by Tom Bierdz
“Creatively inspiring like your stone. A rose is a rose is a rose.” He leaned back, an acrimonious grin spread upon his face. “My father used to say, you can tell the true character of a man by how he conducts himself, by how he stays true to his principles.”
Seething with anger, I felt my whole body tighten. I wanted to smack that pompous bastard. “I’m not going to sit here and be insulted, Detective. Either you get to the point as to why you’re here or get out!”
He locked eyes with me, gradually erased the smirk from his face. “I’m still not convinced Sasha was a suicide.” He rose, ambled over to the Final Analysis poster, not so subtly reminding me of the parallel he made during his last visit, comparing me and Megan to Richard Gere and Kim Basinger. “We found a couple of Zoloft pills under the bed.”
“So she dropped some.”
“Maybe. Seems a little far-fetched that someone who wants to kill herself drops pills. Usually, I would think, the victim directly swallows them from the bottle, or dumps them into her hand and swallows the bunch.”
I shook my head in frustration. “Detective, you’re not considering the person’s frame of mind. She’s nervous. Even if she’s determined to end her life, she’s scared. There’s no going back. No changing her mind once she takes those pills. Her hand shakes. She drops a couple of pills and they scatter under the bed.”
He nodded, pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “I might find your explanation reasonable except for the fact that she left no fingerprints on the pill container. Tell me, Doctor, how does someone take the pills from the container without leaving fingerprints? She wasn’t wearing gloves.”
Speechless, I froze in mid-motion like a toy whose battery stopped working. I didn’t have an answer.
“The only thing I can figure is the killer had her fingerprints wiped off and in the process, wiped off the victim’s too.”
“I have to admit I’m stumped, Detective. There has to be an explanation but I don’t have one at the moment.”
“Think about it and if you come up with one, call me. I aim to get to the bottom of this, Dr. Garrick. I think your girlfriend did it. I don’t know if you’re a partner, maybe, even the master-mind, or if you’re simply an innocent pawn.” He started to walk away, then sidled back, moving closer, his eyes taking me apart. “I still think it’s more likely you’re the innocent pawn. If so then I advise you to get the hell out of there while you can.”
I felt a surge in my stomach as I watched him walk away, and nearly choked on the bile that rose to my throat. I couldn’t rationally dismiss the facts as the detective presented them. I knew I would exhaust my mental capacity searching for an alternative reason Sasha’s fingerprints were not on the Zoloft vial, but I’d be unlikely to find one. The free-floated anxiety that had haunted me suddenly coalesced into a leaden feeling of dread. I had to move out of Megan’s house. I had to extricate myself from Megan.
“You’re rather distant this evening,” Megan said, setting down her fork.
We sat around the dinner table eating salmon on expensive china with a blue fleur-de-lis pattern that Margot had prepared. Megan was decked out in her pink lounging pajamas and had romantically lit candles and filled the room with soft mood music.
I wasn’t feeling very romantic and had been picking on my salmon. I wasn’t hungry. I forced a smile. “Preoccupied. Uh...a fragile patient...possibly suicidal. Maybe I should have hospitalized her.” I was preoccupied, not with a patient, but with my meeting with Detective Rollins. Maybe I was suicidal remaining in the home with Megan.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“God, no! I want to forget about it.” I couldn’t stop thinking about the vial without fingerprints, nor come up with a satisfactory explanation that erased any suspicion from Megan. Yet, I needed more time to sort it out in my mind before confronting her. If Sasha was murdered someone else could be the killer. Nick? Anyone else? If Megan is innocent and I falsely accuse her, I’ve put a kink in our relationship that would be hard to recover from. My breathing was labored. I was in the heart of a dilemma. My fear quotient was rapidly rising. I couldn’t stay in the house with her tonight with what I knew.
“You’re looking pale. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m a little under the weather. I think I need to stay at my place tonight.”
Megan’s face and eyes were impassive. She stared at me for several long seconds, then with a weary, troubled sigh, she lowered her eyes to her wineglass.
My heart thrummed. I tried to imagine what she was thinking and hoped she remembered our bargain.”
“If you must,” she said, lifting her head. “You’ll take a taxi?” “Yes,” I muttered, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.
“Lock the door on your way out.” She stood, turned away and left the room.
I heard her march up the stairs.
31
Right after I called for the taxi, I called Carrie. I needed to talk to someone and I didn’t want to be alone. Her voicemail said that unless the call was an emergency, or was related to the Benson murder trial, she wouldn’t return the call. I didn’t leave a message. She needed to prepare for the trial. I considered calling Bobby or Hanna but didn’t for a variety of reasons. Then it struck me that I could go to the Mariner’s game. It would be a distraction and I wouldn’t be alone. My watch said it was almost game time, but it wouldn’t matter if I missed the beginning. I called Bruce to see if I could get a ticket. He’d see what he could do and call me back. I was seated in the taxi when I got the call. Bruce had left two tickets for me at the box office.
Two? I hadn’t thought of bringing anybody but now that I had the extra ticket I should take Greg since I promised him. I called Carlos, arranged it, and directed the cab driver to the group home.
Greg was delighted. The Mariners were playing their nemesis, the Angels, and we had box seat tickets on the first base side a few rows from the front. We arrived in the third inning. The game was scoreless. Although we had both eaten, if you can count what I ate at Megan’s, that didn’t stop us from grabbing a hot dog and a soda for Greg, a beer for me.
The score was two-all in the seventh inning. After our seven-inning stretch, Greg felt comfortable to ask me, “Do you have the pictures?”
“What pictures?”
“The ones you were going to have developed?” Seeing my blank expression, he added, “The photos I took of the eagles by the house where the lady killed herself.”
“I thought you were developing those.”
He frowned, fought to contain his impatience, his voice rising an octave higher. “No. Remember I told you that mom ruined my dark room and that I didn’t want to go back there anyway.”
“I’m sorry, Greg, I didn’t remember. I guess I’ve got too many things on my mind. I’m afraid that’s not a very good excuse, but the only one I got.” I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to do that. I knew I wasn’t always running on all cylinders, especially lately, but processing the photos seemed pretty basic. “That seems so long ago. Why didn’t you say something before?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I didn’t know if I should.”
The crowd erupted when our leadoff batter doubled by slugging a ball off the fence. When the sound diminished, I continued, “I thought our relationship was stronger, that you’d feel free to ask me things.”
“I know I can talk to you about me, but I didn’t know if I could...”
“...question me. “ Was the problem with him or me that he wasn’t comfortable enough to ask me earlier? “Healthy relationships should be give and take. You should feel free to ask me anything. If I don’t want to answer, or think your question is inappropriate, I’ll let you know. Wanting to know about the film is entirely reasonable. You’ve showed extraordinary patience. When we get back, give me the film. I’ll get those photos developed right away.”
“I don’t have the film. You do.”
“I do?” What w
as it about me that I kept missing the obvious? There was Kevin, possibly Megan, and now Greg. I had blind spots. I was blanking out or ignoring what was right in front of my eyes. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ll have the Walgreens by your house develop them. Then you can pick them up the next day.” I vaguely remember stuffing them in a desk drawer in my office. They had better be there.
The Mariners left the runner on second stranded. In the eighth the Angels loaded the bases with one out. The relief pitcher got the next batter to hit into a double play to end the threat. We hit a homer in the bottom of the eighth and hung on to win three to two. The close game distracted me from myself for the most part.
Bruce joined us after the game. Greg was excited to meet him and asked him to autograph his scorecard. Bruce talked about the game, tossing out little insider views for Greg. Why, for example, Lenny Biltmore relieved instead of another pitcher.
When the questions about the game had been exhausted, Bruce said, tongue-in-cheek, “I hear where a psychiatrist got killed. Are you eliminating your competition by running over them?” He laughed.
“Funny!” I panned.
A father and son stood on the periphery waiting for Bruce’s autograph. Bruce smiled, signed his name, and playfully twisted the kid’s baseball cap.
He turned serious. “Did you know Dr. Hodges?”
“I met him briefly. He approached me about coming into the practice. Nice guy. I couldn’t take him in, but I thought he’d do well. It’s tragic. He had a bright future.”
“Lenny Biltmore didn’t think so. He thought Hodges deserved it.”
“Deserved to die? The Lenny Biltmore who just relieved and shut down the Angels?”
“The same. Lenny’s from Texas. Claims the shrink raped a friend of his in high school. Hodges beat the rap, hired the best lawyers. I think they paid the family off. I guess he came out here to escape his past.”
“We’re about as far away from Texas you can get.” I was shocked. I would never had suspected Hodges.
Bruce headed for the locker room. Greg and I headed home.
32
I got a decent night’s sleep in my own bed, although I had a couple of weird dreams that quickly faded from memory when I awoke. But the real events I just learned about hung heavily on my mind. I met Isley Hodges only briefly but he just didn’t seem like a child abuser. I wished I’d gotten more information last night. Hodges could have engaged in consensual sex with a minor just below the legal age; someone who later cried rape. That was a lot different from someone who preyed on unsuspecting innocents and abused them. I could see how the former, seeking to understand his impulses, delved into psychiatry. Regardless of the type of sexual abuse, no one deserved to be killed in a hit and run. I made a mental note to look into this sometime in the future. I could talk to the Mariner pitcher, check the internet, and, if need be, make an inquiry with the Texas Psychiatric Association. Sexual abusers made me nauseous. It also cast a dark shroud over the psychiatric professions and concerned me deeply, spurring me to write that paper on countertransference.
I almost stumbled into my slacks, my left leg narrowly missing the opening, jarred by the thought that Hodges might have been targeted because ‘he deserved it’, that the hit-and-run was not an accident. That couldn’t be. It was too bizarre to contemplate. I pulled up my pants, tucked in my shirt, and fastened my belt. Perhaps, it would be more palatable if Detective Rollins hadn’t approached me with more evidence suggesting Sasha was murdered.
Despite being a psychiatrist where I was exposed to the darkest and strangest behaviors of man, I believed there was still a general order to things, that everybody didn’t go crazy all at the same time. I had lost my son, my wife, and a big part of my practice. I didn’t want to believe that Hodges was a sexual pervert, that he had been killed because of it, or that Megan murdered her sister. It was too much.
I was raw around the edges. My skin was sensitive to the touch like I’d been out too long in the sun. My defenses were brittle. I wasn’t in any shape to confront Megan about leaving. But I would be in worse shape if I didn’t.
Walking to work I recalled how much more alive I felt strolling these streets with Hanna just days ago. There was a brightness that had been dimmed. I needed to recapture that illumination.
Midway through my morning Bobby handed me a message he took. “Megan wants you to call her.”
“Thanks.” I took the message to my office, closed the door, and felt my stomach flutter. I had about fifteen minutes until my next appointment and I assumed Bobby probably told Megan when I’d be able to get back to her. I had to tell her I couldn’t remain living there and I knew this would involve a lengthy discussion. Sucking in a heap of air, I called.
She was sweetness personified. “Are you feeling better, honey?”
“Yeah...”
“Should I make something special for dinner or would you prefer to eat out?”
“Eat in. We need to talk.”
Her tone darkened as she picked up the tension in my voice. “Okay. I’ll expect you at the usual time?”
“Right.” I ended the call. She knew our talk would be heavy and needed to be done in person.
I obsessed about our coming confrontation the rest of the day, wanting to both avoid it and be over with it. I still deeply cared about Megan and didn’t want to hurt her. Accusing her of something she didn’t do would destroy any sense of trust we had developed, and perhaps annihilate any possibility we’d have of recapturing the chemistry. But my first allegiance had to be to myself and my body was sending multiple warnings that I was in danger. I could no longer ignore the feelings especially now that I could objectively identify the reasons I felt that way. Paramount were the suspicions of Detective Rollins that Sasha had been murdered. The evidence pointed in Megan’s direction. I knew she was with her sister the night it happened.
And I had experienced her anger on a number of occasions. I’ve treated several hostile patients and I know how destructive anger can be. On a personal level, Hanna, my ex, was as mild-mannered as anyone could be; yet, when she lost control of her anger it destroyed our marriage. Then there was the warning from Nick and the intuitive warnings from Hanna and Carrie.
At the end of the workday I taxied to Megan’s. It was that misty time of the day, after sunset, when the remaining light cast everything in a dream-like state. And as we snaked up her road I took in the beautiful surroundings, the view of that magnificent house on top of the hill, and felt a tear in my heart. I didn’t consider myself shallow, yet surprisingly, I had taken a bit of ownership in the prestigious abundance and began to morn my loss. I could envision living continually in those surroundings and enjoying myself. I would miss it.
Megan greeted me with a Rob Roy. She wasn’t in her lounging pajamas but wore a simple navy blue dress. He countenance was serious; her smile ignored her eyes. She had braced herself for our meeting.
Standing awkwardly, I thanked her for the drink, then said, “Why don’t we get right to it.”
She nodded and led me into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. I sat on the opposite end, leaving a cushion between us. Now I wished I hadn’t pushed to begin right away. I wasn’t sure I was ready. Then, again, would I ever be sure?
She sipped her martini, crossed her legs in my direction. “You want to leave?” Her question a statement of fact.
“I’m not ready...” I scooped up a handful of mixed nuts from a bowl on the coffee table.
“Don’t take me through all of that again. Get to the point.” She set down her drink, folded her arms against her chest.
I dropped the nuts back into the bowl. “I’m just not comfortable. I can’t completely relax.”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble falling asleep after sex.”
“Yeah, for a time. Sex is great. But...”
“But you don’t love me.”
“I don’t know...”
“Do you believe I love you?�
�
“I don’t know.” She looked so vulnerable, like a frightened fawn left alone in the woods. There was that part of me that wanted to enfold her in my arms, stroke her hair, and tell her I could fix everything.
“You don’t know a hell of a lot.” She stood, paced to the window, looked out. She returned with a withering stare. “What were the last couple months about? Just fun and games for you?”
“No!” A stab of pain shot through my head. “All those wonderful things I said to you were true. We had fantastic times! Tremendous highs.” I quaffed my drink, paused. I needed to slow down the escalation. “I had another visit from Detective Rollins.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Is he still at it?”
“He thinks Sasha was murdered.” I pivoted so I was looking directly into her eyes. I needed to see her reaction. “Besides for the bruises, the pill container did not have Sasha’s fingerprints on it.” Did I detect a slight widening of her eyes?
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“That the killer wiped off Sasha’s prints when she...or he...wiped off his.”
Irritation crossed her face. “Are you suspecting me?”
“No, but I feel very uneasy. Until Sasha’s death is ruled a suicide or the killer is apprehended, I need my space.”
“You’re a goddamn liar, Grant, and a bad one. You wouldn’t want to leave if you didn’t suspect me.” That fawn turned into a snorting stag and was coming at me antlers first.
“I don’t think we need to muck it up by discussing this further. I simply can’t stay here any longer. Let’s be adults about this, and...”
“It’s not that simple, Grant. I’ve invested a great deal of time and energy on you. I refuse to let you go.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “It’s not your decision.”
“I’ve made it my decision.” Spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.
Was I dealing with a crazy woman? Not going to let me go? Was she going to tie me up, bind my hands and feet, and lock me in a room? “I’m leaving.”