“That’s ridiculous,” Diana said. “And it isn’t true.”
“Then how come you convinced her that she was with you?”
“I never convinced her of any such thing,” Diana sputtered. She looked at Adrian. “You know full well I’d never do anything like that.”
“Oh, right,” Jill said, waving her hand dismissively. “You had nothing to do with creating your own alibi.” She leaned even closer to Diana, pushing her face so near that the gin on her breath made Diana recoil. “Do you want to hear the really interesting part?”
“Stop it, Jill!” Adrian ordered.
“The really interesting part is that when I went through Sandy’s appointment book, I couldn’t find any entry for that particular day—and you and I know, Dr. Marcus” —Jill’s smile was wide, smug, and full of hatred—“that Sandy would never miss an appointment with you, her idol.”
“Of course there was no appointment in her book,” Diana snapped. “She didn’t have an appointment—”
Jill continued as if Diana hadn’t spoken, all pretense of cordiality gone. “No one ever forgets an appointment with the perfect therapist,” she spat at Diana. “Not the most perfect one!”
Adrian touched Diana’s arm. “Go,” he said, his voice low and insistent. “Now.”
But Diana didn’t move. “Why are you doing this?” she asked Jill.
“You don’t know the half of it.” Jill’s laughter was tinged with hysteria. Her eyes gleamed with hatred. “You don’t know the half of what I’ve done to you.”
“Diana,” Adrian pleaded.
“What?” Diana demanded, beyond caring about anything but the danger Jill’s madness posed to her. “What other half?”
“Your journal. Detective Levine.” Jill’s voice began to rise and Adrian put his hand on her arm. She shook it off with disgust. “I’ve had a lot more to do with your troubles than you’ll ever—”
“Jill,” Adrian said sharply.
“Why, I even knew you’d be in here spying on us.” Jill continued as if Adrian hadn’t spoken. “Sandy told me you’d come.”
Diana gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “What have you done?”
“You killed my brother,” Jill said, her voice suddenly soft, but somehow even more ominous. “You killed James, and I’ve been doing everything I can to make you pay.” She placed her fingers on the table and leaned toward Diana again. Her breath was foul, but this time Diana didn’t move. When Jill began to speak, her voice was barely a whisper. “Who do you think got her dear, sweet friend Ida Manfredi to babble to the cops?” she asked, beginning to chuckle softly. “Who do you think stole your precious journal and sent copies to the Inquirer? Or told Mr. Fake Friendly Detective to look at the end where you implicate yourself in spades?”
“What at the end? What are—”
“And don’t think I’m going to stop,” Jill continued, speaking between hysterical cackles. “I won’t stop until your life has been ruined just like you ruined James’s!” Her laughter broke into tears, and she began to sob quietly. “Just like you ruined mine …”
Adrian rose from his chair and knelt by Jill’s side. He gently wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay, baby,” he murmured, rubbing her back. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It’ll never be okay,” Jill wailed. “It’ll never stop hurting,” she sobbed into Adrian’s shoulder. “It’ll never go away.”
Adrian held Jill more tightly and kissed her brow. He looked up at Diana. “Do you think you could go now?” he asked.
Diana stumbled out the door. She stood, stunned, on the sidewalk, unable to remember where she had parked the jeep, unable to comprehend the full impact of all she had just heard. Confused, she looked around her, trying to ground herself in some reality she could grasp. A Salvation Army Santa swung his bell on the corner, indifferent to the fact that no one was putting money in his bucket. A large woman, overdressed and smelling of far too much perfume, elbowed her way between a group of teenage boys wearing dark leather jackets. The gang strutted toward Diana, but still she didn’t move. For a moment she was encased in shoulders and darkness and marijuana-tinged body odor; then she was in the open again, staring into the street. A screech of tires jolted her, and she watched in dazed surprise as a car and a truck came to a simultaneous stop—about two inches from each other and about a foot from her.
Stepping backward until her coat touched the cold facade of the building, Diana pressed herself into the brick, relishing the iciness as it seeped through to her skin. Harder and harder, she twisted her shoulders and head until her shoulder blades hurt and her hair felt as if it were being ripped from her scalp. But it was okay. It was just physical pain, and nothing on a purely physical plane could possibly match the despair within her. A despair that threatened to engulf her, obliterate her. Jill would never make a plausible suspect. For Jill was far too grief-stricken and crazed over James’s death for anyone ever to believe that she had killed her brother. And moreover, Diana knew that Jill had not; she had seen it in her eyes.
Diana felt as if she had been turned inside out, as if the innermost part of her being was raw and exposed, just waiting for execution. She stepped from the building, and the physical pain disappeared. She pushed backward again.
A chill wind ruffled her hair, carrying the scent of winter. She glanced upward and recognized the low white-gray sky. The first snow of the year was inside those clouds. Her gaze returned to the street, and as she watched the world going about its business she wondered how soon it would be before she had no business to go about at all.
29
IT WASN’T UNTIL DIANA REACHED THE CORNER OF MASS Ave. and St. Stephen Street that the world began to return and she realized she had no recollection of her drive from Central Square. Slowly, as if emerging from under water, she became aware of the low rumble of the car stopped next to her, of a horn honking on the other side of the street, of two women chatting as they stepped into the crosswalk in front of her idling jeep. Diana blinked. Dusk was beginning to fall, and she was freezing.
It was over. She had come to the end of the line. Jill was not a plausible suspect. Craig was furious with her. And Herb Levine was soon going to knock on her door with an arrest warrant in his hand.
Still, despite the gathering gloom, Diana found herself fighting against the inevitable. Jill might be a lost cause, she thought as she pulled the heat lever to high, but what about Ethan? There had to be something that would impress Levine with Ethan’s viability as a suspect. Staring out the window, she was hit with an ugly, tempting thought. She could plant something incriminating in her notes. She could write that Ethan had stayed late one afternoon, after everyone else had left, and broken down and confessed to killing his girlfriend. She would tell Levine that she had been horrified at the time, of course, but doctor-patient privilege had kept her from going to the police.
An insistent horn from behind brought Diana back to reality, and she threw the jeep into gear. No, she thought, it was a completely contemptible idea. She couldn’t blame a man for a murder he possibly didn’t commit. It was disgusting of her to have even considered it. Plus it wouldn’t work anyway. The same laws of confidentiality that had held then would still hold now.
As she walked into the house and hung up her coat, Diana’s thoughts turned to Sandy; she wondered why Sandy had suddenly decided she had had an appointment with her on the afternoon of James’s murder—and why now. Although Sandy had had a few minor delusional episodes in the past, if she insisted that she had been at Diana’s despite the fact that it wasn’t recorded in her day-timer, if her delusion could stand up against such irrefutable evidence, then Sandy was in worse shape than Diana had thought.
She went into her office and dialed Sandy’s apartment, letting the phone ring for what seemed an interminable time. Finally Sandy picked it up, breathlessly explaining she was in the middle of her exercise routine,
but would be able to take a break when she finished her abdominals. Diana asked her if she could stop by her office; Sandy readily agreed to come over as soon as possible.
Relieved, Diana went to the file cabinet and got Sandy’s records, hoping for clues on how best to handle the situation. Sandy loved attention and acted as though she was entitled to it, based on her beauty. But Diana knew that this facade of self-confidence hid a frightened and lonely little girl who really thought of herself as ugly and stupid—and unlovable. Sitting in her chair, she tapped the back of her pen on the open folder and waited for Sandy to arrive, trying to remain focused on Sandy’s troubles, not on her own.
But despite her earlier dismissal, the thoughts about Ethan that she had had in the car wouldn’t stay away; the idea was just too persistent—or perhaps her desperation just too great. Diana strained to remember her ethics course. If someone’s life was endangered, the need to inform took priority over doctor-patient privilege. Protection of the victim overrode confidentiality.
Her mind whirled with possibilities, and she could hear the blood pounding through her ears. Perhaps she could say that Ethan had left a message threatening to kill her with a shotgun? No, that wouldn’t work because she, the victim, would already be informed. But if Ethan left a message threatening Sandy, then Diana would be forced to tell Levine and show him Ethan’s previous murder confession in her notes. That, combined with the incriminating girlfriend-shotgun story, would rekindle the police’s search for him—as well as incriminate Ethan in James’s murder. She twirled in her chair and stared into the alley; darkness was already embedded in its corners, although the time was barely five. It might just work.
No, she told herself, snapping the blinds shut, it was out of the question. She was not going to falsify records, she was not going to lie about phone messages, and she definitely was not going to malign a possibly innocent man.
Sandy showed up in a sweatsuit that had obviously been hastily thrown over her workout clothes. “I came as fast as I could. Just had to finish up a couple more repetitions,” she said as soon as she entered the office. Then she hesitated, standing uncertainly behind her usual chair. “You did say that you needed me, didn’t you?” she asked, twisting a slightly damp piece of hair.
“Yes, I did.” Diana nodded solemnly. “I need your help.”
Sandy’s chest puffed out with pride, and a radiant smile illuminated her beautiful face. She sat down and looked expectantly at Diana.
Diana steepled her fingers and pressed them to her upper lip. “I saw Jill Hutchins today,” she said, looking directly at Sandy. “And something she said confused me.”
“You talked to Jill?” Sandy was obviously surprised.
“And she claimed you told her you were with me the afternoon of James’s murder.”
“Yeah.” Sandy inspected her fingernails. “She’s been talking a lot about it lately. Grilling me. Sort of obsessive like, I guess.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Sandy frowned. “Because she hates you.” She looked up at Diana apologetically.
“It’s okay—no one’s liked by everybody,” Diana said. “Why else do you think she’s doing this?”
“She thinks you killed James and doesn’t want me to give you an alibi. She doesn’t want me to go to the police because she wants you to be punished.” Sandy grabbed her purse from the back of her chair. “But I know it’s not true. I know you’d never do anything like that—and I can prove it.”
“You can?” Diana asked, hope rushing through her in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible just a few minutes ago.
“It’s in my appointment book.” Sandy pulled her day-timer from her purse and began flipping through the pages. “I have it right here. I always write down when I’m going to see you. Look,” she said proudly, pointing to October 15. “Dr. Marcus,” it said. “Two o’clock.”
Diana stared at the notation, her heart pounding in her ears. She knew Sandy had not been in her office on the afternoon of October 15. She knew Sandy had added the entry just recently—obviously after Jill had pointed out its absence. But there it was in front of her: her alibi, her salvation.
“Jill’s wrong,” Sandy said, pulling her face into a pout. “She never wanted James to like anyone but her.”
Diana nodded, impressed with Sandy’s perceptiveness. “Don’t you think it’s possible that you might have made a mistake?” she asked gently, trying to assess the strength of Sandy’s delusion. “Just this one time?”
“Can’t be a mistake.” Sandy’s voice was emphatic. “I know that for a fact.”
“How can you be so positive?”
Sandy clicked the latch on her day-timer a few times, then looked up at Diana, her expression sheepish and childishly appealing. “I count them.”
“Count them?” Diana repeated, not sure she had heard Sandy correctly. “Count what?”
“I know you’re going to think I’m stupid and immature …”
“I’d never think that,” Diana said, a flood of warmth for Sandy pouring through her. Underneath all that damage, Sandy was just a little girl trying desperately to make people like her, trying to keep them from leaving her.
“I always write down the times I see you because I count them,” Sandy mumbled. “I keep track of them so that I’ll know when you start to get tired of me—or are trying to get rid of me. I even sort of have a chart.” She lifted her head and stuck out her chin. “And that’s how I know that the appointment really happened,” she added, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.
Diana watched Sandy carefully. It was obvious Sandy was completely convinced of the truth of her words—and that, because of her conviction, she would make a compelling witness. That was the thing about a true delusion. The person suffering from it wasn’t lying; he or she was certain of the veracity of their memory. But Diana also knew that a person who believed in this kind of delusion was also quite ill: sick and fearful and confused. Sandy was her patient; Sandy trusted that Diana would do what was best to help her, the patient—not herself, the doctor.
Sandy fiddled with her clothes and her hair for a few moments, not raising her eyes. “I’d never make a mistake about an appointment with you.” She played with the clasp on her day-timer. “I’m always very careful. Always.”
“Sandy,” Diana began and then stopped. The battle raging within her caused nausea to twist her stomach. She paused to let the wave of sickness pass, knowing there was no way she could ever consciously hurt this woman. “Sandy, it’s okay to make a mistake.”
“I know for a fact that I was here that afternoon,” Sandy answered quickly, but with less certainty. The telephone began to ring, and Sandy looked at Diana questioningly.
“The machine will get it,” Diana said. “What else do you remember about that afternoon?”
“We talked about my father.”
Diana hesitated for a long moment. “Not that day,” she finally said, her sense of both relief and disappointment at her victory over self-interest so powerful it caused her voice to break. “Don’t you remember? We met after James’s funeral,” she said gently. “We talked about your memory of your dad and that Red Sox game.” Diana reached into her drawer and pulled out her appointment book. “Look,” she said, flipping to October 15. “The afternoon’s empty.”
Sandy let her hair cover her face. “I thought we talked about it that day,” she whispered.
“I only wish we had.” Diana sat back in her chair, exhausted from her internal battle, unsure whether she was the victor or the vanquished.
“But—but it’s just that it’s not like me,” Sandy said, wringing her hands. “You know how I can get a little obsessive about things …” She glanced furtively at Diana, then her eyes began darting around the room. Suddenly she jumped from her chair and stood behind it. She gripped the back cushion tightly, as if using it for protection.
“Sandy,” Diana said, standing and starting to walk toward the frightened woman. “W
hat—”
“Don’t come any closer!” Sandy cried, holding the chair even more tightly, her knuckles turning white. “You—you made me lie.”
Diana stopped walking. She stood completely still, her hand resting on the edge of her desk in a casual gesture. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’m not going to touch you. If you don’t want me to come any closer, then I won’t.”
Sandy backed slowly toward the door, horror contorting her beautiful face. “You were the best person in the world. The one I admired the most,” she said, her voice registering both fear and disappointment. “I—I wanted to be like you. To be you. And now … And now …” She leaned over, pressing her day-timer to her stomach. “I feel sick,” she moaned.
“Sandy, honey,” Diana began.
Sandy shook her head and started to cry. “How could you?” she asked plaintively. Then her eyes became wild, full of terror at the horrible truth she thought she saw before her. “How could you kill James?” she screamed, and ran out the door.
Diana was stunned into immobility. She just stood there, motionless, her hand clutching the edge of the desk. The pain she had experienced on the street in front of Ken’s was nothing compared to the dark despair that flooded her now. She had failed everyone.
Then her paralysis loosened, and she followed Sandy down the hallway. “Stop!” she called when she reached the open door. “You’re wrong. You don’t understand!”
But Sandy ignored her, running from her in terror, flying across the alley. Sandy stumbled, fell, then righted herself as she lunged for her car. She grasped the door handle and pulled it, then frantically pawed through her purse and thrust her keys into the lock. Suddenly she stopped and stood statue-still, her tear-streaked face haunted and pale.
Diana didn’t move. She didn’t call out, afraid to startle the terrified woman, afraid of what Sandy might do. But all Sandy did was turn and vomit violently into the trash barrel.
Blameless Page 28