A Guilty Mind

by K. L. Murphy

  The old man folded his hands in his lap. “Of course. How can I help you?”

  Cancini stood, feet spread, his hands deep in his pockets. “I’m thinking that being a priest, one who hears confessions, is not completely different than being a shrink, someone who listens to problems and gives advice.”

  Father Joe spoke slowly as though considering his words. “Yes, there are similarities, but I wouldn’t say they’re the same. As a priest, I’m in the business of helping ­people toward absolution. Of course, we offer counseling, but we don’t have medical training and can’t handle chemical issues or severe mental disorders.”

  “But you’re still bound by a code of ethics. You can’t repeat what’s been confessed to you and neither can a shrink. Right?”

  Deep lines creased the old man’s forehead. “Where are you going with this, Michael?”

  “What if you gave someone advice and they didn’t want to take it? Maybe they were even afraid to take it. Maybe they even got angry when you kept telling them what to do. Would you keep pushing that advice?”

  Father Joe hesitated, then said, “That depends. There are so many circumstances where that would not seem wise or in the best interest of the other party and I’m not even sure it’s entirely ethical. Then again . . .”

  Cancini’s body shifted forward. “Then again, what?”

  “If you could be absolutely certain of the outcome and there were no other logical solutions, you might feel compelled to insist on a certain course of action.”

  “What if you weren’t certain? Couldn’t be certain?”

  The priest raised his palms up to the sky. “Then I would probably limit my advice to gentle suggestions and leave it at that.”

  “That’s about what I thought,” Cancini said, unsmiling. “Thanks, Father.”

  “Any time. By the way, your father phoned this morning. He told me you came to see him last night. Said you stayed until he was asleep.”

  Cancini avoided the priest’s eyes. His father had seemed frailer than usual, tiring after only a few minutes of idle small talk. He’d stayed, watching the old man sleep, counting his labored breaths. “Yeah, well, I had some free time. Thanks again.”

  “In the middle of a case?”

  Cancini hesitated. He understood the priest thought he was being a good son. Cancini decided he didn’t have the time to remind him otherwise. He offered a quick thanks and ducked out, leaving the question unanswered.

  Later, seated behind Dr. Michael’s desk, he turned his ear toward the droning voices of the psychologist and his patient. Dr. Michael urged Vandenberg to confess over and over. Cancini had to agree with the department shrink. The advice seemed reckless and naive. Not only could Vandenberg face legal consequences, he stood to lose his family and friends. Why was Dr. Michael so relentless?

  “You know the old saying, Doc, the one about the truth shall set you free?” George had asked on one of the most recent session tapes.

  “Yes, George, I know it.”

  “Is that what you’re trying to do with me? If I tell the truth, I’ll be set free. My pain will go away. I’ll stop feeling guilty. The sadness won’t come so often. Is that your theory?”

  There was a rustling sound, like the sound of pages being turned or papers being shuffled. “Something like that. I do believe the truth is like a healthy drug. It can make you better.”

  The patient didn’t sound convinced. “Let’s suppose I did confess. Who would I talk to? The police?”

  “Yes. A lawyer or someone in law enforcement.”

  “What if they decide to charge me with something?”

  “It was an accident, George. Isn’t that what you’ve told me?”

  “What if they don’t believe me? I kept it a secret so long they might not find me credible. They might want to arrest me.”

  “I doubt that, George. Besides, if I’m not mistaken, some crimes have a statute of limitations. Maybe it wouldn’t even matter.”

  Vandenberg was quiet. Cancini stood up and paced the small office to keep his blood flowing. “You think I should do this, don’t you?”

  Dr. Michael didn’t give a direct answer. “George, you’ve felt guilty all these years because you never took responsibility for your actions. Once you have, then I think some of the guilt will slip away. You’ll start to feel better.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I’m not suggesting you’re not going to feel bad about what happened ever again, but it will be better. It will be a lot better. This is the road to recovery. I promise.”

  Cancini hurried to the tape player and played the last minute again. This is the road to recovery. I promise. He thought back to Father Joe’s words. He decided the promise seemed reckless.

  “I don’t know, Dr. Michael,” George said, sliding back from the suggestion again. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Cancini changed tapes again, listening to the men discuss the events immediately following the death of Sarah.

  “When I left, she was still lying on the ground. I could see the blood. It was so hot that night.” George’s description took on an ethereal quality, as though he’d been merely an observer. “I wanted to stop looking at her but I couldn’t. It was Mary Helen who made me get up, move away, stop acting like a zombie.”

  “She told you to go?”

  “Yes. She pulled me to my feet, pushed me toward the car. I remember that because my feet felt like lead and I don’t think I’ve ever moved so slowly in my life. One time I tripped or something and started crying again.”

  “And Mary Helen?”

  “Mary Helen?” George repeated the question. “She waited. She probably wanted to comfort me, but I think she could tell from before, when I wouldn’t let her touch me, that I didn’t want her to. I remember I could barely stand to look at her. I mean, I knew she was trying to help me, but she was alive and, well, Sarah wasn’t.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “So, you left and didn’t come back that night?”

  “That night? Hell, I didn’t go back for years.”

  “That’s right, you said that before.” There was the sound of pencil to paper and a sneeze. “What did Mary Helen do with Sarah’s body?”

  Cancini’s head came up.

  “Excuse me?” George asked.

  “Well, Mary Helen is a fairly small woman, what did she do with the body? How did she move it?”

  The detective sat forward, his face only inches from the tape player.

  “Jesus, I don’t know. I never asked her.”

  “And she never told you?”

  “Shit, no. She came to see me the next morning, at my apartment. I think I was still pretty out of it. It’s such a blur. I do remember she looked pretty beat. She said something like there was nothing to worry about. She said she took care of everything, stuff like that. Then she said she never wanted to talk about it again. At the time, that was fine by me. All I wanted to do was drink myself into oblivion and forget any of it had ever happened.”

  “I see.”

  “You know what’s so ironic about that?” George asked, and answered his own question. “Forgetting is exactly what I told Sarah I didn’t want to do. She was the one who wanted me to forget about her and I said I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And then I wished I could. But it didn’t work. I guess you already know that.”

  Cancini clicked off the tape. He banged his notebook against his leg. He’d learned more than he anticipated. While Vandenberg’s actions might not have been premeditated, his behavior after was irresponsible and criminal. Not reporting a dead body, especially when you caused the death, implied something to hide. He’d allowed Mary Helen to act as coconspirator, and then later recast her in the role of scapegoat. It crossed his mind that perhaps Sarah had been more right about her partner than she realized. He pushed play again.


  “George, I still don’t understand how the accident happened. Could we possibly go over it one more time?”

  “I’d rather not.” The patient sighed. “I don’t like to remember that part.”

  “I know you don’t, but we’ll do it differently this time.”

  “What do you mean, differently?” Suspicion crept into the patient’s tone.

  “Let’s lay it out sequentially. Try to tell me each thing in the exact order that it happened. Don’t skip around. If you do remember something later, tell me where in the timeline it occurred.” The doctor’s voice took on an expectant edge. “I’ll write everything down and sketch it out.”

  “Timeline? What would be the point?” Cancini’s hand lingered over the fast forward button. He’d heard about the accident several times already. “I’ve already told you everything before.”

  “True, but not in the exact order it happened. Your story jumped around, and other times we only talked about certain parts.” The therapist was undeterred by his patient’s reluctance. “It could be useful later, if you decide to confess.”

  “I still don’t see the point.”

  “George, we need to try different things, look at the accident in a new way. Think of it as an analysis exercise, part of your treatment. It might be helpful.”

  There was a moment of silence, typical for the patient whenever he was expected to make a decision or answer a tough question. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Great,” Dr. Michael’s voice pitched higher. “Just let me get a fresh pencil and notebook.”

  Cancini stopped the tape again. He scratched at his chin, then spun the chair around to the cabinet behind him. In the last drawer, he found a pile of notebooks. He sifted through the books until he located the timeline. He spread it out with his hands, pressing down the pages and smoothing the creases. Four pages in width, it covered Sarah’s arrival at the boathouse and the ups and downs of their fight, and ended with George’s departure. He read it from left to right, noting the erasures and scratches where events had been added and moved. His gaze drifted to the single lamp next to the sofa, its twin destroyed in a moment of passion. He swallowed and studied the pages again, his fingers stopping at each tick on the timeline. Finished, he folded the timeline over three times and replaced it in the notebook. A question—­less than an idea—­popped into his head. He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and pulled the next tape from the box. His outstretched hand paused over the play button and he looked again at the empty space where the lamp had stood. The minutes ticked by in silence until the question grew to a hunch and then to a full-­fledged idea that promised to keep him up most of the night.

  Chapter Forty-­One

  GEORGE OPENED ONE eye. The sun blazed and he turned away, groaning. He struggled to sit up but fell back again, screaming in pain.

  “He’s awake.” Voices and faces he didn’t recognize appeared before him.

  “Let’s move,” another man’s voice said.

  He felt himself lifted up and then forward, up again, and then nothing. Doors slammed and sirens blared, but it sounded far away. Floating, the faces and voices faded. Drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind whisked him back into the past.

  “Do you recall,” Dr. Michael had asked, “how Sarah looked just before she told you this truth, this thing she said she hadn’t been honest about?”

  George stretched his legs and propped his feet up on the armrest of the sofa. He folded his hands across his chest and smiled. In a few hours, he’d escort his daughter to the father-­daughter dance at her high school. Closing his eyes, the image of his daughter’s face, so like his own, flitted through his mind. Elizabeth Grace was a beautiful person, a far better person than her father.

  “George, are you listening?”

  “Sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. He sat up, still smiling. “I was thinking about my daughter. We’re going out together tonight, just the two of us.”

  The therapist cocked his head to the side. “You seem happy at the prospect.”

  “I am. She asked me a month ago. We’re having dinner first, then going to a dance at her school. She’ll be dressed up.” George smiled again, his heart swelling. “My little girl is growing up.”

  “Yes, children do that. They turn into adults rather quickly.”

  The patient turned his eyes toward his therapist. “You know, I’ve never asked you. Do you have any children?”

  “No,” Dr. Michael said, his mouth set in a thin line. “It’s best if we don’t discuss my personal life, George. Let’s get back to Sarah.”

  “Okay. What was it you asked again?”

  “Sarah said she hadn’t been honest with you. How did she look right before she told you the truth?”

  George leaned back on the sofa, no longer smiling. He picked at a loose thread on his pants. “It was a long time ago, I’m not sure I can remember.”

  “Try, please.”

  He pulled at the thread, twisting it between his fingers. “Sarah,” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t think she could look me in the eye.” The thread broke and he let it flutter to the floor. “That’s right. That’s why I didn’t believe her at first.”

  “At first. What does that mean?”

  “I believed her later.”

  “Why?”

  “Details. She gave me details. When. Where.” George’s voice cracked. “Who.”

  “I see. Could she still have been lying?”

  “No. She knew too much. It had to be true.” George seemed unsure, however. “But you think she might have been lying?”

  Dr. Michael’s tone was even. “I can’t give you an answer, George. The truth, whatever that may be, is for you to discover.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said again.

  “Think,” the doctor said. George felt the heat of the doctor’s gaze and shifted on the sofa. “Try to remember not just what she said but how she said it. Is it possible she was lying?”

  George’s eyes snapped open. Each breath brought stabbing pain.

  A man’s voice said, “Get him something now!”

  He rolled his head to one side and glimpsed white walls, tubes, and shiny machinery. A hospital. He blinked. ­People in white jackets moved around him doing things, but said nothing to him. He slowed his breathing to the most tolerable level. There was a sedan and a truck. He remembered. The sedan had tried to run him off the road. The truck came toward him so fast. George had tried to avoid the truck, but there was nowhere to go. They’d crashed. So much noise and pain. He reached up touched his face, his fingers feeling the swollen cheeks and lips. He felt like someone had belted him with a mean right and followed with a serious left hook. He took another shallow breath.

  “Must have been some wreck.”

  “Yeah, he was lucky.”

  George heard the voices and wanted to tell them it was no accident, but he couldn’t speak, his lips fat and his mouth numb. His eyelids fluttered and he fell back in time again.

  “It’s not your baby,” Sarah said, dark eyes focused on some distant point over his shoulders.

  Was she kidding? After everything she’d put him through the past few weeks and the guilt he’d felt about his initial reaction, she had the nerve to use that as her way to end the relationship? He wanted to spit. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

  “I never told you it was your baby. I said I was pregnant.” He said nothing, arms crossed. “It’s not your baby,” she repeated.

  For several minutes, he couldn’t look at her. “Lying is beneath you,” he said when he could speak. “I don’t know why you think I’m that stupid or why you think I’d believe that crap. I know I was a jerk, but I know you were faithful to me.” He glared at her. “This is so unbelievable. You’re a terrible liar.”

  She gasped. Tears mixed with frustration. “I’m not l
ying,” she said, voice quivering.

  “Yeah?” He took a step closer. “About which thing? Are you saying you just told me a lie or that you lied before? I refuse to believe the baby isn’t mine. You’re just trying to get me to hate you so I’ll leave you alone.”

  Her cheeks were wet. “And will you? Leave me alone?”

  They locked eyes and George knew he’d seen through her ruse. Was it her last attempt to push him away? Could he finally convince her now that he would stand by her no matter what? He took a chance. “No.”

  Someone squeezed his hand, pressing it hard and gripping as though they didn’t want to let go. It was comforting as he drifted along, time shifting in his mind—­past and present all lumped together. There were voices again—­close by—­he thought. The hand squeezed again. George tried to squeeze back, but no one seemed to notice. He felt so far away. Was that Mary Helen he heard? She sounded worried, her voice strained and thin. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening briefly. Mary Helen’s face hovered close to his. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. She said something he couldn’t understand, picked up his hand, and kissed it. He drifted away again and thought, Why did she look so old?

  Sarah wiped away her tears and raised her eyes to his. “It was Gordon,” she said.

  “What?” He laughed out loud. “Gordon? My roommate? Really, Sarah? You’ll have to do better than that.”

  She looked past him up the drive. When her eyes slid back to his, her tone was harsh. “It’s true. It was the weekend you went sailing with your dad. I went to your room with stuff I’d made for you—­cookies and brownies. I wanted to surprise you. Gordon let me in and told me where to put everything. He gave me some paper to write you a note.”

  George remembered that weekend. He’d been looking forward to it, surprised his dad could get away and wanted to spend his free time with his son. Yet none of it went the way he thought it would. When they weren’t sailing, his father had spent most of the time grilling George about his future, his career, and Mary Helen. Tired of the interrogation, he’d drunk a six-­pack, much to the chagrin of his watchful dad. He remembered the weekend, but her story didn’t sound right. There had been nothing for him when he returned to his room Sunday evening. No cookies. No note. And Gordon hadn’t said anything, either.