Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "You don't mind eating that on the way, do you?" She picked up a straw purse and an overnight bag from the large wooden table and headed for the screen door. She pushed through, and Anthony caught it before it could bang shut.

  He followed at a quick pace to the harbor, from where she would ferry him to a marina near the hospital in Tavernier. Half a dozen boats were tied to the L-shaped wooden dock. Lois stepped into a runabout with a blue canvas top and tossed the overnight bag onto one of the seats. The bag contained a fresh set of clothing to be delivered to Billy Fadden. Lois went to untie the docking lines.

  Facing north, Anthony could see the low-lying profile of Upper and Lower Matecumbe and Plantation Keys. The sea glittered in the early light. He suddenly remembered the courthouse in Tavernier. The marriage license.

  "Ay, Dios." They would have to apply for a license today, Wednesday, to be married before they went home. What had they been thinking? Of course he wanted to marry Gail, he loved her with his soul, but to bring her back as Senora Quintana and leave her at her mother's house? It would look ridiculous. The entire idea was insane.

  "Mr. Quintana."

  He turned around. Lois Greenwald had put on a white ball cap with a Buttonwood Inn logo. Her ponytail stuck out the back. "Ms. Connor must have told you we talked last night. I thought she was your law partner. Sorry about that." A shadow cut across Lois's sharp nose. "I wanted to know what's going on with Billy, if they have any evidence besides his confession."

  "Not to my knowledge. And I wouldn't call it a confession."

  "Statement, then. Whatever. The problem is, the police think he did it, and God knows what they're going to find on Billy if they look hard enough. They can arrest people on pretty slim evidence, isn't that so?"

  Anthony finished his juice and tossed the cup at a metal trash basket bolted to a piling. "It happens."

  "Is there a chance this is going to get complicated?"

  "There is always a chance." He unwrapped the napkin from around his cinnamon roll. He pulled off a piece, avoiding the raisins. It was still warm.

  Lois asked, "How soon can you get it taken care of?"

  "By the weekend, I hope, but one can never be sure. Mmm, this is delicious."

  Her bright pink lips pressed together for a moment, nearly disappearing entirely, before she said, "Look. I'm going to be real up-front with you. Don't expect the fees you got last time. We can't do it. We've put everything into remodeling the resort, including our names on the dotted line at the bank. If tourism is still down this year, we're screwed. You're already getting deluxe accommodations and meals for yourself and Ms. Connor, and that's worth a thousand dollars a day, in season. Now you're bringing that psychiatrist back down here for Billy. Martin told me about it this morning. Is that really necessary? Does she still charge two-fifty an hour, or has it gone up?"

  Anthony smiled as he took another bite of cinnamon roll. "Forgive me, but I don't discuss my cases with anyone but my clients. I've been hired by Teri and Martin."

  "Oh, please. Where do you think the money comes from? It's all out of the resort. Do you have any idea how much Billy has cost us already? Teri doesn't have a dime. Whatever she wants, Martin writes a check. We had to pay two hundred thousand dollars to the Morgans after Billy burned their house down. Now he's confessed to murder, and we're supposed to reopen in five days."

  Anthony raised his brows. "As I said..."

  Lois went on. "Whether he did it or not is beside the point, they'll go after him. I'll be shocked if it's not on the evening news. 'Suspect named in McCoy case.'"

  "Ms. Greenwald."

  "Fine. Just get it over with." Lois jerked on one of the bowlines to free it from the cleat on the dock.

  Anthony finished the last of the roll, dusted his fingers, and tossed the napkin away. Food and drink were included in his fee. He wondered what Lois would say if he asked for a bottle of Dom Perignon at dinner tonight.

  Heading toward the stern, Lois passed him, then spun around and came back. Her skin was imperfect. The blotches of red on her cheeks could have been painted there by nerves. "Must you rely on an alibi from Joan? What if you get the psychiatrist to say that Billy was on drugs when he called the police? What about that?"

  "Why not rely on Joan?"

  "Because... I'm not sure you can."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning she has no friends, she doesn't go shopping, she doesn't go out to a restaurant. She's like a ghost. You never see her. If she answers the door at all, she's wearing a ratty, feather- trimmed negligee with half the feathers missing. We send dinner over there occasionally, but she wants the tray left on her porch."

  "The woman prefers her own company."

  Lois folded her arms. "Well, Joan's nephew thinks she's nuts. His name is Doug Lindeman. He's a partner in the law firm that handles our business. Joan was a Lindeman before she went to Hollywood. We bought the island from her brother, Doug's father. Doug wants to file a petition for guardianship this week."

  "A guardianship," Anthony repeated.

  "I assume that's not good for Billy's alibi."

  "To put her competency into question? No." Anthony felt a little frisson of unease. "How old is Joan Sinclair? Or do you call her Joan Lindeman?"

  "She refuses to answer to Lindeman." Lois rolled her eyes upward. "She's a star. Joan is sixty-two. Doug and I are close friends. I could ask him not to go ahead with it. What do you think?"

  "I think that's an excellent idea," Anthony said.

  Lois started the big outboard engine and freed the last line securing them to the dock. Anthony had barely sat down when she hit the throttle. Once out of the harbor, the bow rose, then the boat settled onto a plane, streaking toward Tavernier.

  At the hospital Anthony walked past Detective Jack Baylor, who lowered his cup of coffee and watched him. Baylor was wearing a different shirt, which meant he had given up the vigil at some point last night. In the hall near Billy Fadden's room Anthony spotted Dr. Vogelhut. The wheels of her chair reflected in the shine on the floor.

  She was writing in a small notebook. Anthony touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him over her reading glasses. "Hey, handsome." She tilted her face so he could kiss her cheek. Her short gray hair feathered becomingly across her forehead.

  "It's good to see you, Sharon, and thank you for coming so early."

  "I left the house at five-thirty. It's marvelous. You miss all the traffic that way."

  "Did you notice Detective Baylor?"

  "Oh, yes. I spoke to him. He remembered me. I told him that Billy Fadden couldn't be trusted to know his own name at present."

  Anthony waited for an orderly to pass by, then nodded toward the door to Billy's room, which was closed. "How is he?"

  "He's got a ferocious hangover, like where you blink and the shock waves vibrate your skull. But how is he? I don't expect another suicidal episode, at least for the time being. I gave him a little Xanax. I'm also putting him on Paxil for depression and anxiety, and Topomax to help stabilize his moods. His folks will keep an eye out. If he says or does anything worrisome they'll call me. Otherwise, we have an appointment at my office next Tuesday afternoon. My schedule is jammed till then. It's the best I can do."

  She turned the wheels of her chair. "Come on, let's find a place where we can talk." There was a bend in the corridor, and they went around it.

  Sharon Vogelhut had been in forensic psychiatry for thirty years, the last ten of it fighting multiple sclerosis. The disease had slowed her movements, but not her mind. Four years ago Anthony had hired her to do a psychological evaluation of Billy Fadden. She had spent many hours preparing for a trial that had never materialized.

  Finding a plastic molded chair along the wall, Anthony pulled it closer and sat down. "What did you get out of Billy?"

  "Not much." Dr. Vogelhut consulted her notes. "He says he doesn't remember calling the police. He was aware that he attempted suicide but thought he used a gun, until I pointed out the nec
k brace. I asked him why he tried to hang himself, and he said, 'I don't know.' I asked about his relationship with Sandra McCoy, were they intimate? He said, 'We were just friends.' I asked if he knew how she died. He said no. I asked if there were any problems with his mother, his stepfather, his dad. No. Does he take drugs? No. Does he drink? No."

  Sharon Vogelhut turned more pages in her notebook. "I asked about school. He dropped out of the community college two weeks ago. 'How did your parents react?' He said they didn't care. Then I spoke to his mother. She says Billy had a problem with drugs at one time, but not anymore. He drinks, but not excessively. She seemed shocked that he attempted suicide, and she blames herself, although she can't explain why she should. She tries to insulate Mr. Greenwald from Billy's problems because she doesn't want to put stress on him. He's had a couple of heart attacks. I think the real reason is, she feels responsible for Billy's behavior. I asked how she felt about Billy's dropping out of school. She said it was probably for the best, given his grades, but Billy's father had yelled at him about it over the weekend."

  "Martin Greenwald or Kyle Fadden?"

  "Kyle. Martin doesn't rate with Billy. It's Kyle's disapproval that gets to him."

  "Ahhh."

  "Don't draw any conclusions just yet. A fight with his father may have been the catalyst, but probably not the root cause. Billy is depressed, granted. He attempted suicide. But why would he confess to murder?"

  "You believe he lied."

  "That's the wrong word unless he knew his statement was false." Dr. Vogelhut took off her glasses and tapped the stems together. "It's strange, Anthony. Four years ago, I ruled out any physical anomalies. I'll review his history, but let's assume that what was true then, still is. He wasn't bipolar or schizophrenic, and I see no indication of that now. There could be a substance abuse issue. At fifteen he was smoking marijuana regularly. I'll run some tests, but I don't think that's where the problem lies. Before, when Billy and I had our sessions, I got the sense that something happened to him way back, a trauma that he had pushed so far down he wasn't even aware of it. I started getting weird little vibes." She fluttered her fingers. "I have no hard facts, but I think—and I could be wrong—that this event is starting to work its way to the surface."

  "The death of his little brother," Anthony suggested. "You told me that Billy felt guilty about it. He thought it was his fault that Jeremy drowned. When Sandra McCoy was murdered, his guilt came back and he confessed to murder. Is that possible?"

  "Possible, but here's the thing. Billy isn't repressing his brother's death. At fifteen, he talked quite freely about it. In fact, it's unusual how clearly he recalled the details. No, I'm looking for an event that he doesn't talk about."

  "Sexual abuse?"

  "Not likely. Teri denied it, and the interviews with Billy didn't show anything. There was physical abuse by his father, and many, many instances of emotional abuse. At this point, I just don't know." Sharon Vogelhut turned her warm eyes toward Anthony and smiled. "If only you hadn't worked so darn fast on that other case, I'd have had time to dig deeper. Do me a favor. Find out about this young woman who was murdered. What was she to Billy? I want some background before I see him again, and his mother doesn't have a clue."

  "I'll call you." Anthony added, "Has Mr. Fadden come by this morning?"

  "Not since I've been here. He knows about this, doesn't he?"

  "He knows about the attempted suicide, but not the confession."

  "Oh, dear. Someone should tell him. You do it, if possible. I'd be interested in his reaction." She put her glasses and notebook in her bag. "Now I really have to fly. By the way, who gets the bills, you or the Greenwalds?"

  "Send them to me," Anthony said. He would find a way to route them to Martin, bypassing Lois. What she didn't see, she couldn't complain about.

  Anthony knocked on the door and went in. "Good morning."

  Someone on the staff had removed Billy's restraints and had changed the neck brace for a soft cervical collar. The IV was gone. A breakfast tray, still untouched, had been left by the sink. Billy's mother folded the sports section, which she had been reading aloud.

  "Look, honey, it's Mr. Quintana."

  Billy gave no sign of recognition. His platinum-streaked hair had been combed to one side, as only a mother would do it.

  Anthony set the overnight bag on the floor by the bed. "Lois sent you a change of clothes."

  Teri told him they were still waiting for Billy's doctor to check him over so they could go home. Anthony asked if he could talk to Billy privately. Teri said she would go down to the cafeteria to find her husband.

  When they were alone Anthony said, "How's your headache?"

  "Fine." Billy was looking out the window. The blue squares on the hospital gown matched the shadows under his eyes. His left hand was bandaged. Anthony hadn't noticed it last night.

  "What happened to your hand?"

  "I don't know." His voice had deepened to baritone in four years. A stubble of beard darkened his skin. Who was this young man? The connections they had developed were gone. Anthony hardly knew how to approach a client who might slide back into suicidal depression, but there were things to say.

  "Billy, let me tell you why I'm here. Your mother and Martin have asked me to help you. You called the police yesterday and told them that you murdered Sandra McCoy. I don't believe you did. First, there's no physical evidence that connects you to the crime, and second, you told your mother a week ago that you were watching movies with Joan Sinclair the night Sandra died. Is that what happened? Were you with Miss Sinclair?"

  "I guess so."

  "You guess so."

  "I don't remember."

  "And you don't remember making the phone call to the Monroe County Sheriff's Office."

  "No. Maybe they're lying."

  "I am afraid not. They have it on tape. There's a homicide detective outside named Jack Baylor. When we take you out of here, he's going to ask you if you want to talk to him. Say nothing. If you do speak, it should be, 'I'm not talking, speak to my lawyer.' Do you understand that? Billy?"

  He closed his eyes. "Yes. I understand." The drugs were slowing his words.

  Satisfied that the boy was not going to throw himself into the arms of the police, Anthony said, "You can talk to Dr. Vogelhut or to me about this, but no one else. Not your mother, your father, your friends. That's important. All right?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to tell me about Sandra McCoy. Her friends, her enemies, how you knew her, who she was. We'll talk later, not now. Sometime today I'll ask Joan Sinclair to confirm where you were the night Sandra died. Then I'll take her to see Detective Baylor. Should I expect any problems?"

  "Problems?"

  "Will she confirm you were with her?"

  "I guess so."

  This was like talking to an empty bed. He said, "Is Joan Sinclair going to meow like a cat at the police station?"

  Billy finally looked at him. He had his mother's brown eyes. "What?"

  "I've heard she's eccentric. Crazy. Over the edge."

  "Bullshit. Joan's not like other people. She does what she wants to. That doesn't make her crazy."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "Do you think I'm crazy?" It was a challenge, not a question.

  "If you try to hang yourself again, I might."

  That failed to arouse a smile. "Yeah, I did that because the gun wasn't loaded."

  "What gun?"

  "Martin's. It wasn't loaded."

  "You had a gun?" Anthony doubted the truth of this. "Where is it now?"

  "Still there, I guess."

  "On the dock?"

  Billy frowned, concentrating. "That's weird. I just remembered... shooting at the dogs. We don't have dogs."

  "Are you sure you had a gun?"

  He hesitated. "No. I'm not sure."

  "We'll ask your stepfather if it's missing."

  Billy tugged at the cervical collar, ripping loose the Velcro tabs, wincing
as he pulled it from around his neck. A line of bruises purpled his skin. He tossed the collar to the chair by his bed. "I didn't kill Sandra. I don't care what I allegedly said to the cops. We were friends."

  "Good friends?"

  "I guess."

  "She bought liquor for you? Beer?"

  Billy looked at him. "Yes. So?"

  "Anything else?"

  "Heroin, crack, and Roofies. Jesus, man. No, nothing else."

  Anthony let it go for now. "Did you ever have sex with her?"

  Seconds ticked by. Billy noticed his bandaged hand and held it in front of his face to see it better. He picked at the tape holding the gauze. His hands were masculine but small, with bony wrists.

  "May I take that as a yes?"

  "Yeah. We did."

  "A lot?"

  "Not a lot to me. To you maybe. But she started going out with this guy."

  "Does this guy have a name?"

  The square of gauze came up, attached on one side. His palm showed a laceration, some stitches, the bright orange of antiseptic. "Yeow. How'd I do this?"

  "Who was Sandra's boyfriend?"

  Billy pressed the tape back into place and let his arm fall off his chest. "She wouldn't tell me."

  "Did you fight about it?"

  "It wasn't a fight."

  "When did you and she discuss it? Do you remember? How many days before she died? And where did this discussion take place?"

  He stared out the window. "We were at Holiday Isle, in the parking lot. It was on Tuesday night. She died on Thursday."

  "Did anyone see you and Sandra in the parking lot?"

  "Some girl named Penny. Sandra got in her car and left."

  "Penny what?"

  "I don't know."

  The police would soon have the name. Believing they had a confession, they would reinterview witnesses and ask specifically about Billy Fadden. "Did you hit her? Answer me. I don't want to find out from the cops."