by K. L. Murphy
“Sure.”
He grabbed two fresh cups of coffee. “Mrs. Watson, I’d like to offer my sympathies again for the loss of your boss.” He passed her a cup and laid his notebook on the table. Her lips quivered and she blinked, fresh tears threatening to fall. He reached out and took her hands again, just as he’d done at Dr. Michael’s office. Her mouth moved, but there was no sound. He held her gaze and squeezed her hands gently. “It’s okay. I know how hard this day has been. Losing someone you care about is one of the hardest things there is.” This time, she made no attempt to talk, just nodded.
Cancini had insisted on speaking with Mrs. Watson alone. Using compassion wasn’t a popular or recommended technique, and he knew the irony of his approach drew snide comments from some of the other men. Most explained it away as good acting, the ultimate bait-and switch. First gain their trust, then pounce. Cancini, for his part, did nothing to dissuade them or offer any explanation. He suspected Smitty had his own theory about Cancini’s soft-spoken manner with witnesses, particularly the families and friends of the victims.
Cancini’s eyes never left Mrs. Watson’s face. “Let’s take a deep breath together,” he said. She nodded slowly, and they did. “I’m going to ask you some questions and it’s important you answer them in the best way you can.” He paused. “This won’t be pleasant, but anything you know, any information you have, even without realizing it, could help us find Dr. Michael’s murderer.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and he waited a moment until she opened them again. “Can you do it? Can you help me?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “I’ll do my best.” He relaxed and let go of her hands. “Is my husband here yet?”
“I haven’t seen him,” the detective said, evading the truth. He didn’t want her distracted during the questioning, or worse, given advice that might impede the investigation. “I’m sure you’ll be with him soon.” He pushed the coffee and a box of tissues across the table. “Mrs. Watson, I’m sorry, but we’ll need to start at the beginning again, when you found Dr. Michael.” She dropped her gaze. “I understand if you need to take your time.”
With an apology, she took a handful of tissues and dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Watson. Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” she whispered, taking another deep breath. “I came in at eight-thirty. I come in at the same time every day.” Her voice trembled, but she stayed focused on her story, the words slow and deliberate. Lines of concentration deepened on her forehead. “The door wasn’t locked. I didn’t think much of it, though. Sometimes Dr. Michael comes in a little early to prepare for the day’s appointments.” She paused and bit her trembling lip. “When I got inside, I saw him right away. He was just lying there on the floor.”
“Go on,” he said, his voice soft.
“I think I screamed. I’m not sure though. It seems like I would have. There was so much blood, you know. Then I called 911.” She stopped again. “That’s all there is to tell. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Watson. You’re doing fine.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Did you see anyone else when you arrived at the office? Anyone on the elevator? Anyone or anything unusual?”
She rubbed her forehead. “The only person I saw was Mr. Tebow. He has an accounting office on the first floor. I always stick my head in and say hi in the mornings.”
Cancini wrote the name in his notebook. “Did you see or speak to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Okay. What time did you leave the office last night?”
“Around six I guess.”
“Did you see anyone when you left?”
“No. The travel agency on the top floor closes at five and Mr. Tebow was still there I think, but his door was closed.”
He made a note to have all the tenants in the building interviewed before the day was out. “Do you always leave at six?”
“Oh yes, every night. Dr. Michael and I usually walk out together, but Mrs. Michael was out of town, so he wanted to work late.”
“Did he do that often?”
“No,” she said. “Only when Mrs. Michael wasn’t in town. They were very close.” She frowned, eyes welling again. “Has anyone contacted her yet? She’s going to be heartbroken.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe she’s arriving at Ronald Reagan shortly.” Making a couple of quick notes, Detective Cancini changed the subject. “How many appointments did the doctor have yesterday?”
“Seven,” she said, twisting her wedding ring. “He always sees seven a day.”
“Did anything strange happen in those appointments?” Her head came up. “You know, like did anything unusual go on yesterday with any of his patients?”
“No,” Mrs. Watson said. “Not that I know of.”
“Was he having any trouble with any of his patients?” It wasn’t privileged information, he reasoned, if the doctor had already confided it to his secretary. “Maybe any confrontations or anything he might have told you about?”
“You don’t think . . .” She hesitated, her eyes wide. “Maybe one of his patients killed him?”
“I don’t think anything yet, Mrs. Watson. I’m only trying to find out about the doctor’s day. I may need to question anyone who had contact with the doctor yesterday.” When she was silent, he probed again. “Had he said anything about any patient giving him trouble or difficulty? Maybe someone was threatening him?”
“Well, no, he didn’t say anything in particular. I mean, I noticed things sometimes, about certain patients, but Dr. Michael would never confide in me about his cases. He’s a real stickler for privacy and—” She slapped her hand over her mouth, stifling another sob. The detective waited, nudging the tissue box once more. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t seem real.”
He waited a few minutes, then asked, “Did Dr. Michael wear glasses?”
“He had prescription reading glasses. They were gold.”
“Did he need them to work?”
Her brows drew together. “I think so. He wore them quite a bit.”
“Okay.” Cancini made a note to follow up on the glasses, then asked, “Did he go out for lunch yesterday?”
“He picked up a sandwich and brought it back to the office.”
“Okay. Did he go out for any reason later in the day?”
Smitty interrupted then. He bent close to Cancini, keeping his voice low. “The wife’s on the phone, calling from the plane. She insists she needs to talk to the lead detective right away, won’t talk to anyone else.”
Cancini rose. “Smitty, can you bring Mrs. Watson some more coffee?” To her, he said, “I need you to stay a little longer, okay? I won’t be long.”
Cancini followed Smitty to the phone. “She may know something about a patient. See what you can find out.”
“Sure.” Smitty hesitated, then said, “By the way, the captain wants to see you as soon as you’re done.”
Cancini’s eyes rolled. A dull pain thudded in his head. “Perfect.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” He picked up the blinking line. “Cancini here.”
“Detective Cancini.” She spoke fast, her voice husky. “This is Nora Michael. Are you the lead detective on my husband’s case?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry about your husband.” He wrote her name in his notebook.
“Thank you, Detective, but that’s not why I called. Well, it is, but not exactly.”
He’d expected to hear sorrow, anguish, and even anger. Instead, he found it difficult to reconcile the confident, throaty voice on the phone with what he expected from a woman whose husband had been fatally knifed in the back. “I’m listening.”
“It’s about my brother.”
“Your brother
?”
“Yes. He’s dead, too.”
Chapter Five
GEORGE GRIPPED THE heavy glass in his large hands and took a long drink. He tasted the icy vodka on his tongue and felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. He shouldn’t be drinking, but why the hell not? At least his heartbeat and breathing had returned to normal. It was that reporter, the one who used the word “homicide.” He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other explanation. Surely that look of devastation on Sandy Watson’s face could mean only one thing. Dr. Michael was gone—murdered! How? Why? Tossing back the rest of his drink, he ordered a second. The bartender brought a fresh vodka tonic and moved down the polished oak bar.
A large hand clapped him on the back. “Georgie, I didn’t expect to see you here after last night, ol’ buddy.” Wincing at the childish nickname, he shook hands with Fred Trenton, his boyhood friend. The burly man, wearing a collared shirt with powder-blue slacks, plopped onto the barstool next to him. “Man, if I was you, it would have taken me two days to sleep that one off.” Nodding at the vodka tonic, he said, “Guess you’re a better man than me.”
George raised the drink in a halfhearted gesture of cheers. It occurred to George he barely remembered seeing his friend the previous evening.
With his bulk perched precariously on the stool, Fred rested his thick forearms on the bar. Turning to face his old chum, he asked, “Why’d you run out in such a hurry last night anyway? The party was just getting going.”
George had only a vague memory of leaving the club. “It was getting late.”
“Late?” Fred repeated. “It was only ten o’clock.”
George shrugged, sucking on the vodka tonic. “Well, like you said, I guess I’d had enough.”
“I’ll second that.” Preston Cain sat next to Fred. “You must have started into the scotch pretty early, Vandenberg. I tried to call you a cab, but you’re such a stubborn asshole, you were gone before I could stop you.”
“Sorry,” George said. It was true he’d begun drinking early. His session with Dr. Michael that afternoon had been rough and ended badly. Angry and disappointed in himself, George had driven to the club to drown his worries in the best bottle of scotch the place had to offer.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Preston said. “It was the manager who thought maybe you shouldn’t drive. I’m not your babysitter.”
Raising a hand to get the bartender back, George wished they would both go away. He couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Michael. Why would someone kill him? Dr. Michael was a good man. Even in their most painful sessions, the man had always been kind and compassionate. Yet, George had to admit their most recent sessions had been difficult. The doctor pushed harder and with more urgency, and their relationship had become strained. Now, none of that mattered. Everything they’d worked toward, everything George had hoped for, was gone. There would be no more possibility of confession, no more hard decisions to make. George expected to feel some relief. Instead, he was overwhelmed with sadness. For nearly a year, George had allowed Dr. Michael to lighten his burdens. In fact, he’d welcomed the dream of confession until outside forces made the reality nearly impossible. Without Dr. Michael, those same burdens seemed heavier than ever.
“George, how do you see your future?” Dr. Michael had asked in their final session.
Averting his eyes, George remained silent, afraid to give an answer, afraid to speak at all.
When no response was forthcoming, Dr. Michael said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that’s why you started coming to me. To change how things are, to make things better, to have a chance at a happy life.”
He frowned. “I don’t deserve a happy life.”
“That’s not you talking, George. What’s happened these last few weeks? You said things have changed. What things? Why have you changed your mind about coming forward?”
“Nothing’s different. It’s for the best.”
“I don’t believe that. Something happened. What is it?”
“Nothing,” George said. He rubbed his hands across his thighs. “Just let it go, for God’s sake.”
The therapist sat back in his chair, stroking his mustache, watching his patient. George couldn’t meet the doctor’s eyes. He folded his arms and clamped his lips into a thin, hard line. A tiny vein pulsed in his temple. “You’re afraid of something, or someone.” Dr. Michael uncrossed his legs and shifted toward him. “Who is it, George? Who are you afraid of?”
“No one. Goddammit, I’m not afraid of anyone.” He jumped to his feet and stabbed the air in front of the doctor. “Why can’t you just believe that I’ve changed my mind?”
“I think you want to confess, George, so something or someone is causing this,” he said, his eyes never leaving George’s face.
“Well, you’re wrong. You don’t’ know everything, okay?” He gestured wildly, his face reddening. “Why can’t you accept that I don’t want to play your pointless cleansing-of-the-soul game anymore? Why can’t you leave me alone?” George stepped forward, towering over the therapist. Dr. Michael shrank in his chair.
“You need to calm down, George.”
“Jesus! Don’t tell me what to do! For God’s sake, don’t I get enough of that at home? I sure as hell don’t need it from you.” Fists curled tightly, his eyes were dark with fury. Dr. Michael paled but remained in the chair, motionless and silent. George turned away, sweeping a ceramic lamp to the floor, the smashed bits scattering across the floor. Staring at the broken lamp, he felt his anger evaporate. He fell onto the sofa, limp and devastated.
“I’m sorry,” he said, words like a moan. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, George,” Dr. Michael said softly, still gripping the arms of his chair.
George raised his eyes. “No. It’s not okay and we both know it.”
“It’s only a lamp,” the doctor said. “But this anger of yours goes back to what I’m saying. This is not an easy thing I’m suggesting, George, and I can’t make you do it, nor do I want to. I’m sorry if you feel pushed by me. I want the decision to be yours. You’re so close. Without this step, it may be difficult for you to overcome your . . .” The doctor seemed to hesitate, as though searching for a word that wouldn’t offend his patient. “Your guilt.”
George stood awkwardly, a tear slipping from his eye. “I can never be free, Dr. Michael. It’s out of my hands,” he said, his voice empty of the passion it had held only moments earlier. “I’m tired. Time’s up for today, Doc.”
He’d walked out, nearly knocking into Mrs. Watson. Brushing by her without a word, he’d gone straight to the club and a fifth of the best scotch he could get his hands on. It was not the kind of day or night that made a man proud.
Less than twenty-four hours later, seated at the bar between two of his oldest friends, men who’d known him most of his life—through college, marriage, and children—he felt painfully alone. They didn’t really know him. Dr. Michael did, though. George wished he could have the day back, do the session again and thank his therapist for listening when no one else could. He wiped at his eyes. Now, it was too late.
“Mr. Vandenberg?” George’s head jerked up. The bartender stood in front of him. “Your wife’s on the phone. Said she hasn’t been able to get you on your cell.”
“Oh.”
“You can take the call over there.” He pointed to a small table and phone in the corner of the bar.
Excusing himself, he went to the table and picked up the receiver. “Mary Helen?”
“George! I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?” his wife asked, her Southern lilt more pronounced than usual.
He took a breath. “Here mostly. Sorry my phone wasn’t on.”
“You’re all right then?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“You missed your conference call with Daddy this morning.” She didn
’t disguise the scorn in her voice. “Again. I had to explain you called me to cancel for you and I forgot. You know I hate it when you do this to me, George. What’s your excuse this time?”
Falling into the leather chair, he decided he was too exhausted to fight with his wife. “I don’t have one.”
“That’s so like you, George. God, you make me so mad.”
“Sorry.”
“You must think I’m stupid. Why don’t you admit that you were out drinking all night, and were too hungover to remember the conference call?” Without waiting for a response, she said, “I’m right, aren’t I? And knowing you, when you weren’t drunk, you were probably spilling your guts to that quack doctor again. Is that where you were, George? Please tell me the truth for a change.”
“Shut up!” Fred and Preston looked over, and he lowered his voice. “Dr. Michael’s not a quack and it’s not what you think.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. During the brief silence, George closed his eyes and waited, knowing she would demand an explanation. “Okay, George, if it’s not what I think,” she drawled icily, “then what is it?”
He slumped down in the chair. His heart pounded in his chest. “Dr. Michael is dead. The police were outside his building today.”
“What? Oh my God. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s awful. I was in the crowd outside his office and I saw his secretary. She was crying and everything. Some reporter told me it was a homicide.”
“Oh my God,” she said again.
“I still can’t believe it. He’s dead, Mary Helen, dead.”
“Jesus, George,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What have you done?”
Chapter Six
MRS. MICHAEL SAT across from Cancini, dry-eyed, her back ramrod straight.
“I’d like to offer my condolences again, Mrs. Michael,” he said. She nodded once. “I also wanted to thank you for flying home so quickly.”
“Of course. I came straight from the airport,” she said.