A Guilty Mind

by K. L. Murphy

  “If you’re looking for the Temples, they’re not home,” a voice called from next door. A gray-­haired woman stood on her front stoop, a yellow-­flowered housecoat wrapped tightly around her waist. She folded her arms over her thin chest. “They’re in New York.”

  “Damn.” He slapped the file against his leg. To her, he said, “Do you know when they’ll be back?”

  “Not till Sunday.”

  He didn’t know if he had that long. Martin would have Vandenberg in custody as soon as he was able. There had to be another way. He crossed the lawn. “Maybe you can help me.”

  The lady clutched at the collar of her housecoat and took a step backward. “I’m not buying anything,” she said.

  “I’m not selling anything,” he said, and held up his badge.

  Her hand went to her throat. “Oh my. Is everything all right?”

  “As far as I know,” he said with a smile. “Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

  “What kind of questions?” She kept one hand on the door.

  “How long the Temples have lived here, what kind of ­people they are, that sort of thing.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and peered at him with cloudy eyes. “You have a nice face, young man. Kind of a big nose, but nice. I was just about to make some tea.” He followed her inside. “I’m Thelma Jenkins, but you can call me Thelma.”

  “Nice to meet you, Thelma. Mike Cancini.” He walked through a narrow hall adorned with framed pictures, large and small. More pictures covered the refrigerator in her kitchen. The house smelled faintly of gardenias. “How well do you know the Temples?”

  “Oh Lord, I’ve lived here since these houses were built. I know everyone. I’m an original owner, as they say.” She talked while she filled the silver kettle. “Now, the Temples moved in later, bought the house from the Lancasters.”

  “Did they have a daughter when they moved in?”

  “Oh yes. She was just a baby then. Cute little thing, too.” She set the sugar and cream on the table. “Is this about her?”

  “Sort of. I’m trying to get a background on her.”

  She sat down and placed a cool hand over his. “That poor dear. Is she in trouble?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. It sounds as though you felt sorry for her. Weren’t they a happy family?”

  The teakettle whistled and she rose from the chair. She poured the hot water over tea bags and carried the cups to the table. “My children were older than Lauren. They didn’t play together much, but no, I don’t think ‘happy’ is the word I would use.”

  Cancini watched her dunk her tea bag and did the same. Steam curled up and warmed his face. “How would you describe the Temples?”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, I think it was awful over there if you don’t mind my saying so. Howard and Jean, those are Lauren’s parents, aren’t the most friendly of folks. The truth is, I always suspected something rather terrible was going on in that house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Thelma wagged her finger and clucked her tongue. “Broken bones is what I mean. One time it was her arm, then her ribs, even her jaw. There was always some bruise or other. I know children get hurt, but it was so often. That girl jumped every time they yelled her name to come in for dinner. I wanted to call the police, but my husband told me to stay out of it.” She let out a breath. “I tried to be nice to her, gave her cookies, but I don’t know how much it helped. Another neighbor told me the school was suspicious, too. They might have investigated. I’m not sure.”

  Cancini swallowed. He remembered the lump on the girl’s collarbone. If there was any truth to Thelma’s story, Lauren Temple’s “parent issues” were worse than he suspected. “What about when she was older? Do you know if she told anyone?”

  “I doubt it. She was terrified of them.” She blew on her tea. “There was one time when I might have heard a fight in the driveway. Lauren was grown up then, maybe in high school. I heard her scream she hated them. Everyone in the neighborhood probably heard her. She said something like she wished she’d never been their daughter. I couldn’t hear what Howard said back but it must have been something, because she fell to the ground and next thing I knew, she was crying like, well, I don’t know what. Howard went in the house and shut the door.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Asshole.”

  Cancini’s lips twitched. “You didn’t like Howard Temple.”

  “Correction. I don’t like Howard Temple.”

  “And his wife?”

  “I guess she’s okay if he’s not around.”

  He reached into his file and pulled out a photo. “Is this Lauren?”

  She smiled, her voice soft. “Pretty girl, isn’t she? She deserved better than them.”

  Cancini said nothing and pulled out a second photo, this one of Nora Michael. In the corporate photo he’d obtained, she wore a gray suit and silver earrings. Her hair, pinned up in a bun, emphasized the sculpted cheekbones and dark eyes. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  She leaned closer to the picture. “No, I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Would you mind looking again? Maybe she was a friend of the Temples? Maybe visited their home over the years?”

  “No, I’ve never seen her,” Thelma said again. “They don’t have many friends.”

  He left the house, his steps heavier than when he’d arrived. Although no closer to proving a connection between Nora Michael and Lauren Temple, he’d learned more than he’d expected. He slid into the waiting taxi.

  “Where to now, pal?”

  Cancini rolled down the window and snapped a photo of the Temple house. It was picturesque, just the kind of house kids dreamed of growing up in. The only thing missing was a white picket fence. His pulse quickened and his fingers tightened on the file. He needed to know more. He needed to know it all. “Take me to Social Ser­vices.”

  Chapter Forty-­Five

  CANCINI HUNG HIS brown leather jacket on a hook. He knotted his tie and slipped on a blue blazer. “Any stains?”

  Smitty stepped back and appraised his partner. “Nope. You look good. Not used to seeing you so dressed up.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Is everyone here?”

  “The Vandenbergs just arrived. I put them in the captain’s office.”

  Cancini nodded and tucked his notebook into his jacket. “The widow?”

  Smitty jerked a thumb toward the interview room. “In there, with her lawyer. He’s pretty peeved, too.”

  “Good.” The parties had been separated, just as he’d requested. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” He raked his hand through his white-­blond hair. “I’ve never worked anything like this before. This case is crazy.”

  Cancini clapped the young man on the back. Crazy sounded right. He’d fit most of the puzzle pieces together in Boston and the rest came together after his return. They’d worked through the night and the next day, sorting through the evidence, and planning the arrest of Dr. Michael’s murderer. There were no more “what ifs.” All the cards would be on the table, for better or for worse, and no player would be a winner. The stakes were just too high. “Martin okay?”

  Smitty nodded.

  Cancini’s throat itched and his skin tingled. Gathering them here, in one place, could backfire. He swallowed some water. “Let’s go.”

  The lawyer started in right away. “You have no right to keep us here. Mrs. Michael has been through enough. How dare you hold her here as though she were a suspect? Have you no compassion?” The man stood guard behind his client, hands pressed on her shoulders. Nora Michael stared straight ahead, her eyes sunken and impenetrable.

  Cancini walked to the large pane of glass. He couldn’t see the district attorney on the other side, but neither coul
d the lawyer. “Mrs. Michael,” he said, and swung around. “I’ve been thinking about our discussion the other day.”

  “What discussion?” The lawyer bent his head to hers. “Did you speak to the police without my knowledge, Nora? Please tell me you didn’t do that.”

  Waiting to see what she would do, Cancini said nothing.

  She shrugged. “It was nothing, Gerard. He asked me a ­couple of questions. That’s all.”

  “Yes, that’s all, Gerard.” The lawyer’s head shot up. “And your client failed to give me an answer.” Her face remained placid, and Cancini wondered how much the lawyer knew about his client’s private life. “Actually, I wasn’t referring to that conversation as much as the one at Monty’s.”

  The lawyer became agitated. “What’s he talking about, Nora?”

  She waved a hand in the air, brushing off the question. “I told you about this, Gerard. I spoke to him about a patient.”

  “Right. I knew about that.” He eyed Cancini. “Did you find the patient?”

  “Mrs. Michael told me she had spoken to her husband on the phone the night he was killed and he’d been upset about a patient. This patient, she didn’t know the name, had lost his temper during his session that day. Also, she thought maybe the patient had a violent past.” He shifted his attention to the widow. “I got to thinking, the way you were able to steer me toward one of his patients for the murder, I wondered if your husband talked to you about other patients. Maybe bounced things off you?”

  “Of course not.” Her skin turned pink. “I told you he didn’t make a habit of discussing his cases with me. In fact, just the opposite.”

  “But you knew about this patient?”

  “Yes, but only because this patient had shown violent tendencies and it made him nervous. And I did not steer you toward anyone. It just so happened something happened during their session that day.”

  “How long had you known about this patient?”

  She threw up her hands. “I don’t know. Like I told you, my husband was a little obsessed with this patient. He was worried so I guess he confided in his wife.”

  “He must have had other patients with severe emotional issues, even other violent patients, yet he never shared that information with you.” Cancini cocked his head. “Did you ever wonder why he did now?”

  “No. I just assumed he needed to talk. That’s all,” she said, the words clipped.

  The lawyer spoke up. “Detective, why are we here?”

  Cancini glanced at Smitty. His young partner stood near the door holding a thin manila file folder. He looked at the widow again. “I went to Boston the other day.”

  Nora’s lips parted, then clamped shut. Even watching closely, he almost missed her split-­second reaction and instant recovery. “I think of Boston as home, Detective. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”

  “Are you originally from Boston, Mrs. Michael?”

  “No.” She gave him a weak smile. “We moved a lot when I was a child. I’m from all over, I guess. Boston is where I’ve lived the longest.”

  “Fair enough. Would it be accurate to say you weren’t eager to relocate to Washington then?”

  “I suppose. Boston is my home.”

  “I guess you have a lot of friends and family there, don’t you?”

  The attorney pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and tapped his watch. “I’ve got other meetings, so can we please get to the point? Surely you didn’t bring us here to talk about Mrs. Michael’s friends or what town she’s from.”

  Cancini forced a smile. “We brought you in because we thought you’d like to know we’ve got a suspect in custody.”

  The man blinked, then beamed at his client. “That’s excellent news. Great news. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  Nora Michael sat stone-­faced. The lines around her mouth deepened. “Who is your suspect, Detective?”

  “I brought you in to thank you personally, Mrs. Michael.” He watched her face. Her lipsticked mouth opened, new understanding in her eyes. “You’ve been very helpful, especially the information about the patient.” Her face paled. “You were right.”

  “So, it was one of Dr. Michael’s patients,” the lawyer said. He patted his client on the shoulder. “That’s terrible.”

  “The patient you told us about was struggling. He and your husband had some sessions I can only describe as emotional and volatile. They did have another one of those episodes on the day your husband was killed.” She dropped her head, breaking eye contact. “I must tell you, in a way, you provided the key to this case.”

  “Did you hear that, Nora?” The lawyer patted her again.

  Cancini turned to the glass and then to Smitty. “Can you bring them in now?”

  Her head came up, dark eyes brimming with tears.

  The lawyer frowned. “Are you bringing the suspect in? This is highly unusual, isn’t it?” He bent toward his client. “Nora, dear, are you sure you’re up to this? Because if you’re not . . .” He let the words trail off.

  White-­faced, she twisted her fingers, turning her wedding ring over and over. Cancini felt his muscles tighten. He moved back toward the viewing glass to see the door and the widow at the same time. The minutes passed and she lowered her head, shoulders shaking. Who was she crying for? The door opened and it was his turn to be surprised. Nora Michael, previously so cool and confident, wilted. Slumping over, she fainted.

  Chapter Forty-­Six

  GEORGE’S BODY ACHED and he winced with every bump and turn in the road. Mary Helen sat close to him, her hand resting lightly on his leg. They passed Fredericksburg, and Quantico, and Springfield. Larry drove, making small talk occasionally, but mostly keeping quiet. No one spoke about the reason for their trip to D.C. No one spoke of Dr. Michael. Larry had prepped the pair as much as he could, but even he hadn’t been told many details as to why they’d been summoned. George put on a brave face for Mary Helen, but he didn’t think she was fooled. The closer they got to the capital, the less they talked, the silence among the three saying everything.

  At the precinct, Larry did the talking. Face grim, he said, “You asked us to come in, Captain, and we have. Mr. Vandenberg has demonstrated his willingness to cooperate—­more than once, I might add. So perhaps you could explain why we’re here today.”

  Mary Helen squeezed his hand. She’d been doing that a lot since the accident. Unsure how to respond most of the time, he accepted the gesture without reciprocating. If she noticed, she never said.

  “We appreciate you making the trip.” The captain folded his hands, lacing his fingers together. “The reason we asked you here is we’re hoping to clarify a few things about the night Dr. Michael was murdered.” He squinted at George. “I don’t think I have to tell you that things look a little suspicious that night. Your alibi, for one, Mr. Vandenberg, cannot be corroborated. You know that, of course?”

  “Are you prepared to charge my client, Captain Martin?”

  The captain flicked a toothpick in the trash and smiled. “I’d like to give your client a chance to explain a few inconsistencies in his story.”

  George’s heart skipped a beat, the implication clear. They didn’t believe him, and sitting there, he knew he couldn’t withstand a polygraph. How could he tell the truth about his activities that night when he didn’t know what the truth was?

  “We’d like to do that, Captain,” Larry said, nodding

  “Good. Good.” A new toothpick bobbed along with the captain’s words. “Why don’t we start with when you left the club? You told one of my detectives you went straight home, guessing you arrived back at your apartment no later than ten-­thirty. Is that what you said?”

  George cleared his throat. “I did say that, but I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  The toothpick stopped moving. George felt the heat of the captain’s scrutiny. “
You don’t know if it’s true? Either you went home or you didn’t, Mr. Vandenberg. There’s no in between.”

  “Actually, Captain, my client is telling you the truth when he says—­”

  Martin held one hand up in the air. “I’d like to hear what your client has to say for himself.”

  Mary Helen squeezed his hand again, but did not utter a word. It was odd, he thought. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t taken over and spoken for him. Stranger still, he almost missed her sure-­handed approach. On his own, he felt shaky but answered as honestly as he could. “I don’t know if it’s true, because I don’t remember. I blacked out.”

  The captain’s face hardened. “That’s convenient, isn’t it?”

  George winced. “I had a lot to drink at the club. I remember leaving and I remember waking up the next morning. That’s it.”

  The captain chewed on his toothpick until it fell out of his mouth in a pile of mush and spit. “All right, let’s say I believe you.” He reached behind him and placed a videotape on the desk. “We have a surveillance tape that shows you in a convenience store just before midnight, nearly two hours after you left your club. That’s a lot of time. Plenty of time, in fact, to drive to Dr. Michael’s office and back.”

  George’s fingers and hands went cold. His breath quickened.

  “Being at a store isn’t a crime,” Larry said. “If you have something that places him near the doctor’s building, we’d like to hear it. Mr. Vandenberg is being truthful. He cannot explain his whereabouts or actions. We are in the dark as much as you are.”

  “Actually, I’d like to ask you another question, Mr. Vandenberg.”

  He licked his lips. “I’ll try.”

  “We searched your apartment a few days ago. Were you aware of that?” George nodded. “You have a set of knives in a butcher block—­some steak knives and larger ones. Is that right?”