“Of course not. Christina would have been too clever to get caught. Too clever and too careful.”
“You don’t doubt these allegations?”
“Not for a minute.”
The psychiatrist hesitated before continuing. “There was another incident. It happened after she went home, but they thought she might have done it anyway. They thought she put something in Ms. Pierce’s eyedrops. Something that caused a
permanent injury.”
Shannon wasn’t given to emotional displays, but he did sit up with a jolt and inhaled sharply. His sallow complexion became a shade paler. “Oh, God. I should have known. I should have tried to do something! Oh, God!”
“Why should you have known?”
“Because of what she said when she came back, as I was driving her home from the bus station. She was sitting on the front seat next to me, very quiet as usual. Wouldn’t say much more than yes or no when I asked about what happened there. And then, all of a sudden, she broke into a smile. Not a very happy smile; if anything, it was kind of vicious. And all she said was, ‘She’ll be sorry.’”
Oblivious to Gottlieb, he seemed to be talking to himself. “I should have known Christina was up to something, I should have tried to warn that woman. But what could I have said? Christina would never have told me what she’d done, not in a million years. But I should have tried to warn her anyway. At least I should have told her to be careful. I should have tried.”
Gottlieb picked up a rubber band from his desk, twisting and stretching it. “I want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly, Mr. Shannon. When I told you about the petting zoo, you weren’t surprised at all. You believed she was quite capable of hurting animals for no reason. And now you’re not surprised to hear she might have caused a serious permanent injury to Ms. Pierce.”
He nodded. “If you’d asked me what she was capable of, I could have told you long ago. I could have saved you the trouble of playing detective.”
Gottlieb let a few moments pass as he continued to play with the rubber band. “So, she was capable of hurting people, perhaps of hurting them very badly. Does this have anything to do with why you killed her?”
Shannon looked away from him and stared out the window,
stared out at the GCFI parking lot and a stretch of the express-
way.
Gottlieb pushed on, harking back to his conversation with Warren Pasternak. “When we do things is as important as why we do them. More so, sometimes. Take you and Christina, for example. There’s the question of why you did it, but there’s also the question of why you did it then. She was pretty much the same, I gather, for quite a while before she died. For practically her whole life, in fact. But one June night, one ordinary night, you killed her. Why then? Why not a month later or two months earlier? Why not last year, or next year?”
Shannon said nothing as he continued to stare out at the parking lot and Expressway.
“There’s a great deal I still don’t know about you,” the psychiatrist went on, “but I think I know you well enough to say that wouldn’t have done it without extraordinary provocation.”
Shannon kept his silence, but he began to chew on his lower lip. He also moved his head from side to side, almost indiscernibly.
“Why are you still protecting her? Does she really merit your protection? Why?”
Still no answer, but the chewing on his lower lip became more violent, and the side-to-side movements of his head began to quicken.
Gottlieb’s professional sense of timing, honed by his decades of experience, told him to push ahead, to offer his patient no avenue of retreat. “That night in June . . . what pushed you to the edge?”
Until now, Shannon had always stayed put in his visits to Gottlieb’s office. He’d parked himself in one of the chairs beside the desk like a docile schoolboy. Rarely did he even fidget. Gottlieb was therefore caught off guard when he stood up now and began to pace, his head bowed, his eyes downcast. From time to time he dug his heels into Gottlieb’s carpeting.
He wants to tell me, Gottlieb thought. He’s almost ready. One more push. “Why then?”
Shannon stopped pacing. He brought his gaze up from the floor and looked at Gottlieb directly, his eyes glazed. “It has to do with Margaret,” he answered. “I just found out she killed her.”
CHAPTER XXII
T HROUGH THE YEARS, GOTTLIEB HAD TRAINED himself to keep from showing much emotion, no matter what his patients threw at him. A man once told him how he broke his grandmother’s fingers, smashing them with a brick during a bad LSD trip. A tormented adolescent put her brother’s pet gerbils in a blender and turned it on, full blast. A woman told him how she caught her husband, a software wizard who made ten million dollars before he’d turned thirty, having sex with the family’s German shepherd bitch. In all these instances, and others like them, Gottlieb maintained his professional persona. He might nod; he might give a tacit invitation to continue; he might say nothing. If he felt astonishment or disgust, if he felt on the verge of tears or laughter, he kept it to himself. He didn’t blush or scowl. He might wince (rarely), but otherwise his face remained a mask. His self-concealment would have done credit to a professional actor.
Even so, in the wake of Shannon’s revelation he had to take a moment to compose himself. “Tell me about it,” he said finally.
His patient sat down. Assuming his docile schoolboy manner, he spoke in his customary way, quiet and deliberate, hands folded on his lap. “It was the first week of June, right after the school year ended. A Saturday afternoon. Christina had gone out. She went on her bike to a 7-Eleven that’s a mile or so from us. I was doing a bit of work around the house, and I’d just taken out a load of laundry. We used to take turns doing it. That week it happened to be my turn. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if it had been her turn. Maybe I wouldn’t be here now. But it doesn’t help to dwell on what might have
happened, does it?” He seemed to expect no answer.
Beads of sweat began to line his forehead. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. “Ordinarily I’d leave the laundry basket in her room and let her put the clothes away herself,” he resumed. “But I was at loose ends that afternoon. Restless. So, mainly for lack of something else to do, I decided to put the things away for her. It’s strange, as I look back on it. I’d never been in her bureau drawers before. I had no cause to be. It’s not that I was looking for alcohol or drugs, or anything in particular.”
He looked at Gottlieb directly. “I don’t know what prompted me to go into that particular drawer, on that particular day. But it’s beside the point. I did.”
Falling silent, he covered his eyes with his hands. Gottlieb prodded him to keep going. “So. You were putting away the laundry.”
“I found a notebook. An ordinary spiral notebook.” He seemed embarrassed. “I make a point of respecting the privacy of others. But I’ll admit, as soon as I saw it, I was terribly curious. Christina had always been such a mystery to me, to both of us. I thought the journal, or whatever it was, might shed some light on her. So I sat down on her bed and read it.”
He stood abruptly and headed back towards the window. “I’ll put this as simply as I can. Reading it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was even worse than when Margaret died.”
“What was in it?”
“Among other things, an account of how she killed her mother.”
Shannon’s eyes welled up, but he didn’t cry. “Do you remember my telling you about Margaret’s diabetes?” Gottlieb nodded.
“They diagnosed her when she was a child. They put her on insulin right away. I didn’t know her then, but apparently she did all right with it. Always the responsible patient, even when
she still in grade school. She gave herself injections regularly, and she followed the diet strictly. She also had an excellent doctor, a pediatrician who specialized in juvenile diabetes. Once in a while she’d overdo it, she’d exercise too muc
h and her blood sugar would drop too low. But she’d drink juice or eat candy, and everything would be all right. By the time I met her, her condition was as stable as anyone could hope for. She knew a good deal about the illness . . . she knew the risk of blindness and kidney failure and the rest of it, and she wanted to stay healthy. I should mention that Margaret was optimistic, much more than I am. She refused to dwell on the bad things that might happen. She believed that if she took good care of herself, ate properly, and paid attention to the doctor, she’d stay healthy. She also was a woman of great faith, a woman who believed that God would always be there for her—that He would help her deal with anything that came along.”
Shannon moved away from the window, sat down again, and continued. “For the last six months or so before she died, Margaret began to have much more trouble with the diabetes than she’d ever had before, even during her pregnancy. No matter how strictly she kept to the diet, no matter how closely she monitored herself, she couldn’t seem to get it stabilized. Her doctor didn’t understand it either. What none of us knew, of course, was that Christina had been playing with her insulin. Emptying part of the vials, filling them up with water. But sometimes, just to keep all of us off base, she left them alone. That way, when Margaret increased her dosage, she would get more than she needed. Her sugar would swing the other way, and she’d become hypoglycemic.”
He paused, as if to summon the wherewithal to go on. “This must sound far-fetched to you, or even ridiculous. Well, maybe not so ridiculous after what that camp director told you. It’s simply not that hard to tamper with someone’s medicine. Besides, Christina was very smart. I’m sure you’ve gathered that by now. And she knew a lot about her mother’s illness.
She’d been exposed to it all her life.”
He paused again. “So that’s how it went, for weeks, for months. Margaret’s sugar would shoot up, and then it would be okay, and then it would drop down, and then it would be okay again. She began to have symptoms she’d never had before. Numbness in her hands and feet—neuropathy, you call it? Ulcers on her heels. She was always tired, no matter how much she slept, and she never slept well. Her vision started to deteriorate. At times she’d get confused. She couldn’t concen-trate on things. You’re a doctor, you know about diabetes, you know how devastating it can be.”
Gottlieb nodded but said nothing. He didn’t want to break the flow.
“I started making calls to 911. I started bringing her to the ER. I took her to other specialists. An eye doctor, a skin doctor, a neurologist. They did their best, and I’m sure they all were competent, but how much could they really do?” His eyes welled up again.
“And then?”
“And then Christina called me at work one afternoon, which she almost never did. She was still at home, on Christmas break. December 29. She said she’d just called 911. Margaret had gone into a coma. By the time they brought her to the hospital it was too late. The ER doctor pronounced her DOA.”
For the first time since Gottlieb had met him, Shannon began to cry—quietly (except for a few choked sobs, he made no sound at all) and with obvious embarrassment. Gottlieb handed him a Kleenex from a box on his desk, which his patient accepted without looking at him.
“And all that was in the spiral notebook?” Gottlieb asked finally.
“All that and more.”
“What exactly did she write?”
“I’d tell you, but you’d think I was making it up. You should
read it for yourself.”
“Where’s the notebook now?”
“At the house. There’s a small space behind the fuse box in the basement, just to the right of the washer and dryer. I put it there.”
He suddenly sounded tired. More than tired; he sounded as exhausted as anyone that Gottlieb had ever talked to. Like a man who could sleep around the clock for days on end. “My sister has a key to the house. Ask her for it,” he gave instructions in a hollow tone. “Tell her I want her to meet you there and let you in.” His voice had trailed off into a whisper.
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he concluded. “I feel talked out.”
Gottlieb nodded. He stood up, walked over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you back to your room.” As soon as he got back to his own office, he called Rita.
⸎
Gottlieb had a light afternoon, by his standards. He finished in his office at a quarter after five. As soon as the last patient left, he headed off to seek Christina’s notebook. Slightly more than half an hour later, he pulled up to the small beige-shingled ranch where the Shannons had lived, the house where both Margaret and Christina died.
Rita Tierney was waiting for him, leaning against her car. She shook hands with him in a dutiful manner, and they walked to the front door. “I don’t understand what this is all about,” she protested.
“Your brother mentioned something he found by accident, something Christina wrote. It might have a bearing on what happened. It might also be important when he gets to court.”
“Do you think it could help him?”
“Possibly.”
“All right,” she sighed. She reached into her purse, pulled
out a key, and let him in. “I’ll wait outside for you.” She
regarded the house with unconcealed loathing.
He was surprised to find the Shannons’ living room rather cheerful. Orange and lemon slip covers on the chairs and sofa, yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper. A few watercolors of floral arrangements, mainly roses and daisies. A small bookcase containing a Bible, a dictionary and several volumes about Ireland. It also held an illustrated book on San Francisco. Gottlieb recalled his patient’s account of their honeymoon.
There were knickknacks. Vases and dishes, a pewter dog and cat, a hurricane lamp, a music box. Family photos. Among these was a small color photo of Christina, in a gold frame, next to a Waterford candy dish. The photo captured a girl of eight or nine, quite beautiful but serious and distant, a child ill at ease in the camera’s eye.
The house already had the smell that comes with prolonged vacancy, a smell of dust, stale air and mold in a place where no doors or windows had been opened. A smell intensified by the hot, humid summer.
Gottlieb went quickly through the rooms, looking for the door to the basement stairs. He found it in the kitchen next to the fridge. The steps creaked as he descended. At the base of the stairs, he felt along the wall in near-complete darkness, trying to locate a light switch. When he found it, a sixty-watt bulb lit his way to the washer and dryer. Just above it was the fuse box. A small gap existed between the fuse box and the wall, just large enough for a six-by-nine-inch notebook.
He pulled out the book and went upstairs. A few moments later, he rejoined Rita in the small front yard. He patted the notebook. “I found it.”
“Anything else you need, I’d appreciate it if you took it now,” she bit the words off. “I’d just as soon not come back here. Suppose we’ll have to, though, if things don’t go well for Jimmy. We’ll have to get it ready to put on the market.”
“No, I don’t need anything else just now.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“All right.”
They walked together to their cars. As she was about to get in, she turned to him. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt. It’s not you, it’s the house. I hate that house, I hate what happened there. I wish it would burn down.”
“I can see where you would.”
“Well, then.” She shook hands with him, a bit less coolly than when he’d arrived. Then she pointed to the notebook. “I hope it’s useful. In any case, thanks for trying to help him.”
She got into the car and drove off without looking back.
⸎
Gottlieb sat in his own car, the notebook in his hand, barely able to contain his curiosity. In half an hour he could read it at home, in the comfort of his living room, but he didn’t want to wait that long. The summer twilight still made it bright enough for him
to read it in the car. He took off his sports coat, folded it on the seat next to him, and opened the notebook.
Things to do Saturday
change sheets make bed clean bathroom sink
empty wastebaskets take back library books
start history project . . .
Notes for history report on Pres. Andrew Johnson
born in Raleigh No. Carolina 1808
humble beginnings, didn’t go to school at all
worked as tailor’s apprentice
married a school teacher who taught him how to read & write
started political career in Tennessee-House of Representatives
a Southerner who opposed slavery & favored Union . . .
It’s so nice to sleep late on Sun. & lie in bed while they go to Mass. Why do they do it, why do they bother?? What do they get out of praying to that man, & do they really believe he’s the son of god? Can they really be that stupid?? She’s more stupid than he is, even. Jesus this & Jesus that. It’s enough to make you want to throw up!!
Wed. night, good program on cable about Fr. Revolution. Would like to have been there watching when they sent 1000s of people to the guillotine. Must remember to look up more about guillotine in school library, but they probably won’t have too much on it, too gory for children. What did it feel like to let go of blade & watch it come down? What was it like to lie there & wait for the blade & actually hear it coming?
On the bottom of the page, in careful detail, she’d sketched a guillotine.
Mommy had another episode last night. Rapid breathing, & it was hard for her to catch her breath. She was sweating like a pig even tho it was pretty cold, in the 50s. She’s not walking too well either, needs a cane now. She tried to explain it. Neuropithy, she called it. The nerves in her feet aren’t right because of the diabetes. It’s really neat to see how taking away just a bit of insulin has such a big effect . . .
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