by Tom Bierdz
Nancy finished her wine, placed the plastic cup in the holder on the back seat in front of her. “I’ll ask you again. Does Hanna know you’re seeing this woman?”
“Yes.”
The crowd erupted when our catcher hit a home run over the center field fence with two men on base, making the score 7 to 0.
“What does she think?”
What should it matter? Nancy’s loyalty to Hanna was coming through. “I don’t know,” I answered. But I did know Hanna felt Megan was dangerous. I didn’t want to get into this with Nancy. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her or value her opinion. It was too complicated with too many layers. Not something to be shared at a baseball game. I needed to talk to Carrie.
“Enough about this,” Nancy said, responding to my mood. “I want you to be happy, Grant, with whomever.”
We tuned into the game, watching the Mariners score three more times in the inning, making it 10 to 0. I went to the refreshment stand, got another beer and a wine for Nancy. A couple of innings later, Nancy asked, “Can I see those photos again?”
“Sure.” I showed them to her.
“I think I know this woman. What did you say her name was?”
“Megan Wilshire.”
Biting down on her lip, Nancy tilted the photo, studied it as if it was a critical medical test result. “I could be wrong but if it’s who I think, her name was Megan Pennington. Bruce and I attended a party of hers in Chicago’s Gold Coast four or five years ago.” She sighed, lazily looked at the field, her mind replaying the incident. “A year earlier I attended a symposium in Chicago on mental disorders in children for pediatricians. Walter Pennington, a Professor of Psychiatry, gave a marvelous lecture on Autism.
Shortly after, Benny, an autistic child, entered my practice. He displayed some of the unique symptoms Dr. Pennington had talked about so I communicated with him about the boy. Pennington said he was giving a series of lectures on the treatment of Autism and invited me to attend. As it happened Bruce was scheduled to pitch against the Chicago White Sox the same weekend, so I hitched a ride. The prof and I hit it off and it helped that he was a baseball fan. He invited me and Bruce to a dinner party that he and his wife were having that night.”
A javelin pierced my gut. I could hear Nick tell me that Megan had been married. “You’re sure she was the wife, not a companion?”
“No question. Pennington introduced her as his wife and a wedding picture adorned the fireplace mantel. She was confident, in charge, undoubtedly used to hosting dinner parties. I was in admiration, couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was everything you’d expect from a diplomat or statesman wife. In fact, I didn’t think the professor measured up.”
“Measured up?”
“He was somewhat crass. Socially beneath her.”
“Are you sure his name was Walter, not Jack?”
“I’m positive it was Walter. I corresponded with him, addressed him as Walter.”
She sounded like the Megan I knew. She hadn’t hosted any dinner parties, but the confident swagger, the level of her sophistication matched. “What else can you tell me?”
“There were ten or twelve of us. Dinner was delicious, catered, served by the help. Conversation centered on what was happening in the country. I talked very little with Megan, brain-stormed with Pennington about my patient. Bruce talked with her more. You can talk to him. That’s about it. We never had any more contact with them.”
I could never get back into the game after that. My head was swirling as if someone was shaking my brain made of marbles. Deceived was the word that kept bouncing in my head. Megan had deceived me. She said she never married. Nick and Nancy seem to suggest otherwise. Nick thought her husband’s name was Jack. Nancy was sure it was Walter. Nick could have been mistaken. He guessed it was Jack. And the Megan Nancy identified could have merely resembled my Megan and been someone else entirely. Somehow, however, I suspected I had been deceived and Megan had been married. I needed to confirm this.
I was too nauseous to wait for Bruce. He’d need to talk with reporters and shower and it took everything I had to keep from regurgitating all over Nancy. The more I thought about Megan’s lies and deception, the sicker I became. I needed to gain control; I needed to go home. I couldn’t even remain for the rest of the game. I apologized to Nancy, told her I was sick, thought it was something I ate earlier, and had to leave. I told her to tell Bruce he pitched a hell of a game and that I’d talk to him later.
“Sorry, I didn’t stick around after the game to congratulate you. You pitched a helluva ballgame.”
“I did, didn’t I? It was one of those rare days where I could picture in my mind the exact spot I wanted to throw the ball and I’d hit the target every time. And,” he added, his excitement rising, “the ball would move the way I intended it to. This game is mental. When I can get into that zone, block everything out and focus, I’m almost unhittable. If I could pitch like that sixty, seventy percent of the time, I’d be one of the all-time greats.”
“We both know you’re headed for the Hall of Fame.”
“You really think so?”
“Come on, Bruce, cut out that modesty bullshit.”
Belching out a laugh, he said, “I’ve got an image to maintain. I can’t come off too cocky.”
“You know I tell everyone I see, that Bruce Dieter is such a humble guy. He cares nothing about fame and fortune.”
“Okay, Garrick, what do you want?”
“I’m sure Nancy told you the Megan I’d been seeing might be the same Megan Pennington you dined with in Chicago.”
“I got the fax. She is the same Megan. That’s the real reason you got sick.”
Bruce knew me too well. “I’m flying to Chicago, see what I can find out. I need to tap your memory of that night.”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I’ve learned via the internet that Walter Pennington died from a heart attack some months after your party, but the info on Megan is scarce. I’m looking for leads, something to link me to her. Do you remember the names of any of the guests?”
“Christ! That was a few years ago. Frankly, Grant, my attention was focused on this fascinating woman. And she was fussing over me, a big league ball player, massaging my ego. I only had eyes for her. Nancy can verify that. She thought I went a little overboard. I can’t tell you much about anything else.”
“I didn’t specifically ask Nancy...”
“Nancy and I talked about it. Besides for the host and hostess, no one made a lasting impression. I didn’t think the guests were colleagues of the professor. There were people from the business world, a politician, someone from the entertainment field. I know that’s not very helpful, but the best I can do.”
I was about to hang up.
“Wait. She asked me if I knew any psychiatrists in Seattle. She had a friend who needed help. I gave her your name. I’d forgotten about that. You probably don’t remember. It was a few years ago. I asked you if any new patients mentioned mine or Megan Pennington’s name. You said you didn’t think so but people didn’t always say who referred them.”
I didn’t remember. Trying to jog my memory I didn’t respond.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. I was trying to remember.”
“Are you in trouble, Grant?”
“I don’t know. I need to sort this all out.”
“You need any help, buddy, let me know.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Holly Christ! I’d been targeted from the beginning.
38
“Don’t forget to bring your husband in with you next time,” I said, to the meek woman as I ushered her out of my office. “He needs to know how this is affecting you. You bring him here and I’ll help you with it.”
She winced
, manufactured a half-smile, the thought of any confrontation painful for her.
When she exited I noticed that my next patient was in the waiting room.
“You can go in, Paula.”
I started to follow her into my office when Bobby stopped me. “Wait! Postman had me sign for this when you were in session.” He handed me a letter which I opened on the way to my office. Jolted as if I’d been clubbed with a 2x4, I braced myself against the wall. Taking several deep breaths I tried to compose myself as I entered my office and closed the door.
Paula sat stiffly, smiled at me.
I collapsed into my chair, dazed, unable to smile back.
“You all right, Dr. Grant?” She looked terrified. She worried I wasn’t in control to help her.
“Yeah, I just had a bit of bad news.” I placed the letter on my desk. “A friend of mine. He’s ill. Seriously.” I lied, came up with something believable. I couldn’t tell her about the letter. “So how did your week go?”
The session was hell. I tried to concentrate and present a concerned, listening expression, but my insides were put through a meat grinder.
As soon as she left I grabbed the letter and raced down the stairs to Carrie’s office. She was on the phone, motioned for me to sit. She hung up. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Megan’s done it. Sent the complaint.”
Carrie read the letter, her expression stony. Setting the letter down, she scratched her head, turned on a smoke-sucking ashtray and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “This is a copy so your professional association has received the original, or will in the next day or so. We knew this was going to happen.”
“I thought I had some time. I just talked with her the other day and I hadn’t submitted the insurance.”
“Maybe she submitted it. I assume the insurance company would need verification from you.”
“Yeah, they would.”
She took another long drag. “I was talking to the assistant DA when you walked in. They accepted our plea bargain. Benson will plead guilty to manslaughter. That frees me up.” She leaned back in her chair resting her head in her hands, her burning cigarette nearly singeing her hair, then leaned toward me and advised in her most serious counseling tone. “We need to nip this in the bud. First thing we do is contact your association, alert them to the complaint, pledge our cooperation, deny that she has any basis, and that she’s angry and is striking out. We ask for their confidential consideration, that they keep it hush-hush so not to tarnish your reputation.” She paused, locked eyes. “Are you sure you want me to represent you. I never handled any of these.”
“Most definitely. I’d take you before Lee Bailey or Clarence Darrow.”
She twinkled her nose. “Megan’s a mature adult, not some innocent child. I don’t think their investigative arm will feel any urgency. And you’re in good standing.”
“There is my DUI.”
“Ironic how many ways that has haunted you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you have no sexual complaints against you. Do you have any enemies on the board, or in the group?”
“None that I know of.”
“Get me the information and I’ll call them this afternoon. I’ll also research the statute.” She put out the cigarette, closed the lid on the astray. “Now you need to bring me up to date. Do you have time now?”
I glanced at my watch. “Yeah, it’s almost noon. My next appointment is at one.”
“Tempus fugit. I’ll call for Chinese take-out.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed them. Where do I begin? “Megan came to see me because she was concerned her sister, Sasha, was going to kill herself. She eventually did...supposedly. In the meantime I got involved with Megan–“
”–had sex with her...outside the office.”
“Yes...um...once inside the office.”
Carrie shook her head as she jotted down notes.
Embarrassed, I could hear the ‘how could you be so stupid?’ thought in her head which she kept to herself.
“If Sasha had the depression, why didn’t you see her?”
“She refused to come in. As Megan put it, ‘her therapist fucked her.’
Carrie dropped her pen, scrunched her face into a question mark. “Am I seeing a parallel here? Sasha is sexually abused by her therapist and now Megan is claiming that she was sexually abused by you.”
I hadn’t put the two together. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but it seems too bizarre to be a coincidence.” She scoffed. “Go on.”
“I said Sasha supposedly committed suicide. Cause of death was an overdose of Zoloft. Detective Rollins seems to think Sasha was murdered and Megan is his prime suspect. There were bruises on Sasha’s face and arms. Two, Sasha only had a fourteen day supply of Zoloft and the toxicology report showed enough to drop a horse as Rollins put it. Three, the second Zoloft container did not have Sasha’s fingerprints on it.” I saw the wheels turning in Carrie’s head.
“And Megan got the Zoloft from you?”
“Possibly. I didn’t give it to her. I think she lifted it from my drug supply. I’m pretty sure I should have more, but with Grace gone I didn’t keep track like I should.”
“So you’re a possible accessory as well.”
“Afraid so.”
“You can expect your drug records to be subpoenaed.” She flipped on the ceiling fan, lit another cigarette. “Are there other suspects?”
“There’s Nick, Sasha’s husband, but he was away in his boat.”
“Witnesses?”
“I don’t know. Megan was at the scene, claimed to have arrived too late. Drove out there because Sasha was threatening suicide.”
“Were there phone records?”
“Yes, several calls.” I sat frozen.
“What?”
“They talked daily. That wouldn’t have been unusual.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“I’ve been wrestling with this for days. I believe that Megan genuinely cared for Sasha. Both parents died early when Megan was eighteen, Sasha sixteen. They were extremely close. Their mother died years before their father and Megan provided much of the mothering for Sasha. All the evidence, circumstantial as it is, points to Megan but what’s the motive? Why would she want to kill her sister?” Smelling the smoke and watching Carrie inhale, I added, “I’m very close to asking for one of those.” I took a deep breath. “Megan’s behavior is what’s so goddamned puzzling about all of this. If she professes to need and love me, wants me to live with her, why would she report me to the ethics committee? I thought I was a pretty good observer of human behavior. The chemistry I felt with Megan was real. I can’t believe she faked it all.”
Carrie gave me a soulful, compassionate look.
“Intellectually, I have to allow for the possibility she murdered Sasha and set me up as her alibi.”
“That you could attest to Sasha’s suicide ideation?”
“Yes.”
“Is she capable of murder?”
“She certainly has a mean streak. She can be very destructive. The letter’s a good example.”
Blowing out a plume of smoke, Carrie licked her lower lip. “You’re in deep doo-doo, Grant. It’s a lot more complicated than the letter indicates. A good offense is sometimes the best defense. I’ll contact your group. But you need to find out as much as you can about this woman. We need to know where we can attack her. If she killed her sister we need to know why. What was her motivation? And, why is she jeopardizing your career if she wants you to live with her?”
“You read my mind. Detective Rollins has asked me to help him get Megan.”
“Then you should if you can
. You need to get out from under the accessory charge and the ethics violation. The sooner, the better.”
“She also told me she was never married, and I heard from two different sources that she was. I’m going to track this down.”
“Good. We have a plan. That’s a start.”
It was close to midnight. I’d been wearing out my keyboard, researching on the internet when my phone rang.
“Are you still up?” Carrie asked.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“I’d been on the internet, seeing what I could find out about your Megan.”
I winced. There was a time when I was proud of that association. Not anymore. “Me, too. Great minds think alike.
Walter Pennington was a pretty renowned psychiatrist. Taught at the University of Chicago, authored two books, The Autistic Child and Treating the Autistic Child. Ran seminars, was on the White House Conference for Children and Youth. Then his career comes to a screeching halt with a sudden heart attack. Here’s the interesting part...”
Carrie was smoking. I heard the extensive exhale as she hesitated.
“...the obit mentions his wife, Megan, but lists no other relatives. And, I’ve practically drawn a blank on Megan Pennington.”
“We’re on the same page. Certainly she would have done something noteworthy married to him.
How does one hide their identity nowadays with the web?”
“Hide or erase? I don’t know.”
“Same with Megan Wilshire. Now I know she’s on this committee of wealthy patrons who help starving artists because I went with her to an artist’s exhibit, but I can find nothing on the internet.”
“You’re going to have to use your private eye skills.” There was a smile in her voice. “Actually that’s why I called. I was remembering when you worked for dad as a private investigator. We had some fun times.”