A Guilty Mind

by K. L. Murphy

  Pulling into the circular drive, George sat in the car and leaned back against the calfskin leather seat. The memories were as close as yesterday. Head pounding, he concentrated on breathing in and out, focusing on the act itself. Nothing had gone the way he’d planned. Not getting married, not the twenty-­odd years since then, not today. A familiar lethargy washed over him. When he’d first started seeing Dr. Michael, he was depressed and apathetic, but hopeful. Each session had been important, sometimes providing breakthroughs, sometimes sad, sometimes encouraging. The therapist had been steady in his mission, directing George to be truthful with himself as well as his doctor. The process of laying his life out on the table proved cathartic. Forced to face his sins, he’d come to the realization that he could change his life, give it meaning and correct past mistakes. His wife had not agreed.

  “It’s all well and good for you,” she’d said one evening, arranging flowers, “to pour your heart out to some stranger, but please don’t publicize it. Lord knows what our friends would think, and then there would be the children. They’d be devastated.”

  Arguing was pointless. “But Mary Helen, it helps me. Getting it out, being able tell someone. It’s the best I’ve felt in years.”

  Mary Helen dropped the flowers in her hands. Her eyes narrowed. “Confession may be good for the soul,” she’d said through clenched teeth, “but it is not good for this family. Do you understand me?”

  After that, his sessions with Dr. Michael changed. Hope fell by the wayside, replaced by a growing fury. Dr. Michael may have sensed Mary Helen’s influence but he couldn’t understand the extent of her ability to control George, to crush his spirit when the need arose. George despised this weakness in himself, but most of the time he simply accepted his miserable life as his penance, his punishment for the things he’d done.

  He sat in the car and gazed at the large, traditional brick house in front of him, his house. The lush lawn, landscaped with bright flowers and evergreens, rolled past the drive. Giant pots filled with pink and purple blooms flanked the wide steps. The sun and color blinded him and he blinked. The front door opened. Mary Helen stepped out, ageless, as pretty as she’d been in college. Her blond hair, cut in a perfect bob, framed her delicate features and lithe figure. She skipped down the steps, her red lips turned down in a frown.

  “George, what in God’s name are you doing sitting here in the driveway? I heard you pull in ten minutes ago.”

  He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. “Sorry. I’m just tired from the drive, I guess.” Pulling up the door handle, he got out and stood over her.

  “C’mon, George, you’ve kept Larry waiting long enough.”

  He stopped. “Why is Larry here?”

  “Because I called him,” she said. “After we spoke and you told me about that doctor of yours, I thought maybe we should speak to someone, you know, be prepared.”

  His square jaw dropped. “Prepared for what?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know for what,” she said, waving a polished hand in the air. “When it comes to you, George, I think it’s best we consider all the possibilities.” His mouth closed into a thin line, the drumming at his skull gathering strength. “After all, George, cleaning up your messes has always seemed to fall on my shoulders.”

  “Mary Helen, that isn’t necessary.”

  “Not necessary?” His wife’s words cut through the sweet spring air. “Which part? Not to remind you of your mistakes? Not to fix things so our lives and our children’s lives aren’t ruined? Or not to figure out what kind of a mess you’ve gotten us into this time?”

  “I didn’t do anything, Mary Helen.”

  Cerulean eyes raked over him and he flinched under her penetrating gaze. With only a trace of contempt in her tone, she said, “I think we should talk to Larry now.”

  Chapter Eight

  CANCINI SHIVERED. MORGUES with their stainless steel and white interiors gave him the creeps. Memories from long ago, distant but still so vivid, came bubbling up, leaving him with a dry mouth and stinging eyes. He blinked, but not before the image of his young mother, ashen and lifeless, flashed before him. Swallowing, he cleared his throat, eager to get on with it and get the hell out of the only place that succeeded in making him feel like a lost twelve-­year-­old boy. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and took deep breaths, the medicinal air nearly choking him.

  The coroner read from a chart, a phone to her ear. She looked over her glasses and mouthed an apology.

  The chilly office made him regret leaving his leather blazer in the car. He tapped his foot in time with his fingers.

  “Detective Cancini.” Dr. Kate Stevenson spoke in a singsong tone that matched the cheery smile on her face. “How are you today?”

  “Fine,” he said, stone-­faced. “I’m fine. What did you find out?”

  She picked up a file, and her smile faded. “Three separate stab wounds. They were deep wounds, each made with a large blade, all roughly in the center of the back. The primary cause of death here was the loss of blood combined with severe organ damage.”

  Nodding, Cancini said, “We found a knife at the scene. Looked like a regular butcher knife. Does that sound about right?”

  “Absolutely. Actually, Detective, this was a straightforward autopsy. Not all of the tox reports are back, but so far, nothing unusual in the victim’s bloodstream—­no drugs, no alcohol.”

  “Anything under the nails? Scratches? Any sign of a struggle?” Cancini rattled off his usual trio of questions. He’d seen nothing at the scene, but he understood forensic evidence was not always visible with the naked eye.

  “Nothing like that. It wouldn’t be crazy to assume the victim didn’t see the attack coming,” she said. “There are no wounds other than in the back and there’s no indication that he fought it off at all.”

  “I didn’t see anything at the crime scene, either. Nothing was out of place, only a few items knocked off the secretary’s desk. I’m figuring that happened after the stabbing.” Standing, the detective paced, hands thrust deep in his pockets, thinking aloud. “The perp could have cleaned up, but it looks like a surprise to me. And the way the vic’s eyes were open . . . it’s another indication of surprise. He was working late. He was alone. The secretary said she locked the door at six when she left.” He glanced up to see Kate watching him, hands folded across her desk. “But the perp either had a key or the doc let him in. Either way, I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting the knife in the back.” He paused and she remained quiet, waiting. Cancini stopped pacing. “So far, we don’t have much to go on. Is there anything you can tell me about our murderer? Any clue at all?”

  “It appears likely the killer was right-­handed.”

  He’d been hoping for more. That detail covered the majority of the population. “Anything else?”

  She picked up a pencil and rolled it back and forth between her hands. “Maybe, but it could be nothing.”

  “Go on.”

  “The placement of the stab wounds might be significant.”

  “Significant how?”

  Kate put the pencil down. “There were three wounds, two close together at relatively the same spot on the victim’s back. The third wound, though, was higher by three to four inches. The angle of two cuts appears to be similar, but the other one is slightly different, as though it were made when the victim was in a different position.” She paused. He felt her watching him, trying to read his expression. “My best guess is the victim was standing for the first stab wound and had fallen forward, most likely onto the desk you mentioned, for the other two.”

  It made some sense to him, but he was curious. “Why do you think that?”

  “For one thing, I saw the pattern of blood on the rug and spatters on the desk. Second, a lot of force was necessary to inflict wounds that deep. That’s easier if the murderer is standing over their victim. All
that combined with the placement and angle of the wounds I already mentioned—­well, it supports my theory.”

  “Like this?” He bent forward in a quick motion, his body parallel to her desk. His face came close to hers.

  “Yes.” Kate held his gaze and he stood up again. “If we assume the single wound was first, the victim was most likely standing. That wound is higher on the back and might have killed him eventually. But the other two sped up the process. The internal bleeding after the organ damage was fatal.”

  Staring at her, his fingers twitched. “Where are you going with this, Kate?”

  She smiled. “Direct as ever, aren’t you, Detective?” She came around the desk and stood directly behind him. She touched the middle of his back, her tone authoritative. “Here’s where the solitary wound was located.” Then, raising her arm slowly, a pen clutched in her hand, she paused for a split second before she finished with a quick stabbing motion. She touched his back again. “Is this the same spot, the one where the victim was stabbed?”

  Intrigued, he shook his head. “No, that one was higher.”

  “Right. Now bend forward like before.” Again she pointed out the placement of the stab wounds on the therapist, then pretended to knife him twice more before asking him to compare the simulated locations. “Do you see the difference?”

  He straightened and faced the medical examiner. “All the wounds on the victim were higher than yours on me.”

  “Do you know why?”

  A man of only average height, he stood several inches over the small woman. “I think I do.”

  “How tall are you, Detective?”

  “Five-­ten.”

  “I’m only five-­two,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of inches on me.”

  Cancini followed her logic. “But our victim had no such height advantage on his killer.”

  “That’s right. Maybe an inch or two. No more. Dr. Michael was six feet and one-­half inch. I think your perp was approximately the same, maybe slightly shorter. It’s possible, of course, that the killer might have made a conscious effort to change their height, so it’s not conclusive. But if they didn’t, based on the angle and placement of the wounds, I’m guessing your killer is in the range of five-­ten to six feet, between your height and the victim’s.” Walking back around the desk, the medical examiner sat and leaned back in her chair. “That’s all I have.”

  He had an approximate height. He knew the perp was right-­handed and used an ordinary butcher knife. It was circumstantial but could prove useful later. “Thanks, Kate. It’s more than I had when I came in here.”

  “Sure. That’s my job.”

  Cancini, hand on the doorknob, turned back to the woman behind the desk. “Could there be any significance to the number of stab wounds?”

  Twin lines appeared between her brows. “What do you mean?”

  “Could the attacker have been angry or crazy maybe?”

  “Oh.” He watched her face as she made the connection between the idea of an unbalanced act or momentary insanity in the murder of the therapist. “I don’t know, Detective. I’m not an expert at motive.”

  “But you are an expert at forensics. You’ve seen cases where the attacker went a little crazy before. Is this like that?”

  She hesitated. “It’s hard to say. Usually in cases of extreme psychosis or emotion, the killer will stab over and over, long after the person is dead.”

  “Dr. Michael was only stabbed three times.”

  “It doesn’t fit the norm of extreme psychosis, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. There is one other thing though.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “The victim didn’t suffer long. He died in a matter of minutes. I’d have to say the murderer was quite efficient.”

  “Efficient? That doesn’t sound like extreme psychosis at all.”

  “Probably not the kind you mean,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean the killer wasn’t angry at the victim or that they weren’t unbalanced. It only means they weren’t swept up by emotion. There was some rational thought going on at the time of the murder. Still, I can’t speak with any authority here. It’s only a snap judgment. You should talk to a psychologist if you want a better picture of your murderer.”

  “I will.” He cocked his head, thinking about her use of the word “efficient” to describe the victim’s death. Efficient. This was not a word that evoked images of uncontrollable rage or anger or any other strong emotion. To him, it sounded premeditated. He hesitated at the door. “I don’t know. There’s something.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s more of a feeling. I think whoever we’re dealing with is pretty smart. Really smart. And cold.” The office had been mostly undisturbed, nothing but the victim’s glasses missing. There could be no doubt Dr. Michael had been targeted. A crime of passion? Maybe, but also very, very personal. “I just hope, for all our sakes, he’s made a mistake.”

  Chapter Nine

  GEORGE SQUINTED AT his watch and sipped the icy beer. Sarah wasn’t due for another half hour. Beads of perspiration on his brow congealed to a single trickle down his cheek. He turned on the fans, avoiding running the air conditioner. He didn’t need prying questions from his father. Checking the time again, he sighed.

  Outside, he watched the sunlight reflected on the water. Dancing sparkles like diamonds popped up and disappeared in the ripples before reappearing again. A pair of boats cruised into view, their wake disturbing the crystal beauty of the water. He grabbed a lawn chair and another beer. Moving closer to the river, he sat under a large oak tree. He took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth. George had avoided his friends and Mary Helen for days. He’d kept to the library during the day and escaped to the cottage each evening. The separation from Sarah, although less than a week, felt like an eternity. In the heat, his T-­shirt clung to his skin. He stretched his legs and shut his eyes to the glare of the sun. His mind drifted.

  “George?” a woman’s voice called his name, the lilting tone tinged with irritation. “George, are you listening to me?” His eyes popped open. “Good God, are you asleep?”

  “No. No.” He raised his head and sat up straight. “I’m awake.”

  Mary Helen glared at him. “We were saying how important it is to establish where you were last night—­the whole night.” She emphasized the final three words.

  “That’s right,” Larry said. He held a memo pad in his hands. “So, George, what time did you arrive at the club?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Before six, I guess.”

  “Can’t you be more specific?” his wife asked.

  George bowed his head and let out a breath. He stood and walked to the great window overlooking the front yard. Condensation in the windows crept from the corners to the middle. He reached up and traced the lines in the windows with his finger. “Five forty-­five.”

  “That’s fine, George,” Larry said, making notes. “Can you tell me who saw you, what you ate, how long you were there?”

  The pain in his head throbbed and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened. “Jesus,” he said, and wheeled around, “is this necessary? I haven’t done anything.” No one spoke. Larry shifted in his chair and looked down at his notes. Mary Helen stiffened, her tiny hands gripping the arms of the settee. He rubbed his temples and sank onto the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding Mary Helen’s piercing gaze. “I just have this terrible headache and I don’t know why we’re doing this.”

  An awkward quiet settled over the room. Knowing he’d been rude, knowing he’d been uncooperative, George was still more perturbed than sorry. With each passing minute, he grew more agitated. Why was Mary Helen putting him through this torture? Why did she always think she knew what was best?

  “I need a drink.” At the bar, he poured a vodka, splashed in a smidge of tonic, and added a lime for good measure.

&nbs
p; “Feeling better now, darling?”

  George tensed at her sarcastic tone. “Yes, yes I am,” he said, and lifted his glass to them both. He guzzled the drink and reached for the bottle. “In fact, I think I’ll have another.”

  Mary Helen’s eyes, hard as blue marbles, followed him to the sofa. “If you’re quite through?”

  George took another sip. He did feel better. “What do you want to know?”

  Clearing his throat, Larry rattled off one question after another. He wrote down each answer, gradually taking George through the events of the previous evening. “Where did you go when you left the club?”

  “Home. To my apartment.”

  “You’re sure? You didn’t stop anywhere? Get gas? Buy cigarettes? Anything like that?”

  Frowning, George didn’t answer. He thought maybe he had stopped for cigarettes, but he couldn’t remember.

  “Well?” Mary Helen pursed her lips.

  “I don’t remember.” He wanted a cigarette at that moment, but his wife didn’t allow them in the house. “I might have stopped, but it could have been the night before. I might be mixed up.”

  Larry put down his pen, eyes questioning. “You don’t know whether you stopped anywhere?”

  “No,” he said. “I had a lot to drink at the club.”

  His wife snorted. “Imagine that.”

  Ignoring Mrs. Vandenberg’s sarcasm, the attorney focused on George. “Fine. You think you went straight home. We’ll go with that for now. Did you go straight to bed? Watch TV?”

  George remembered the clothes strewn across the bedroom and bathroom. “I think I went straight to bed.”

  “He probably passed out,” Mary Helen said. “I tried calling him about eleven or so and no one answered. I wanted to remind him about his conference call with Daddy, although I don’t know why I bothered.” George cradled the empty glass and belched. She shot him a look. “Perfect.”