by Tom Bierdz
“No, a psychiatrist.”
My title wasn’t any better. Maybe worse. Leaning her hip on her cane, she said, “I told that social worker bitch I didn’t need any goddamned head shrinker. What I need is money, real money, so I can get out of this shitty apartment and live in the manner I’m accustomed. All she gives me is food stamps.” She started to close the door.
I stopped it with my arm. “I’m not here for you; I’m here for me.”
“Talk plain. You sound like Walter, always talking in riddles. Were you a friend of his?”
“No, I’m a friend of Megan’s”
She halfheartedly tossed a book at me which missed by a wide margin and landed on the floor.
“Get out!”
I shot my hands up. “Please! I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I mean to cause you no trouble. I need to get some information about Megan and you’re the only resource I have.” Taking out my wallet, I pulled out a hundred dollar bill and offered it to her. “I’ll pay you for your time.”
Looking at me skeptically while chewing her cheek, she hesitated, then took the money. “Since I’ve nowhere to go.” She stuffed it in her bra, shuffled to a hyacinth blue, fabric sofa, and eased herself down. She turned off the TV talk show with her remote. “What do you want to know?”
I had closed the door and followed her to an adjacent matching chair, observing an empty wine glass on a living room table. I handed her Megan’s photo. “This is Megan Wilshire. I need to know if she is or was Megan Pennington.”
She viewed the photo for only seconds, her face reddening as if it were to burst into flame, then thrust it back to me as if it was burning her hand.
I held it out to her since she had gazed at it so briefly. “Look at it again to be sure”
“I don’t need to look at it again. It’s her.”
The connection confirmed, a cold knife of dull fear went through me. Who or what was I dealing with? “What can you tell me about her?”
Sinister grin. “She’s the devil incarnate! Walter and I were married for thirty years before she came along and shook her tight, little ass. We had a good life. Respected in Academia. We weren’t rich, but we had everything we needed. Had a nice home on the south side near the university, traveled around the world, moved in the right social circles...”
There was a sadness to her voice, yet I noticed a small sparkle in her eyes as she reminisced about the past when her life was brighter.
“Did you know that Walter taught at the University of Chicago, the same school President Obama taught at?” That connection, however tenuous, made her a somebody.
“I can tell you miss the life you had.”
“It’s bad enough the fool falls for a woman almost forty years younger. He has to know it can’t last. What do they have in common? You can’t live on sex alone. But then this conniving bitch fixes it so I’m left with nothing. My forty years versus her forty fucks or so.” She started to cry, unembarrassed.
I spotted a box of tissue, got it and gave it to her.
“Then he dies from a heart attack at 62. He was a healthy man. He had no physical problems. Didn’t even have high blood pressure. I complained to the doctor but he said sometimes it happens like that. Could be stress or some defect he was born with. I think it was sex with a twenty-five year old that killed him. Maybe it serves him right.”
“He didn’t leave you anything?”
“Until she took control he was fairly generous. For the divorce he left me a sizable amount, most of which I lost investing with a man who misplaced my trust. He was in our social circle and turned out to be a small-time Bernie Madoff. Alimony was fair but ended with Walt’s death. Then Miss fancy pants took over and made sure everything went to her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your sympathy doesn’t cut it half as much as the hundred bucks.” She gave me that ‘I’ve lost my pride and can give you a squeezing look’. “If I had it in me to kill the bitch, I would. Jail can’t be much worse than the prison I’m in. I’ve seriously thought about it, but it’s just not in my nature.”
I bled for this woman. She had been shafted. Blindsided. Yet she had to somehow rise above it, stop being the victim. But I wasn’t here to treat her and she wasn’t ready to change. “Anything I can do?”
Flashing the earlier sinister smile, she waved the hundred dollars. “You got another one of these?”
“No.” I checked my wallet, gave her a twenty, which she shoved into her bra with the other money. “How did they meet?”
“I don’t really know. Walter didn’t talk about it. I assumed she took his class or attended one of his lectures. I’m going to have a glass of wine. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
Pushing herself up with her walking stick, she plodded to the kitchen. I heard the slam of the cupboard and refrigerator doors, the gurgle of the pouring wine. She left the empty wine glass on the table. The furnishings were dusty, old but quality, in shades of blue and gray. I pictured how they might have been newer and attractively arranged, in an older home appointed with dark wooden ceiling beams and wainscoting. The clumping sound of her cane alerted me to her return. She eased herself down into her chair, sipped freely from her wine which seemed to brighten her mood.
“Do you know what her maiden name was?”
“God no! I knew her as Megan Collingsworth. I have no idea what her maiden name was.”
“She was married before?”
“Yes. I think his name was Jack. Yes, Jack Collingsworth. He was also a shrink. Seems she gravitated to shrinks.”
That knife of dread did its little twist in me. Nick thought she was married to a Jack. “You said was! He’s dead?”
“Uh-huh. I think it was some kind of heart failure but I’m not sure. How’s your heart, Dr. Garrick?”
Right now it was beating like a son-of-a-bitch.
“I think she killed them both, the heartless bitch, but no one believes me. I’ve pleaded with the police, asked them to exhume Walter’s body. They think I’m a nuisance. A jilted, angry old lady. All I’ve accomplished is to drive her out of town. Where is she now?”
“Seattle.”
“You seem like a nice enough man. I’d stay as far away from her as possible if I were you.”
I thanked Norma, hailed a taxi to my hotel. I got it right from the source. Megan had been previously married, maybe, more than once. She had lied to me. Why? Was it because she didn’t want me probing into her past and learn she offed her husband? I was beside myself. I had learned that before forming any formal diagnosis, I needed to examine all of the facts. At the moment I had a tentative working diagnosis: Megan was a pathological liar with possible homicidal tendencies.
Earlier in the day I thought I’d see a little of Chicago but I returned to my hotel whipped and drained, absent of energy like I’d been shoved into some deep, dark hole, a truckload of dirt pressing down on me. I could hardly breathe. I kicked off my shoes, dropped into bed. Loosening my shirt collar, I forced myself to breathe deeply, forcing oxygen to my brain. I laid there for a long while staring at the ceiling, visualizing Megan’s face, hearing her say, ‘I love you’ and ‘Promise you’ll never leave me’, until I fell asleep.
Hours later I awoke from a dreamless sleep, panicky, in a dark room. The sun had set, and flashing lights from a restaurant across the street bounced panels of pink and green on one of the walls. Pulling myself up, I drew the drapes, took a miniature scotch out of the fridge, unscrewed the cap and swigged it down. The second and last went down just as quickly.
I called room service and ordered a fifth of Abelour, then took out my notepad. Shaking off my self-pity, I got back to work. I pulled up the obituary on Jack Collingsworth. Again, the obit didn’t reference his ex-wife, but it did mention two b
rothers, Colin and Clark, both from Chicago. Fortunately both were listed, but I was unable to reach either one. I left messages saying I needed to locate and talk with brother Jack’s ex-wife regarding Megan and left both my cell and hotel number.
After filling the ice bucket, I poured a stiff one and began my research on Isley Hodges. The Amarillo Globe gave me the lowdown on Dr. Isley Hodges. The newspaper covered it in detail and ran with it for several weeks because it was a juicy story that sold papers. Isley, then twenty-five, a graduate of Texas A&M, working for the Hodges family oil and gas geology company, while prospecting a potential drilling site, met the sixteen year old Bianca Amato. Her family owned the ranch, the surface where the drilling would potentially take place. Isley’s job was to create a partnership between the Hodges company and Bianca’s family, a prerequisite to drilling. All successful partnerships required bonding, thrusting the young people together. Both Isley and Bianca’s families spent time together, barbequing, playing cards, and partying. Isley and Bianca would go off horseback-riding. One thing led to another and Bianca got pregnant. Although sex was consensual Bianca was underage. She was in love and wanted to keep the child, but her parents, learning of the pregnancy, had her abort and filed rape charges. The paper played up the story, accentuating how this much older man sexually abused this young girl by taking advantage of her. After much infighting the Amatos dropped the rape charge. Speculation was that Isley’s family significantly increased the Amato’s profit percentage for a successful oil find. For indeterminate reasons drilling had been delayed and was scheduled to begin later in the year. Isley eventually moved to Seattle to study psychiatry.
Sloshing the scotch in my glass to look like an ocean swell, I recalled the words of the Mariner pitcher from Texas, that Hodges deserved his fate, suggesting he was punished for his sexual abuse of Bianca. Was he run over accidentally or on purpose? There was something about this that nagged at me and I was about to call Carrie to try and sort this out when my phone rang.
“Dr. Garrick, Colin Collingsworth returning your call. I’m happy to give you Melinda’s number.” He paused. “Can I ask what your interest in Megan is?”
“I’m seeking background information on her.”
“Why? Are you police? An insurance investigator?”
“No, I’m a psychiatrist...but she’s not a patient. I was dating her.”
Several beats before Colin said, “Psychiatrist. She seems to have a thing for psychiatrists.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,...let me preface this by saying I’m a happily married man, but that wasn’t true some fifteen years or so when I met Megan. I was divorced, helping my brother out in his practice when his receptionist became quite ill. Megan was a patient and she and I hit it off, dated a couple of times. I was a good ten years older than she, but ten years younger than Jack. I was more her type, better looking than Jack. Outgoing. Jack, God bless him, was a bump on a log. He had the personality of a monk. I don’t know how Megan is now, but she was a Venus Di Milo back then...
...She still is but more dangerous with arms.
“I could never figure out why she chose Jack over me. I thought, maybe, because he was a psychiatrist. And now, you say you’re a psychiatrist.”
“She still is the beauty you remembered, but maybe you were the lucky one. Both of her ex’s were psychiatrists.”
He gasped. “You don’t mean?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
He gave me Melinda Barrister’s number. I called and set up an appointment for the next day.
42
I strolled down Michigan Avenue since I had the morning free and needed to clear my head, and channel my mind to look outside itself. Self-analysis was critical, but I was on overload and Chicago had a lot to offer. Cold, but sunny, a brisk wind blew off of the lake. Raising the collar of my trench coat and buttoning it around my neck, I strolled past the upscale stores and boutiques, window shopping and getting the kinks out of my tense muscles.
Traffic on Lakeshore Drive flowed effortlessly. Crossing at the light, I walked in Grant Park admiring the floral display of brightly colored tulips and flowering crabapple trees. Warmed by walking, I turned down my collar and loosened the first few top buttons. I stopped before the pink marble Buckingham Fountain, considered the gateway to Chicago, and modeled after the Latona Fountain at Versailles. Watching the fountain fill, I wasn’t prepared for the gush of the water spout that shot straight up in the air and sprayed me when blown by the wind. Drenched, I concluded my sightseeing, and returned to the hotel to dry my head and get out of my wet clothes.
Melinda Barrister was an OR nurse who worked at Billings Hospital on the University of Chicago campus, which was on the south side down Lakeshore Drive. I could have chosen a closer hotel as both ex-wives were in that general area but I had wanted to experience The Magnificent Mile that I had heard so much about. After the taxi dropped me off at the Gothic structure, I took the elevator to the third floor where Melinda told me to meet her, ambled to the nurse’s station and asked for her. She had been standing in her scrubs talking to an employee. Hearing her name she approached the counter with a dimpled, cherubic face and a full-wattage smile that radiated energy, greeting me as if I were a VIP.
“I still have one more thing to take care of. Can I meet you in the cafeteria in ten minutes?”
“Sure. Can I get a coffee for you?”
She twisted her smile, “No, it’s too late for coffee. Get me a lemonade.”
Mid-afternoon the cafeteria was quiet with only a few tables occupied with pairs of hospital employees. A single man sat at a table in the corner eating. I assumed someone close to him occupied one of the beds. I wondered who it was and hoped for the best possible outcome.
Soon after I brought the two lemonades to the table, Melinda arrived. She had abandoned her scrubs and wore a lightweight gray sweater and black slacks. She had to be in her mid to late fifties but appeared ten years younger without the crow’s feet around her eyes or the little frown lines at the corners of her mouth. She wore no make-up, yet boasted a rosy glow to her face. I diagnosed her as the epitome of a positive thinker, cheerleading patients, getting them to believe their operation was as simple and uncomplicated as an inoculation.
I handed her Megan’s photo.
She studied it carefully. “You two look very happy.”
“We were...I was back then.”
“It’s a good likeness. That was a number of years ago but I’m sure it is her. Vern and I will be married for twelve years so it was before that, last time I saw her. I understood she married another psychiatrist after Jack died.”
“Yes, he’s dead too.”
“Oh,” She fingered her pursed lips. “I do remember hearing something about that but I didn’t pay it much attention.”
“How did your husband...Jack die?”
“Heart failure. He had a bad heart. Congenital defect. Had a pacemaker for years. I always suspected he would go like that. Suddenly.”
“You didn’t suspect foul play?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “No! Should I have?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Can you tell me how Megan got into the picture?”
She chuffed. “Like all the rest of them. She was Jack’s patient.” She smiled slightly, shook her head. “Jack couldn’t keep it in his pants. He got it on with several of his patients. I don’t really know why I stuck with him so long. I guess it had something to do with old-fashioned values, keeping commitments.” A deep pensive laugh came from down in her throat. “I remember one nasty fight. He had the guile to say he was helping these women by sleeping with them, made them feel attractive and powerful. Maybe he was right about the power part. Megan was too powerful. She was too young and sexy for him. His heart gave out.”
“I�
�m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She did me a big favor. I didn’t have the gumption, the wherewithal, to get out of that dysfunctional marriage. Jack was a womanizer, measured his success by how many patients he could sleep with. It was going to catch up with him sooner or later.” She viewed her lemonade, formed a slight smile as if she just recognized it was there in front of her, and took a swig. “Best thing that could happen to me. I married Vern, the Hospital Administrator. Our marriage is everything a marriage is supposed to be. I couldn’t be happier. I love my job, I’m in a happy relationship, and I also have children now–two boys from Vern’s first marriage that live with us.” Reflectively, she slowly rotated the lemonade glass between her hands. “I can’t have children. I think maybe that’s why I stayed with Jack so long. I felt guilty because I couldn’t give him the son he wanted.”
I wondered if that wasn’t partially why Jack sexually acted out; to compensate for what he considered his manliness. Also to punish Melinda for not giving him a child.
“Are you still with Megan?”
“We’re still sort of connected.” I didn’t know how to describe it without getting into details she didn’t need to know.
She patted my hand. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
She was reassuring me and there was something in the way she communicated her belief that made me want to believe it also. That little bit of business told me she was an excellent nurse and had chosen the right profession.
I thanked her. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“My shift has ended. I’m heading home to whip up something for dinner.”
I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between Melinda Barrister and Norma Pennington. One wallowed in pity, the other moved on and her life was notably richer for it.