Mind Games

by Hilary Norman

  The scalpel dug up by Harry had been confirmed as the missing one from the solid silver collection bequeathed to Cathy by John Broderick, her natural father. There were no identifiable prints on it, but Frances Dean’s blood and brain matter were still on the blade. It was, Sam had grimly explained to Grace on the telephone after the funeral, what every police officer and State Attorney longed to get hold of these days: a smoking gun.

  Grace had argued at great length over the discovery of the weapon. ‘Cathy wanted to go to the house,’ she had reminded him, more than once. ‘She chose to go into the garden with us.’

  ‘And we know – and you say her aunt knew it too – that Cathy’s been back to the house more than once since you first took her there. Maybe she just felt compelled to go back.’

  ‘But not with you,’ Grace had maintained. ‘Certainly not on the same day your people claim she buried a murder weapon there.’

  ‘Cathy didn’t know when she asked to go there that I was going to come along,’ Sam had pointed out. ‘And someone’s bound to argue that maybe she wanted to be caught.’ He had paused. ‘Or that maybe she just wanted to be stopped.’

  The scalpel had not been the only find for the prosecution that Tuesday. Within a half-hour of Sam’s bagging, photographing and documenting the new evidence and notifying the county medical examiners’ and State Attorney’s offices, as well as the Coral Gables and City of Miami Police Departments, the real pros had taken over from Harry, and in less than two hours a pair of rubber kitchen gloves had been unearthed just eight or nine feet from the first hole. Same brand as the ones used in Frances Dean’s kitchen. Both gloves loaded with blood, dirt and smudged prints – Frances’ and Cathy’s among them. Whoever had buried them had, it was being hazarded, probably washed their hands in the Robbins’ swimming pool. The water had been drained and all the filters carefully checked, but thus far nothing conclusive had been discovered.

  Cathy said, in questioning, that she had used rubber gloves any number of times in her aunt’s kitchen for washing up, so of course if they’d come from Frances’ house then her prints would be on them, inside and out – that didn’t mean she’d taken them from Coral Gables to Miami Beach in the middle of the night to use them to bury a murder weapon. Anyway, Cathy said, when was she supposed to have done all this and how was she supposed to have gotten from her aunt’s place to her old home when she didn’t even drive a car, and when none of the buses ran at night?

  Grace knew about those questions of Cathy’s because she’d raised the same points during one of her conversations with Sam.

  ‘She made the 911 call just after seven a.m.,’ Sam had told her, ‘and the ME has the time of death down for sometime around two, which means she could have gotten to Pine Tree Drive and back in time to pretend she’d just woken up, and to make the call.’

  ‘And how exactly is she supposed to have made this journey?’ Grace had asked, fighting the knot in her stomach. ‘I’m sure if she’d called a cab company, you’d know about it – or are you suggesting she’s a secret driver?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Sam had said. ‘There’s no record of a call to a cab company or any booking. It’s not impossible that Cathy has learned to drive – some kids do – but if she’d taken her aunt’s car during the night, the local patrol officers would have noticed it gone.’

  He’d paused. ‘One line of thinking is that she might have used a bicycle and sneaked out quietly. She says she brought her bike over from home two weeks ago.’

  ‘A bicycle?’ Grace might have laughed if she hadn’t been so furious. ‘Over the Mac Arthur Causeway in the middle of the night?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Sam had said, quietly, taking no pleasure in his argument. ‘Cathy could have ridden the distance in about an hour, maybe a little more, which means she could have left Granada Boulevard at around two-thirty, gotten home by three-forty-five, buried the weapon and gloves, left Pine Tree Drive again at around four-fifteen, and been home by five-thirty.’

  Grace had asked if anyone had reported seeing a blonde fourteen-year-old female riding a bicycle along that route that morning. No one had – but then, no one was looking. She asked if physical evidence had been found that Cathy had undertaken such a long and arduous bike ride that morning.

  ‘Cathy’s a strong kid,’ Sam had reminded Grace. ‘We both saw the trophies for running in her room. Anyway, if she got back at five-thirty, that would have given her plenty of time to shower and recover before making the 911 call at seven a.m.’

  It Cathy had seemed bewildered and scared before, now, to Grace’s eyes, she seemed totally lost. When Grace arrived, the girl fell into her arms and wept for several moments, but there was still nothing approaching hysteria, though the psychologist knew by now that that was simply not the way Cathy Broderick Robbins functioned. Truth to tell, Grace didn’t claim to begin to understand how she was functioning, let alone surviving. They were keeping her away from her fellow inmates much of the time, and nights were being spent under lock and key in solitary confinement.

  ‘Take me home,’ Cathy said, just once, in the small, secure room that had been provided for Grace’s visit. And then she remembered that she no longer had any place to go, and stopped begging. Grace thought that it was like watching someone being punched in the solar plexus. Once realization struck her that there was nothing more Grace could do for her at that moment other than offer comfort and promise to do her best for her, Cathy withdrew, both physically and emotionally.

  ‘It’s the goldfish all over again,’ she said, softly, harshly. ‘No one believed me then either.’

  And after that, she wouldn’t say a word.

  Grace went to Miami General to get the latest on David’s condition. She knew he was out of the ICU, and that he was, thank God, no longer deeply unconscious but running a high fever and making no sense at all. Neither Sam nor young Saul was in his room, but Judy Becket was at her husband’s side.

  She jumped to her feet the instant Grace entered the room.

  ‘Dr Lucca.’ There was not a trace of a smile on the small, elegant woman’s mouth. Her eyes were darkly shadowed, and her ill-fitting beige blouse betrayed the abrupt and unhealthy weight loss that so often accompanies shock and ongoing fear.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Grace asked.

  ‘What do you want?’ Judy Becket stood between Grace and the bed, so that Grace could not see her husband’s face without moving sideways, though she could hear that his breathing was laboured.

  ‘To see Dr Becket,’ Grace answered. ‘I thought maybe, if you didn’t mind, I could sit with him for a while.’

  ‘I do mind very much.’

  ‘I know he needs to be quiet.’ Grace felt thrown by the other woman’s hostility. ‘I promise I’d just sit, nothing else.’

  Judy Becket didn’t answer. Instead, she raised her right arm, indicating the door, giving Grace no choice but to go back through it. She came outside with her and closed the door very softly.

  ‘It’s very clear to me,’ she said, ‘that your main concern for my husband now must be for him to recover sufficiently to clear that evil child you’re so fond of.’ Her eyes glinted with anger. ‘Or maybe you’re hoping he never recovers in case he confirms to the police that it was she who stabbed him?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Grace said, stunned by her attack. ‘You must know that you couldn’t be more wrong, Mrs Becket.’ She was loth to fight back more vociferously. Lord knew she could understand the other woman’s anguish.

  ‘I don’t know that, Dr Lucca.’ There was a slight tremor in her voice now, and she had to compress her lips for an instant before continuing. ‘Frankly, I don’t know what to believe any more. I do know that I would like you to leave.’

  ‘Then of course I will,’ Grace told her. ‘But I hope you will believe that my coming here has nothing whatever to do with Cathy Robbins. I’ve known your husband for a long time, Mrs Becket. I have the greatest admiration and respect for him.’<
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  ‘If you have any respect for me,’ Judy Becket said, ‘please go now.’

  Grace left fast, cheeks burning, eyes stinging. She felt as if she’d been slapped. At the far end of the corridor she saw a tall, dark figure just coming around the corner, and for an instant thought it was Sam. Half of her hoped it was, because she badly wanted to see him, talk to him, make sure he didn’t feel the way his mother did. The other half was intensely relieved when she saw that it was not him. Grace supposed that she was just loth to find out that Sam, too, might by now have come bitterly to resent her wanting to continue in support of the girl suspected of stabbing his father.

  Jerry Wagner, the dark-suited man at the Robbins’ funeral, was the defence lawyer who had been retained by Frances Dean before her death. The issue of whether he would, or would not, choose to continue in that role had been a complex one in some respects. First, there was the problem that Wagner had in theory been Frances Dean’s attorney, one of Cathy’s alleged victims, but he was satisfied there was no conflict of interests because as a criminal lawyer he had never actually dealt personally with the late Mrs Dean, had merely been recommended by Michael Doughty, the attorney she used for personal affairs, another partner in the same law firm. Second, and more crucially so far as Jerry Wagner was concerned, was the matter of his fees. He’d received a retainer from Cathy’s aunt, but when that ran out – as, in a case of such enormity, it certainly would before long – there was a risk that there might be no funds available to pay him. It was not yet clear whether Frances’ will had been made in favour of her niece, but even if it had been – and it was known that Marie Robbins’ estate had been left to Cathy – then if the girl was found guilty of murdering her mother and aunt, it was highly improbable that she would be allowed to benefit from their untimely deaths.

  Jerry Wagner appreciated money as much as the next lawyer, but he also appreciated good publicity, and the Cathy Robbins case was going to be big publicity. The days following the teenager’s arrest had already seen more than their fair share of headlines: Nightmare on Millionaire’s Row . . . Restaurant Heiress ‘slashed’ Mom, Dad and Aunt . . . Teen Monster in Miami Beach. With media attention like that, law firms were lining up to take the case pro bono. It was already in Jerry Wagner’s lap, and he had no intention of handing it over to anyone else.

  Five days after Cathy’s arraignment, Grace Lucca was granted an interview in Wagner’s office, a dark wood power base in a sleek tower on Brickell Avenue. The attorney’s desk was huge, highly polished and immaculately tidy, and the whole room was a bastion of good taste; but from the moment Grace entered, was offered a comfortable leather chair and a cup of excellent coffee, she found herself wishing, curiously, that she’d walked into a shabbier, more chaotic, perhaps even frenetic scene, one that might have spelled passion and the kind of blazing commitment she knew Cathy was going to need behind her.

  ‘So, Dr Lucca, I gather you want to help us?’ Wagner was friendly and dignified.

  ‘In any way I can,’ Grace told him.

  ‘You’re aware, of course, that a psychologist will probably be appointed for Cathy under the guardian ad litem system,’ Wagner said. ‘With her aunt gone, she’s in custody of the state now, so they’ll be taking care of Cathy’s welfare for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Grace said. ‘I’m hoping that because Cathy and I have built up a pretty good relationship, I’ll be allowed to go on working with her. I think Cathy’s come to trust me, Mr Wagner, and the feeling’s mutual.’ She paused. ‘Which is why, if you’re going to be looking for an expert psychological witness to testify on Cathy’s behalf, I hope you’ll think of me.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, Dr Lucca,’ Wagner said, ‘and closer to the time, we may be more than grateful to you for your assistance, but it’s still very early days. The case hasn’t yet gone before the grand jury. If they do bring in an indictment, and if and when we have to prepare for a trial, both sides will be hiring at least two forensic psychologists to evaluate Cathy.’

  ‘I’ve worked as a forensic psychologist before,’ Grace pointed out, ‘for defence attorneys and for the state.’

  ‘But not, I understand, in a homicide case.’ His sharp eyes were watchful.

  ‘That’s true,’ she had to admit.

  Wagner leaned forward slightly, his manner confidential. ‘Just as a point of interest, doctor, what kind of testimony would you hope to give on Miss Robbins’ behalf?’

  Grace had no problem with that question. ‘I would tell the court that I don’t believe that Cathy is a killer, or that she is unbalanced, let alone psychotic.’

  Wagner steepled his beautifully manicured fingers thoughtfully under his chin. ‘And you would be basing your opinions on what exactly, doctor?’

  ‘On the meetings I had with Cathy prior to her arrest,’ Grace answered steadily. ‘And, hopefully, on those sessions yet to come.’

  The steepled fingers parted, and the lawyer leaned back again. ‘I’m sorry to say that, as things look right now, that might not be nearly enough to help get Cathy out from under these charges, Dr Lucca. I’d be a liar if I didn’t tell you that the situation is pretty bleak.’

  Disquiet surged inside Grace. ‘Cathy is pleading not guilty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘And you do believe she’s not guilty, don’t you, Mr Wagner?’

  ‘My client has told me she didn’t commit the crimes.’

  Grace wasn’t letting him get away with that. ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I’m Cathy’s defence attorney, Dr Lucca.’ Wagner was unperturbed. ‘I have a sworn duty to defend her, and I can assure you that I’m going to do everything – use every possible means at my disposal – to do just that.’

  ‘So you’re not rejecting my testimony?’ Grace said.

  ‘I am most definitely not rejecting anything, doctor,’ Wagner said. ‘It’s just too early to do anything except examine all our options. As I said, the case hasn’t even reached the grand jury stage yet.’

  ‘But looking at a worst-case scenario’ – Grace felt the need to persist, unsure of when or even if she might get to see the attorney again – ‘if they do indict Cathy —’

  ‘Then, looking at a worst-case scenario’ – Wagner took up her line of thought – ‘in the absence of any good, strong evidence in my client’s favour, it’s not inconceivable that we might find ourselves hard pressed to do much better than an insanity plea.’

  Grace was horrified. ‘But Cathy isn’t insane.’

  ‘That might not necessarily be the good news you seem to feel it is, doctor,’ Wagner said. ‘If we don’t find a way to clear Cathy of all charges – and believe me, everyone on my team is going to do their damnedest to do just that – but if we don’t, then an insanity plea may just prove our only means of keeping her out of jail.’

  Peter Hayman telephoned that evening while Grace was making an omelette.

  ‘I heard the news,’ he said. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘I’m not the one incarcerated.’

  ‘I guess I don’t need to ask how Cathy’s doing.’

  ‘As you’d expect.’ Grace paused. ‘I’m hoping to get authority to keep on seeing her.’

  ‘Professionally, you mean?’

  ‘Preferably, yes – though I’ll settle for plain visitation if I have to.’

  ‘You sound frustrated,’ Hayman remarked.

  ‘I am.’ She tucked the cordless phone between her chin and right shoulder, and used both hands to flip the omelette. ‘Peter, I don’t seem to have helped that poor child at all, and now she’s so tied up in bureaucratic tape I can’t see how I’m ever going to.’

  ‘But doesn’t this happen all the time, Grace, in our profession?’ Hayman said. ‘Don’t we always feel we’re getting nowhere for the longest time? Wouldn’t we always prefer to make a positive difference more quickly than we do?’

  ‘My patients aren’t usually locked up in a yout
h facility accused of three counts of murder one.’ Grace bent down to take a warmed plate out of her lower oven, and tipped the omelette out of its pan. As if by magic, Harry-the-food-magnet appeared at her side. This was his kind of omelette, one wrapped around slices of prosciutto.

  ‘Are you still pondering the father’s possible role in all this?’ Hayman asked.

  ‘I haven’t stopped pondering,’ Grace answered. ‘But I don’t have any more good reason to ponder than I did when I saw you.’

  ‘Poor Grace,’ Hayman said.

  ‘Poor Cathy.’

  He offered what little help he could before they ended the call. Any time she wanted to use him to test a new theory, he said, or simply to unload, he’d try to make himself available to listen. And if, he added, Grace ever found herself able to take a few days’ real vacation, then he wanted her to keep in mind that his sailboat was ready and waiting off Key Largo.

  ‘I’m sure you know there’s no better form of relaxation,’ he said, ‘than time spent out there on the ocean.’

  It was the best offer Grace had had in a long while.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 1998

  Sam showed up at six-ten Tuesday evening. Up until the moment when Grace opened her front door and saw that tall, hard frame again, that keen-boned mocha face and those warm, tired eyes, she thought she simply hadn’t understood – maybe she hadn’t allowed herself to understand – just how much the man blew her away. The whole package.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, still on the doorstep.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Grace stepped back to let him through. He was wearing jeans, white T-shirt, sport coat and loafers, and his cologne had a faint, pleasing forest smell. She closed the door just as Harry came swaggering through from the deck into the hallway, stubby tail wagging. Sam got down to his level.