by Diane Lawson
Slaughter reached in his pocket for a pair of handcuffs.
“Is this necessary, George?” Mike asked.
“Suspected homicide,” he said. “Protocol. But then, Ruiz, you were never much for rules.”
“It’s okay, Mike,” I said, seeing the man I’d cast as my hero flinch and fold into himself. I didn’t want favors anyway.
Slaughter took his time making his way over, never dropping his misty-eyed gaze or the straining smile. I stood still as he came round behind me, remembering that night with Mike in Richard’s study. I felt a hand on each of my shoulders, felt my heart race, felt the metal dangle cold against my right arm, felt palms slide down to my wrists.
“In memory of Dr. Richard Kleinberg, a fine man and a friend.” Slaughter’s voice quavered. He snapped the cuffs shut, pulling me toward him. “You know, Nora,” he leaned in to my ear. “I love being a cop.”
“Of course you do,” I said, wrenching my neck to watch his face. “It’s an outlet for your sadism.”
“That’s enough,” he said, pushing me hard in the direction of the door. “You have the right to remain silent—though I doubt you have the sense to exercise it.”
He chanted the rest of the Miranda warning as he marched me down the sidewalk to the idling squad car. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Mike, Alex and Tamar on either side, standing on the porch, melancholy shadows. Tamar’s finger still occupied her mouth. Alex gave the slightest wave. For a moment, I was submerged by the horror of what I’d done, but then the blessed numbness kicked back in. The mind is kind.
The squad car stank of human suffering—sweat, piss, snot, puke, shit. I fought down nausea. Making matters worse, Slaughter and his accompanying officer lit up as we pulled away from the curb.
“We have a distinguished psychoanalyst on board,” Slaughter said to the driver. “I say we give her the VIP experience.” He flipped on the lights and the siren.
We took the long way, cruising through my neighborhood, drawing people from their decks and pools and barbeques for a peek at the one they considered themselves fortunate not to be. Slaughter deliberately detoured us down Bushnell, past the Westerman place. I didn’t need the visuals to review the path leading to my spot in the backseat of that SAPD vehicle. No matter how many times I retraced the journey, there was a sense of inevitability at every choice point. Ignoring Slaughter. Hiring Mike. Telling John Heyderman he was in danger. Rubbing Mike in Richard’s face. Going to Mike’s house. Taking the gun. Trying to talk Lance Powers down. Making love to Mike. Changing the locks. Refusing Richard’s attempt at reconciliation. Pulling the trigger. Each move seemed to promise escape. Each escape led to another trap.
“Have a look for old time’s sake,” Slaughter said, as the squad car slowed in front of Richard’s apartment house. He turned to watch me take the jab, then exhaled a stream of smoke in my face.
“Hey! It smells bad enough back here,” I shouted. “Put the cigarettes out.”
Slaughter pushed his face up against the wire separating us. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize you’re not in charge?” He looked at me like he did that first day—brows up, pupils wide with disbelief. “Tell you what though. I’ll share.” He stuck the damp end of his Marlboro through the mesh.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulders, I leaned forward, sucked the smoke deep into my lungs and waited for the soothing buzz to invade my hopeless mind.
Acknowledgments
A Tightly Raveled Mind is a work of fiction. All the characters and incidents are imagined. No reference to any real person (other than our fine chef and restaurateur Andrew Weissman) is intended or should be inferred. Many of the San Antonio locations actually exist (or did), including Central Market, Demos Restaurant, the Olmos Pharmacy, the San Antonio Academy, Trinity University and the Tower Life Building. However, any activities depicted in these settings are entirely fictitious.
I owe my having the courage to take up writing creatively to Gemini Ink, San Antonio’s independent literary arts center and to Nan Cuba for having the vision and determination to birth that exceptional organization. There I took my first writing classes from gifted authors, including Margaret Atwood, Scott Blackwood, Steve Harrigan, David Liss, Deborah Monroe, Antonya Nelson, Grace Paley and John Phillip Santos. I was especially fortunate to have been awarded a Gemini Ink Mentorship with Robert Boswell, who saw the writer in me long before I had that vision.
This novel would not exist had I not been accepted into the MFA in Writing Program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. The two years I spent there learning the craft of writing were as enjoyable as they were transformative. I’m particularly grateful for having amazing author/teachers, the likes of Doug Glover, David Jauss, Clint McCowen, Chris Noel, Sue Silverman, Larry Sutin and Xu Xi. As my Advisor, Ellen Lesser taught me that being cheerleader and incisive critic are not incompatible. I owe particular thanks to Domenic Stansberry, who was gracious enough to serve as my Advisor for two semesters. Domenic taught me that a good mystery writer need possess the knowledge of literature, devotion to craft, and creative rigor equal to any other fiction author. Louise Crowley, the Director of the MFA in Writing Program, deserves high praise for her skillful and empathic administration.
In San Antonio, I was fortunate to be included in a Physician-Writers Group organized by Abraham Verghese. He and the other members of that group offered critique, support and friendship during a crucial period of my development as a writer. Of that group, I owe particular thanks to Lee Robinson and Judy McCarter, both of whom gave my novel lovingly close and thoughtful reads. Abraham himself has been a constant and ongoing presence for my writing—critiquing my work, encouraging me when I despaired, facilitating contacts, and allowing me to share in his own creative process.
Special thanks are due to now former homicide detectives from the San Antonio Police Department: George Saidler, who granted me a most informative interview in the early stages of my book, and Paul Heitzman, who was kind enough to read the novel for realism and consult on technical issues of homicide investigation.
Though he was unable to see this project through to publication, Devin McIntyre of the Mary Evans Agency guided my manuscript through many revisions, ever better thanks to his discerning eye and unfaltering sense of my story’s meaning.
I will be forever grateful to Lee, Bobby, and John Byrd of Cinco Puntos Press for seeing the potential in my manuscript and setting out with such enthusiasm to bring the book into being. Their love of literature and devotion to the publication of good books is a sure antidote to any cynicism toward the current state of the publishing industry.
Several exceptional friends provided support and encouragement through the long gestation of this book: Nancy Borris, Stephanie Cassatly, Prudy and Jacques Gourguechon, Gilbert Hefter, Irwin Hoffman, Kenneth Newman, Harvey Rich, Eva Sandberg, David Scotch, Jacy Cox, and Brenda Solomon, to name a few.
I shudder to think what my life might be had my parents, Lillis and Roy Lawson, not regularly made the fifteen-mile drive to the nearest public library to insure their children the opportunity to develop a love of reading.
My own children, Alejandro and Pilar, are due enormous gratitude for enduring the time commitment, intense focus and preoccupation my writing required of me, to the point that the then-teenaged Alejandro was forced at times to leave the couch to make his own sandwich. I also need to credit them both for many excellent lines of dialogue which I shamelessly appropriated for use by Nora’s children.
And, although he missed out on the actual writing of the novel, my love and companion, Masoud Rasti, deserves much appreciation for refusing to allow me to give in to discouragement in recent years when finding a publisher seemed an impossible task.
Finally, I am grateful to my analyst teachers at the Chicago Institute of Psychoanalysis, who introduced me to the intrapsychic world, and to the many patients who have done me the honor of working along with me over the past thirty-five years, in the process teaching me the wond
ers and complexity of our human nature.
F
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments