Dr Lucca are on first-name terms already?’ she asked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MONDAY, APRIL 13, 1998

  Grace’s first stop when she drove back into Miami on Monday morning was at Miami General. After ten minutes talking to David Becket, she felt comforted to know for sure that his intuition was still riding in tandem with her own.

  ‘I think she’s a good kid,’ the doctor told her over two cups of machine coffee near the nurse’s station on Cathy’s floor. ‘For what it’s worth, I’ve told my son what I think.’

  ‘I don’t think Sam really disagrees with you,’ Grace said.

  Becket’s face was sad. ‘Sam doesn’t want to disagree with me,’ he said. ‘That’s a little different.’

  Cathy was out of bed, sitting in a chair by the window. She was paler than the last time Grace had seen her, but otherwise not markedly changed.

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I hear you’re getting out of here later.’

  ‘So they tell me.’ Cathy turned her face away and gazed out through the glass at nothing in particular.

  ‘Aren’t you ready to leave?’

  ‘Depends on where I’m going next, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Back to your Aunt Frances’ house, I guess,’ Grace said.

  ‘Or back to the police station.’

  Her voice was dull, but one didn’t need to be a psychologist to recognize the fear and bitterness behind the words.

  ‘Has anyone been in to talk to you?’ Grace asked.

  Cathy turned around. ‘The cops, you mean?’ She shook her head. ‘Not yet – but I guess that’s because Dr Becket wouldn’t let them.’ She smiled for the first time. ‘He was pretty mad at them, you know. He’s an okay guy.’

  ‘You know he’s the detective’s father, don’t you?’

  ‘I know. Weird, huh?’

  ‘What do you think of Detective Becket, Cathy?’ The instant the question was out of her mouth, Grace was unsure of her motive for asking it.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cathy shrugged. ‘He’s okay, I guess.’

  ‘For a cop,’ Grace said.

  ‘I guess.’ Cathy paused. ‘His dad likes you a lot.’

&nb
sp; ‘Does he?’

  ‘He told me I could trust you.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’ She looked into Cathy’s eyes. ‘Do you believe him?’

  She didn’t answer right away.

  ‘I guess,’ she said again, finally.

  It was afternoon before Grace was able to surface for long enough to put a call in to the Person Crimes office. Another detective named Martinez told her that Sam was likely to be snarled up for the rest of the day, yet less than fifteen minutes later he called her back.

  ‘I only have a minute, but I thought it might be urgent.’

  ‘Not exactly urgent,’ Grace said, ‘but I would appreciate another meeting, if you can find the time.’

  ‘Dinner okay?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll have, but we could share whatever time I can grab.’

  Grace considered for no more than a second.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  They met up at a small seafood restaurant near the northern edge of South Beach – Sam’s choice, since it was home territory for him. It was a quietish place, devoid of razzmatazz and obvious tourists, but still buzzy enough for earnest conversation not to be easily overheard.

  ‘You realize I want to talk about Cathy,’ Grace said right after they’d sat down, keen to be open with him and not misunderstood.

  ‘What else?’ Sam said. His eyes were gently humorous.

  They ordered – stone-crab claws and swordfish – and then Grace told him about Dr Peter Hayman’s case history, which had been scratching major holes in her thoughts now for more than twenty-four hours.

  Sam knew something about both Münchhausen’s and MSBP, but his first response after hearing about the west coast shootings and Hayman’s findings was much the same as her own initial reaction.

  ‘Lord knows I’m willing to listen to any theories you want to run by me,’ he said, ‘but surely in this case the possibilities are a little limited, with Cathy’s mother dead?’

  ‘That’s what I said at first. Then I got to thinking.’ Grace paused. ‘Don’t forget this is a Münchhausen’s-type disorder Hayman is talking about, so its scope may be way beyond anything we’ve come across before.’ She drank some water. Her wine glass was filled with Chardonnay, but she wanted a clear head until she’d told Sam everything she needed to. ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she went on quickly. ‘I know how off-the-wall this may very well be, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot since Dr Hayman approached me, and I do think it’s worth considering.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Sam said.

  ‘Who’s to say – purely hypothetically – that a woman might not be sick enough to be prepared to endanger herself – maybe even to die – in the act of proving her child psychotic?’ She paused, took a close look at Sam, trying to see how he was receiving this so far. ‘And taking that even further, who’s to say that she might not have paid someone to help go on framing Cathy even after she and Arnold were dead and gone?’

  ‘That’s a hell of a hypothesis,’ Sam said.

  ‘I know it is.’ Grace was getting morose. ‘Especially since both Münchhausen’s and MSBP sufferers want the attention that comes from either being sick or having a sick child.’

  ‘So getting yourself killed in the act would be pointless.’

  ‘I guess it would. Except —’

  ‘Except we’re not exactly talking about Münchhausen’s.’

  ‘No.’

  Sam mulled over his thoughts for a moment. ‘Do we have any idea what causes MSBP? Is it one of those things that comes prepacked in our genes, or is it triggered by something?’

  ‘We don’t know exactly what causes either syndrome. We know that they’re factitious disorders, and that the symptoms a regular sufferer presents are real to them. They’re not malingerers – just desperate to be cared for in a hospital setting.’

  ‘The cry for help syndrome?’

  ‘Almost certainly. And for attention. They have an uncontrollable need to be investigated and treated – sometimes even to undergo surgery, no matter how much pain or unpleasantness that means they have to endure.’

  ‘Sounds like a kind of masochism,’ Sam said. ‘Which makes MSBP a type of sadism, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s a lot more complex than that, and a whole lot sadder.’

  Sam took another minute. ‘My father said something yesterday that meshes with what I think you’re getting at. You said Marie might have paid someone to go on framing Cathy. Dad thinks we should be trying to find someone who wants it to look as if Cathy Robbins might be the killer.’

  ‘A straightforward frame, you mean?’

  ‘Anything but straightforward,’ Sam said. ‘But I really find it hard to believe a mother could do something so evil to her own child. She’d have to be some kind of monster.’

  ‘Or very sick,’ Grace said.

  ‘Like this young man’s mother in Dr Hayman’s case.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Sam thought about it again. ‘Is it always mothers who get MSBP?’

  ‘Almost always, though fathers do suffer, too – and I’ve read cases of nurses who’ve harmed children in their care being diagnosed with MSBP, though personally I have some doubts on that score.’

  ‘Anyway, it gets us nowhere, since Arnold Robbins died too,’ Sam said.

  ‘And her natural father died years ago.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I have to say I think this theory’s a non-starter, Grace. And even supposing there were a grain of truth in it, how in hell would you go about trying to prove it?’

  ‘I was hoping you might want to help do that. At least by broadening the investigation.’

  ‘The investigation’s still open.’ Sam glanced around, lowered his voice even further. ‘So’s my own mind, but I do have to say that more than a couple of people in my unit are pretty much convinced that Cathy’s guilty and that her aunt’s been covering up for her.’

  ‘But you still have no more proof, do you?’ Grace had less intention than ever of giving up.

  ‘Nothing solid, or Cathy would have been charged.’

  ‘Surely it’s in everyone’s best interests for you all to keep an open mind.’ She paused. ‘Maybe I could talk to your chief about this theory?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a great idea,’ Sam said.

  ‘Because it’s off-the-wall?’

  He smiled wryly. ‘You said it, not me.’

  ‘Maybe you could talk to him about it instead?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘One thing you could do for me,’ Grace said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ The wryness was still there.

  ‘Marie’s first marriage – Cathy’s natural father.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘No one wants to talk about them. I’ve been getting curious, and I think a little more knowledge might equip me better to help Cathy.’

  ‘You want me to see if I can find out something about that?’

  Grace nodded. ‘I’d be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll put out some feelers,’ Sam said.

  For the first time since they had sat down, Grace relaxed, took a long sip of wine. It tasted good. She looked around the restaurant. It had been almost full when they’d arrived, but somewhere along the line more than half the diners had left. ‘So,’ she said.

  ‘So,’ Sam said.

  ‘What do we talk about now?’ She remembered what he’d said that afternoon about not having long to spare. ‘Or do you need to get out of here?’

  ‘I have time,’ he said. ‘Unless I get a call.’

  ‘Do you have your pager with you?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Always?’

  He grinned. ‘Afraid so.’

  His eyes half closed when he smiled that time, giving him a lazy, warm look that was a thousand miles removed from the cooler, sharper, very clear-sighted expression he seemed to wear most of the time in his official capacity.

  Grace liked both looks.

  T
hey pushed Cathy Robbins temporarily to one side and started the tentative business of getting to know one another a little better – something, Grace felt, they were both certain by now that they wanted to do. She told Sam some more about her childhood with Claudia in Chicago, and their disastrous relationship with Frank and Ellen Lucca, and Sam told her that he’d been married once, to a woman named Althea, and that the marriage had ended in divorce.

  ‘A bitter one, I’m afraid,’ he said softly.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Grace asked.

  Sam took a moment before answering.

  ‘We had a son,’ he said. ‘His name was Sampson.’

  Was. The word hung in the air.

  ‘He died,’ Sam explained. ‘He was run down by a drunk driver.’

  She saw the veins in his neck tauten, read the nightmare replaying behind his eyes, felt – and rapidly quelled – the urge to reach for his hand.

  ‘He was three years old.’ Sam’s voice was steady but very low. ‘My wife blamed me. I wasn’t with Sampson when it happened, and she was, but Althea still blamed me.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘So did I.’

  ‘Why, if you weren’t with him?’ Grace put the question gently.

  ‘Exactly because of that,’ Sam answered simply. ‘Because maybe if I had been with them, it might not have happened.’ He paused. ‘Correction. If I’d been there, it would most certainly not have happened. I’d have been holding on to Sampson’s hand more tightly, so when he pulled away I’d have been able to keep ahold of him. Althea wasn’t very strong. And she was very tired that day – she’d had a lot of sleepless nights, worrying about me.’

  ‘Do you blame yourself for that, too?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Sam said.

  They took a stroll through South Beach before parting. It was a pleasant evening, not too warm or humid. They walked slowly, close but not too close, and though Sam was about eight inches taller than Grace, they kept pace easily, naturally. Ocean Drive was alive and kicking as it was every evening of every week, young and not-so-young people – some colourful, some ordinary, some downright wacky-looking – blading or just walking, some talking animatedly, some just watching, drinking, smoking, hanging out outside Casablanca and the All Star Café, or staring at the Versace house. Sam and Grace were both mostly silent now, but her mind at least was full of images of Cathy Robbins – growing ever more bitter and afraid – and fantasy pictures of Sampson Becket at least half grown: a boy who, had he lived, would probably have begun by now to look like his daddy, tall, lean, broad, gentle tough guy.