Fatal Analysis (GG02)

by Tom Bierdz

  She paused, her face on the verge of tears. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she offered a rue smile and continued, “Sasha had a dark side. We all have a dark side, but Sasha’s dark side gripped her and never let her go. There were many reasons for her depression, outside forces that were just too powerful for her, and caused her to finally give in. I’m not going to talk about them. I just want all of you to know that there are resources, places and people you can go to for help. You don’t have to end it like she did.” Tears spilled out. She choked up. “Maybe if I’d gotten there sooner...” Her body wavered, then dropped to the floor.

  “She’s fainted!” someone shouted.

  I dashed to her side, followed by the clergyman and others. I revived her, lifted her up. The clergyman and I both took an arm and escorted her out of the church. The showers had returned so the clergyman stayed with her while I darted for the car, and drove it next to the church where he helped Megan enter the car.

  I wanted to take her home but Megan insisted she stay for the burial. She seemed to be recovering so we remained in the car and waited for the crowd to disperse and line up for the cemetery, then joined the caravan, our windshield wipers clearing the way.

  The small cemetery stood at the edge of a park. Approaching it from the far side, between the tall firs in the rain, gave the scenic drive a gauzy, otherworldly feel. A tarp provided cover for the most immediate family members; the others huddled under umbrellas. The coffin, with Sasha’s remains, was perched upon the casket lowering device. The pastor recited a few prayers, including the ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ refrain.

  I observed Nick as he bit his lip and sniffled, fighting to hide the tears that streamed down his face. He stood a little over six-feet with penetrating brown eyes, thick chestnut brown hair, and a neatly trimmed, close-cut beard that adorned his weathered face. He cut a trim figure in his suit. Even if he was a wife-beater and womanizer, he was grieving and his demeanor convinced me that Sasha still held a special place in his heart. A sister clutched his hand to console him. Some people were good at masking their real personalities but he didn’t seem like a man who would kill his wife.

  Several sets of eyes intermittently darted to Megan as she steadied herself on my arm. They were curious about this woman who they knew only by whatever information they had been fed by Nick and his family, and by her heartfelt speech about Sasha.

  Megan held it together until the casket began to lower and the cleric quoted Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The grave is but a covered bridge from light to light, through a brief darkness.”

  Once the crowd began to disburse and the pastor had Megan’s attention, I approached Nick. “I just wanted to say I am sorry for your loss.”

  Furrowing his eyebrows in a questioning look, he asked, “Should I know you?”

  “No. Grant Garrick,” I said, offering my hand.

  “Did you know Sasha?”

  “No, her sister.”

  A look of recognition. “That’s right. You’re with Megan. At least you have the manners and wherewithal to offer your condolences.”

  “Well, she...”

  “Don’t defend her, Mr. Garrick, that cold bitch doesn’t need your help. She manages to destroy anyone close to her. Take my advice and get as far away from her as soon as you can, before you become another one of her casualties.”

  He walked away leaving me stunned.

  Megan joined me. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing. I just offered Nick my sympathy.” Nothing I could share with her right now, but it was the opposite of nothing. Why would Nick say that to me especially today?

  “He never deserved Sasha,” she said, taking my arm and heading for the car. I opened the umbrella.

  “I can drive again,” she said, taking the keys. Instantly, as if she had been tapped by a magic wand, Megan’s demeanor changed. All signs of sadness or any other grieving emotions disappeared. She refused to participate in the luncheon at Nick’s. She suggested we have lunch at the club and play tennis later.

  I begged off, stating I had to get back to the office. That wasn’t true as I had cancelled all my appointments thinking Megan needed me. But I needed me more. I needed to try to make sense of what I heard and experienced.

  “I thought the ceremony, all of it, simple and nice. You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t commented on my speech.”

  “Well,” I hesitated, considering how I wanted to express myself. “It was heartfelt. Meaningful. I don’t think people knew how close you and Sasha were until you shared that with them.”

  She flashed a full-wattage smile. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Back at my office, I called for a Chinese food delivery for Bobby and me. We ate at my desk. There was no conference room. The kitchen was in the middle of being rehabbed, it’s progress stopped with Mike McBride’s heart attack. He was a skillful carpenter and liked to work with his hands. Sometimes I thought he preferred it to lawyering. I never used the kitchen so I didn’t mind its current state. Our other eating options were around the coffee table in my office or at Bobby’s desk.

  “Fuck the chopsticks,” Bobby said, digging into the Cashew Chicken and Cranberry Chicken cartons and spooning them onto a paper plate. “I didn’t expect you back today.”

  “I need to get a report out for the court,” I lied.

  “How’s Megan?” he asked, shoveling in a mouthful of food.

  “She’s hanging in there.”

  “Do you think I should call her?”

  “Sure. You know her.”

  “I mean, today, after the funeral.”

  “She’s got caller ID. She doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to.”

  “This cranberry chicken is good shit.”

  I smiled at the oxymoron. “Megan wanted to play tennis today. What do you think about that? Her wanting to play tennis right after her sister is put into the ground?”

  Bobby chewed, thought about it. “I don’t know. Seems weird. Yet it’s probably a good way to get rid of the anger and pain.”

  Maybe, but I wasn’t buying it. It seemed totally inappropriate.

  “At school we haven’t started with any of the Chinese dishes. Down the road we’re doing Peking Duck.”

  I heard the door open, then Carrie entered the room carrying a package. “Postman delivered this to the wrong office.”

  I took it. “Ink cartridge for the copy machine.”

  Carrie unwrapped the chopsticks and scooped up a mouthful of Cashew Chicken. “Yummy,” she said.

  “I could call in an order for you,” Bobby volunteered.

  “She’s done. That mouthful is all Carrie ever eats for lunch. She eats like a bird.” I said. “Sit down. Join us.”

  “How was the funeral?” she asked, sitting.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Like all funerals I guess.” Except it really wasn’t. It was Megan’s sister’s funeral and had several highlights that I wouldn’t mind discussing with Carrie, but not now. I needed to sift and winnow first. “What do you think about Megan wanting to play tennis this afternoon? Bobby seemed to think it was all right.”

  Carrie gave Bobby a look. “Are you kidding? I’d want to be alone or clinging to someone special. Maybe, even go to bed and hide under the covers. But then, I’m one of those who can’t tolerate the loud parties after the burial. I understand they serve a purpose, but they’re not for me. But playing tennis seems so unfeeling.”

  “But it’s a way to release the pain,” Bobby said, defending himself.

  “Not my way, but different strokes for different folks,” Carrie said, standing. “I got to get back.”

  Bobby cracked open his fortune cookie. “A new challenge is near. It must refer to my cooking test coming up,” Bobby said. “Open yours.”

  I did. It read, “Back away from individuals who are impulsive.” I turned the conversation over to the Mariners. Bobby and I lingered a little longer.
>
  Bobby called Megan from the office phone to express his condolence.

  “Get your ass over here, big boy, I’m horny,” she said, answering the phone.

  “It’s Bobby, but I have been known to quench the fire.”

  Megan gulped. “Sorry, Bobby, I saw the number, expected Grant.”

  Bobby laughed. “You just dashed my hopes. I called to say I was sorry about your loss.”

  “Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it. And a little laughter is exactly what I needed now. Bye.”

  17

  “June, I just know you’re going to do well. You’re well-prepared and people like you when they get to know you,” I said, exiting my office with Mrs. Merriweather, who suffered from social phobia. She was scheduled to lead a book report at her book club where she barely talked for the six months she belonged. Afraid of being laughed at or humiliated, this was a big step forward for her. Getting through the session without bombing would be a building block.

  “You really think so?” she asked, needing reassurance.

  “I know so,” I said, smiling and putting my hand on her shoulder.

  She straightened her body and walked a little more erect, waving to Bobby as she left.

  As I followed her out I saw Gregory sitting in the waiting room, nervously pulling on his right ear.

  He smiled sheepishly.

  “What are you doing here, Greg?” We didn’t have an appointment and I expected Greg to be back in school.

  “I need to see you,” he said, looking expectantly.

  “This young lady here is next,” I said, motioning toward her with my head. “I can see you after.”

  “Okay. I can wait.” Knowing he would be seen had a calming effect.

  “This is pretty cool,” Gregory said, scanning the room. “Much nicer than any of those other places.” He sat on the couch, shifting positions several times to get comfortable. “Feels different.”

  I smiled. “How did you get here?”

  “Bus.”

  “What is it that couldn’t wait a couple of days?”

  He watched his foot draw circles in the carpeting. “My mother came to see Mr. Gutierrez,” he said, still looking down.

  I waited.

  He raised his head. “She wants me home.” He looked as if he learned of a death in the family.

  “Usually going home is the goal but I’m sensing you’re not ready.” I didn’t know much about Mrs. Liendecker, but I suspected she was receiving public funds for Greg that probably stopped when he went into the group home. I hoped money wasn’t the motivating force to have him home.

  “Right. I’m getting along now at the group home and adjusting to the new school. I’m afraid if I go back home I’m going to lose it again.”

  “You and your mother?”

  “All of it. One thing leads to another.”

  “Did you tell your mother you weren’t ready to come home?”

  He shook his head. “When she said she was going to talk to Mr. Gutierrez about it, I didn’t say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled on his ear. “I didn’t want to get into it with her?”

  “What? A confrontation?”

  “Yeah.” He squeezed his legs together, shifted in his seat. “She’s gonna say I don’t love her. It’s not that. It’s cause we don’t get along. She’s gonna pick on me until I can’t take it anymore, then I’m going to do something stupid. Like get into trouble.” He stood, jiggling his leg. “I need to use your bathroom.”

  I gave him directions. When he returned, I said, “Two things stand out. One, you don’t feel you have a voice in the matter, and two, you don’t have much faith in your ability to control your impulses.”

  He responded to the first. “Everybody, Big Bertha, Mr. Gutierrez, keeps referring to when I get back home. I’m not ready.”

  “Okay, I understand. Did you tell them that?”

  “No.”

  I locked eyes.

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “I see. You want me to fight your battles for you.”

  He sat on his hands, rocked. “When you put it that way I sound like a wuss.”

  “Are you?”

  He glared at me. “No!”

  “Okay. I agree you’re making a good adjustment now where you are, and are not ready to go home. I’ll go to bat for you, but you need to tell Mr. Gutierrez what you told me, why you want to remain there, and I want you to tell your mother why you don’t want to go home.”

  “Tell her because she always picks on me and we fight?”

  “Yeah, but if it were me, I’d say it a little differently. I might say I missed her, then tell her how good I was doing, and that I didn’t want to jeopardize my progress. I’d tell her I knew she wanted the best for me, and I needed to have more successes and be stronger so we wouldn’t get into the same negative patterns of the past.”

  “I’m supposed to say all that.?”

  “Something like that, in your own words. Can you see the difference between what you said and what I said?”

  He thought about it for a while. “You didn’t blame her?”

  “Exactly. I took the onus off her, put it all on you–what you needed and that by meeting your needs, you’d respond to her differently.”

  “That works?”

  “I don’t know. Want to give it a try?”

  “I guess,” he said. He started to stand.

  “Wait. We’re not finished. I want you to think about your lack of impulse control.”

  “You mean like not waiting until our regular time to get together?”

  I smiled. “Yes, that is an example, but I want you to feel that you can come to me. That’s more preferable than you acting out your anxiety, like getting into a fight or starting a fire. I was thinking more along the lines of you believing that you’re going to fall back into the same pattern if you go home: you get into a fight with your mother, she disciplines you–maybe inappropriately–, and you act-out. You need to be able to control that acting-out impulse, to control your anger. You have to learn to take responsibility for your own actions regardless of what anybody else says or does.”

  “Yeah but... I want to get there, but I just can’t yet.”

  “I realize that. That’s why I’m agreeing with your need to remain in the group home. I just want you to know that controlling your impulses is a long term goal. Can you talk to both, your mother and Mr. Gutierrez, before we get together in a couple of days?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Good. I’ll chat with Carlos when I pick you up and you can bring me up to date.”

  Greg started to leave, then abruptly turned around. “Oh, I saw a red-tailed hawk effortlessly glide right over your office, then screamed sending a shiver through me.” He smiled, then added, “Sometimes I want to be like that hawk.”

  Watching him walk away, I wondered if he meant flying free like the hawk or screaming his lungs out. Or, both?

  When the workday ended I debated about calling Megan. I knew she’d expect me to, probably wanted to get together, but I wasn’t up to it. My head was still spinning with all the incongruities. I didn’t sense Sasha as being suicidal when I saw her, which sharply contrasted with Megan’s deep concern for her sister’s depression. But Sasha committed suicide, didn’t she? Detective Rollins thought otherwise. Nick didn’t impress me as a killer, and he was out of town when Sasha died. Nick warned me about Megan. Megan seemed broken up about her loss, physically showed the wear, but then, almost as quick as a weather break, dropped the sadness and wanted to play tennis. I needed to be by myself to try to sort things out, or at the very least, shut off the noise inside my head. I didn’t know how to express this to Megan so she’d understand, so I took the coward’s way out and didn’t call. Moreover, I turned off my phone so she couldn’t reach me. Earlier I called Gregory on not being direct with his mother and Mr. Gutierrez. Like he, I was avoiding a confrontation. Maybe I was a wuss. Re
gardless, this wuss needed his space.

  Bobby drove me home, invited me to join him for a couple of drinks. That had a certain appeal but I just wasn’t up for cheerful chatter. Yet, I didn’t want to be home alone either. I decided to go to the Mariner’s game. They were playing the Texas Rangers and had been on a six game winning streak. There, I could be alone in a crowd and have a pleasant diversion. I’d pay my own way and not even let Bruce, who was not pitching, know I was there.

  18

  Clouds blanketed the sky, warning of the rain to come. I grabbed my umbrella and began my trek to the office. A Mariners victory and a good night sleep put me in a cheerful mood. Although I hadn’t resolved any of the myriad questions in my head, I had managed to shut them off for a while, and felt ready to tackle whatever was thrown at me today. Carrie wasn’t on the porch when I arrived, inhaling toxins into her lungs. I missed not seeing her and hoped her absence was not due to complications with Mike.

  Over coffee Bobby schooled me on the difference between folding and mixing ingredients when preparing food. Afterward, I saw my first two patients.

  I stepped out of my office and saw Megan, dressed in a clinging pink sweater and pink and gray patterned skirt, sitting and talking to Bobby. “What are you doing here?” I blurted. First Gregory and now Megan. Who will be my next mystery guest?

  “I’m here for our appointment.” Her voice was cold. Calculating.

  Temporarily I was speechless. I caught Bobby’s curious, watching eyes. “Sasha’s dead!”

  “As if I didn’t know,” she said, standing and moving too close, invading my space. “You didn’t call.”

  Her breath sent a shiver up my spine. An alarming shiver. We didn’t need to air our differences in front of Bobby. “Inside,” I said, leading her into my office.