“I’ve been going through James Hutchins’s medical reports and talking to doctors and psychologists—sometimes I think I’ve talked to every shrink in town.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’ve even tried reading some of those deadly psychology textbooks …”
Diana nodded, hoping she was keeping the fear his words elicited from showing in her eyes.
“And, frankly, Dr. Marcus, I’m very confused about this whole diagnosis thing.” He lifted his hands and turned his palms up. “I just don’t understand how one expert can say a man’s so sick that he’s a danger to himself and others—and another expert thinks there’s nothing much wrong with him at all.”
“You’re talking about John Pumphrey?”
Levine pulled the ubiquitous notebook from his pocket and flipped a few pages. “And Benjamin J. Talcott, M.D.”
“Borderline personality disorder expert,” Diana muttered.
“He’s not?” Levine asked.
Diana stood and took a coffee mug from a doorless cabinet. She filled the cup and placed it before the detective. “Dr. Pumphrey spent three days with James Hutchins,” she said. “I spent three years.”
He nodded his thanks. “So you’re saying you knew Hutchins better?”
“I’m saying that James Hutchins lied.” Diana put cream and sugar on the table and handed Levine a spoon.” It’s part of the disease. People suffering from borderline personality disorder are often quite inventive—and quite believable—liars. ‘Lucid and forthcoming’ is how I think I remember Pumphrey describing James in his report. Pumphrey didn’t know James, so he couldn’t tell.” She had known James, Diana reminded herself, and she hadn’t always been able to tell either. He had obviously failed to mention the rape incident with Ethan, Jill’s reconciliation with Molly—who knew what else. “It can be very tricky,” she added, whether in her own defense or Pumphrey’s, she wasn’t sure. “His diagnosis was probably reasonable, given the information he had.”
“But even your friend …” Levine glanced down at his notes. “Alan Martinson. Even Dr. Martinson said Hutchins might not have borderline personality disorder, that he might only be suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome.”
Diana turned abruptly and picked up the wooden spoon resting on the stove. Despite his claims of ignorance, Detective Levine sounded as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. She stirred the rice, then checked the chicken. She turned and leaned back against the counter. She looked directly at Levine. “You haven’t actually talked to Alan Martinson, have you?”
The detective looked a little sheepish and had the grace to blush slightly. Then he grinned at her. “I just read what he said in the Inquirer.”
“Go talk to Alan,” Diana told him, her confidence growing. “He’ll explain the part of the story that the Inquirer chose not to print. The part about how some of us are starting to think that the label of borderline personality disorder or posttraumatic stress makes no difference. The part about how sick James was either way.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I had terminated with James. He was very angry with me.”
Levine stirred some sugar into his coffee and looked at her thoughtfully. “So Hutchins did the whole thing just to get you in trouble? The Scotch-and-Seconal suicide attempt? The lies to Pumphrey, Martinson—and that other guy, Talcott?”
“Benjamin J. Talcott, M.D.,” Diana said, “never met James Hutchins in his life.”
“But Dr. Pumphrey said—”
“Look,” Diana interrupted. “Pumphrey’s a first-year resident—and James was an extremely smart and manipulative man. It was no contest. James could be very charming when he chose to be. He could present himself as very normal.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“Let me put it this way, Detective. Dr. Pumphrey did a suicidality risk assessment on James and, based on his analysis, determined that there was very little danger that James would kill himself.” Diana raised her eyebrows. “And then look what he went out and did.” She tilted her head and smiled at Levine.
“Except, Dr. Marcus,” the detective said, his eyes locked onto hers, “as it turned out, Mr. Hutchins didn’t kill himself at all—somebody else did.”
Diana felt Levine’s words like a blow. She knew the impact registered in her eyes and she quickly turned to stir the rice. How could she have been so stupid? she berated herself as she removed the chicken from the oven and placed it on the stove. How had she gotten so damn cocky and self-confident that she had forgotten James had been murdered? She had fallen right in Levine’s trap, that was how. And she had shown him how close to the edge she actually was.
Diana jabbed a couple of pieces of chicken with a fork to test them for doneness; the inside was just pink and the juices were slightly opaque. She slipped the pan back into the oven and switched off the heat. “Of course,” she said, turning and trying to arrange her face in as innocent an expression as she could. “What a stupid thing for me to say.”
Levine took a sip of his coffee. “This case is confusing everybody.” He glanced at the clock and leaned back in his chair, as if he were planning to stay for dinner. “You should see poor Mrs. Manfredi.” He shook his head. “She sure is one for your books.”
“James’s landlady?” Diana asked, relieved with Levine’s change of subject. “The one you think might not be ‘all there’?”
Levine sipped his coffee and recrossed his legs. “She suddenly remembers everything—and recognizes everybody. I think if I showed her a picture of Sigmund Freud, she’d tell me that he had been to visit Hutchins right before he was killed—and that he had been fighting with him.” The detective chuckled. “Is there a name for someone who thinks everybody’s a suspect, Dr. Marcus? You guys got one for that?”
Diana dropped back into the chair, suddenly not happy with the turn of their conversation, worried that this wasn’t really about Mrs. Manfredi at all. That this was really about her. Paranoia, she thought in answer to Levine’s question, although she didn’t speak it aloud. Paranoid, just like me.
“Do you know,” Levine continued, leaning toward her, “that Mrs. Manfredi claims that sometime right before the murder, she saw an entire cast of characters fighting with James: the sister, Kruse, the sister’s boyfriend, you …” He paused and put his mug on the table, watching her closely.
Diana nodded for him to go on, as if unconcerned that a policeman had just told her she had been seen arguing with a man “sometime right before” he was murdered. Levine seemed unperturbed; therefore, so would she. Diana swallowed the bile that rose to her throat, wishing she hadn’t promised Mitch not to discuss what they had discovered about Jill and Ethan.
When Diana didn’t say anything, Levine continued, “According to her, a whole bunch of people—including the mailman—were all at Hutchins’s apartment fighting with the him in the weeks prior to his murder.” He shook his head. “She even says your husband was there!”
“My husband,” Diana gasped, glad that she was sitting down. “That’s impossible. Craig doesn’t even know where James lived.”
“That’s why I figure this woman’s going round the bend,” the detective said, glancing at the clock again. “Do you think he’ll be home soon?”
“Craig?” Diana asked, knowing that, of course, Levine was referring to Craig. “You want to know when my husband will be home?”
Levine nodded as if her questions weren’t stupid.
“He’s—” she stammered. “He’s already late. He should have been home about fifteen minutes ago.” Could Craig have gone to James’s? It didn’t seem possible. But the truth was, he could have gotten the address from her files. And he had definitely been angry enough after James had popped up in the back seat of the jeep, causing her to hit that parked car. “If anything had happened to you or the baby,” Craig had said, “I would’ve killed that guy.” Then another thought struck Diana. “How did this Mrs. Manfredi identify my husband?” she demanded.
Levine shrugged. “Oh, you know, I
was just showing her a bunch of pictures, and she was pointing out who she had seen at Hutchins’s and who she hadn’t. Your husband was one of many she claimed to have seen—too many for my taste, I might add.”
“But I don’t understand why you were showing her pictures of Craig in the first place,” Diana said, her blood running ice-cold. “Or where you got them.”
The detective grinned and slowly lifted the coffee mug to his lips. “Just thorough, I guess.”
27
DIANA FELL INTO COMPLETE SILENCE. SHE KNEW SHE should chat, discuss the weather or politics or the environmental crisis, but she didn’t. She just sat at the table and stared mutely into the doorless cabinets, trying to keep herself from fixating on the clock that refused to move, on the doorknob that didn’t turn, on how long she would remain a prisoner in her own kitchen. Levine casually sipped his coffee, seemingly unperturbed by the quiet. They waited for Craig.
After the longest fifteen minutes Diana had ever lived, he finally showed up. “Detective,” Craig said, walking into the kitchen. He draped his jacket over a chair as nonchalantly as if it were an everyday occurrence to find a homicide detective seated at his dinner table. Looking at the small box Levine held in his hand, he asked, “Here for the latest Kruse tape?”
“And a few cups of coffee,” Levine said, lifting his mug and smiling. “Along with some of your wife’s psychological expertise.”
Craig stood behind Levine and raised his eyebrows at Diana; she pretended not to notice. “I think I’ll join you,” Craig said smoothly, walking over to the coffee maker. “Can I pour you some more?”
“I’ve had enough, thanks,” Levine answered. “But I did have a couple of questions for you.”
“For me?” Craig put his coffee cup down on the counter and went to stand behind Diana. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I’d be happy to answer anything that will help solve this case.”
The detective leaned back in his chair. Diana wanted to warn Craig, to prepare him, but she knew there was nothing she could do. “Did you ever go to James Hutchins’s apartment?” Levine asked.
Craig’s fingers clutched Diana’s shoulders for a brief second, then relaxed. “Of course not,” he said, coming out from behind her, his hands held lightly behind his back. “Why would I go there?”
“Someone said they saw you arguing with Hutchins in front of his house.” Levine didn’t move a muscle; his eyes remained glued to Craig’s. “Not long before he was murdered.”
“Then someone is wrong.” Craig was as self-possessed as if he were explaining a design to one of his architectural clients. “I don’t even know where James Hutchins lived.”
“That’s what your wife said.” Levine nodded and stood. “Frankly, I’m starting to think this so-called witness is a little bit suspect.”
Craig offered his hand to Levine. “I’ve heard there are a lot of crackpots out there always wanting to confess or give evidence in big cases.” He smiled winningly. “It must be hard to sort the real ones from the cranks.”
Levine pumped Craig’s hand and chuckled. “And to sort the truth from the lies,” he added. Then he turned to Diana and pulled a notebook from his coat. “Remember you told me how you and Hutchins met accidentally for lunch one day?”
Diana couldn’t move; fear gripped her in the chair. The policeman had been sitting here for almost an hour, but he had waited until this particular moment to bring up this particular subject; whatever was coming wasn’t good. “We met accidentally at the library,” she corrected him.
“Right, right.” Levine flipped through his notebook. “Did you also meet accidentally at the Capitol Theater in Arlington one afternoon this past winter? On January 10, to be exact.”
“You went to the movies with him?” Craig demanded, oblivious of the close scrutiny the detective paid him. “Diana?”
“It—it was a documentary,” she stuttered. “About a woman overcoming childhood abuse.” Diana clasped her hands tightly under the table and looked at Craig for support; but there was none to be found. “It—it was a therapeutic outing,” she tried to explain. “Purely therapeutic …”
Craig stood completely still, staring at her, his face pale and his fists clenched. He said nothing.
Herb Levine nodded. Then he told her he would be stopping by with a warrant to take custody of her printer, wished them bon appetit, and left.
Craig brought the salad and rice to the table. He poured them each a glass of water and sat down, placing his napkin on his lap. “Chicken smells good.”
“I’m so sorry—”
Craig waved Diana’s apologies aside. “It feels weird,” he said calmly. “I’ve never been a murder suspect before.”
“I don’t think you are now.” Diana forked a piece of chicken onto each of their places. “I think this is just Levine’s way of freaking us out.”
“Well, it worked,” he said, then started eating the dried-out chicken and limp salad as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Diana poked at her chicken, then cut a tiny piece and tried to chew it, but it was no use; nothing would go down, and she discreetly spit it into her napkin. Craig was too composed. And too distant. She wanted him to yell, to scream, to cry—to do anything but just sit there, calmly eating his dinner; she needed him to connect with her. “What time’s your plane tomorrow?’ she finally asked, although she already knew the answer.
“I need to be at Logan by one-thirty. But I decided I’ll just take my suitcase into work in the morning and take a taxi from there. There’s no need for you to come get me and drag all the way out to the airport. No point in messing with your schedule,” Craig answered, although she had told him yesterday that her afternoon was free.
“My last patient’s at noon,” she assured him. “It won’t be a problem. I’d like to drive you.” Diana could see from the set of Craig’s face that he wanted to argue, but instead he slumped back in his chair and said nothing. “Nashville’s supposed to be a nice town,” she added. “Weather should be warmer than here.”
Craig agreed, and they talked politely of the clients he would see, the hotel he would stay in, the building he was designing. But it was as if neither of them were really there. As if they were automatons Diana and Craig, playing their parts, saying their lines, while the real Diana and Craig were elsewhere.
They fell into silence, and Diana played with her rice, concentrating on sorting the dark grains from the lighter ones. But the rice was mushy from too much stirring and the kernels wouldn’t separate. She raised her eyes and looked at Craig, at his clenched jaw, at his eyes staring unseeing into the dark alley. She thought of the empty whitewashed room upstairs, of the fantasy mural he was going to paint. Of how happy she had been standing in that room right before she got the call that James had died. She began to cry softly.
Craig turned his eyes from the window, but they remained empty and vacant—just like the nursery. He watched her tears, but didn’t rise to comfort her. He just continued to eat his chicken, saying nothing at all.
Diana swiped at her face with her napkin and stood, dumping her uneaten food into the sink. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed it into the garbage disposal. Turning on the switch, she watched, mesmerized, as the swirling water washed her dinner down the drain. She imagined it spilling into the sewers and traveling under the city until it merged with the sea.
Craig brought his plate over and they cleaned up in strained silence. “If you don’t need me anymore,” he said, “I think I’ll go pack.”
Diana nodded. Pushing a sponge across the already clean counters, she listened to him muttering and slamming drawers and closet doors. When there were no more surfaces to wipe, she went down to her office and turned on her computer. She had to focus. She had to think about something besides the emptiness.
She pulled out her notes and flipped through the introductory section of her article. Finding her place in the document, she ordered herself to write. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her mi
nd wandered to an article she had read in the Globe. It had described a new “humane” program in a women’s prison in New York in which incarcerated women who gave birth were allowed to keep their babies for a year. The program was run much like a kibbutz, the article had explained, allowing visits for nursing and special play hours, but separating the babies from their mothers at night. The women took parenting courses that continued even after their children were placed in foster care. This “humane” program taught mothers how to care for their babies—and then it took their babies away.
Diana pressed her hands to her stomach, searching for the butterfly kick. “Don’t you worry,” she whispered to her child, her voice cracking. “I won’t let them take you away from me.” But she felt nothing under her palm, and despair surrounded her like a shroud.
Although she tried to force her mind back to her research, her heart ached and images of her childhood filled her vision: herself as a four-year-old, skipping along the beach, her tiny hand encircled by her mother’s large, warm one; standing in a boat gliding under Niagara Falls, her head tipped back to catch the spray as Scott and her parents laughed; eating Thanksgiving dinner with the whole noisy extended family clustered around her mother’s not-quite-large-enough dining room table.
Then, in a strange mental juxtaposition, she flashed to sharing a turkey sandwich with James that day at the Public Gardens. She had known it wasn’t quite right, and her every sense had been heightened by the faint aura of wrongdoing. When James’s arm had accidentally brushed hers, Diana had felt the heat of the contact long after it had ended. She imagined she could still smell his cologne.
Craig stopped down around nine and told her he had forgotten something at his office. Diana waited up for him to return, wanting to reconnect with him, to make sure he was still her ally, to convince herself that their marriage wasn’t dead. When he didn’t come home by midnight, she dragged herself up the three flights of stairs and flopped onto the bed. She lay there, waiting. But still he didn’t come. He didn’t return until well after she had fallen into a fitful sleep.
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