She Wore Mourning

by P. D. Workman

  “Everybody has things they don’t want to talk about,” Dave said. “But we have to share them if we want to overcome them. This inner work; it’s not for cowards.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  There were looks exchanged around the circle.

  “Maybe you should talk to him,” Angie said. “We’re not supposed to be sharing information about other people.”

  “I just wondered,” Zachary said. “With the trouble he’s been having since his son died… I wondered if he ever talked about Declan when he was coming here.”

  “I heard about that,” Angie said with a nod. “Poor Spencer and Isabella. I can’t imagine what they must have been going through. They both loved that little boy.”

  Zachary didn’t want to press the question, worried that the harder he pushed, the more they would push back about not wanting to talk about someone else.

  “I lost my parents when I was a kid,” he offered. “My whole family. I’m just starting to realize how much it affected me…” He paused, and no one said anything. “Not just grief,” he explained, “but… psychologically… the fear I carry into other relationships.”

  There were nods and noises of agreement from around the room.

  “It must have been hard for Isabella and Spencer to parent, with both of them being OCD… and so different from each other.”

  “Spencer didn’t talk much about Declan,” Dave said. “He was more likely to talk about business stuff than anything personal. Isabella was more likely to talk about the difficulty of being a parent, responsible for someone else. Spencer just stopped coming. Like he didn’t need the group anymore.”

  “He was complaining about intrusive thoughts,” M said. “I thought maybe he’d open up, but then he faded out. He hadn’t ever been one to come every week, but it got less and less often…”

  “It’s only been Isabella the last couple of years,” Dave agreed.

  “What does that mean, intrusive thoughts? Is that like his counting compulsion, before he came to Vermont?” Zachary intentionally dropped another hint that he knew all about Spencer and his history.

  Winston was frowning at Zachary. “You have OCD and you don’t know what intrusive thoughts are?”

  Zachary snorted. “Well, I know what my intrusive thoughts are, but I thought that was more… PTSD. Flashbacks. I can’t imagine Spencer getting as emotional over his own thoughts as I do. He’s so… ordered.”

  “He was, though,” Angie said. “There was one day when he broke down about it. I think he was too embarrassed to come back after that.”

  Zachary leaned forward. “What did he say?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember what it was… I don’t think he told us anything specific. Just that… he had to do something to get them out of his head. He didn’t know how long he could keep fighting them.”

  Apparently, he had kept fighting them for two more years, alone.

  And then what had happened?

  Finding the name of Spencer’s therapist turned out to be easier than talking Molly into giving up the OCD Anonymous group. He told the group that Spencer had suggested he go to a doctor that he had seen for a while. A Dr. Bloom…? Or was it Chen? He had gotten so many different recommendations; he couldn’t remember which had been Spencer’s.

  “Dr. Snowdon,” Dave supplied. “I went to him for a couple of years too. He specializes in anxiety disorders.”

  “Snowdon…” Zachary mused. “I don’t think that was it… are you sure?”

  “Yes. He works out of the health center in Vermont Plaza. An old guy, but he knows his stuff.”

  “Is he still around? Maybe Spencer is seeing someone new now. Didn’t Snowdon retire?”

  Dave grew more vehement. “No. No, I saw him just a couple of weeks ago. He’s still practicing. That’s where Spencer went. I don’t know if he is still seeing him or not, but he was using Snowdon. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

  So, Zachary had the name of Spencer’s therapist. Other members of the group had given him other suggestions as well in case Snowdon wasn’t taking any new cases or wasn’t a good fit for Zachary.

  Zachary went home, back to Bowman’s couch, feeling good about himself. He was making progress. The case was going to go somewhere; he would soon be able to lay everything out for Molly and the police. He’d had a couple of cookies at the support group, a treat he didn’t allow himself very often.

  When morning rolled around, he looked up Dr. Snowdon’s address and credentials. He anticipated that getting in to see Dr. Snowdon and getting any information out of him was going to be very difficult. Who else was going to have better insight into Spencer’s psyche than his therapist?

  He camped out in the waiting room after introducing himself to the receptionist. She said that he would not be able to see Dr. Snowdon, who was completely booked with sessions for the day. When Zachary sat down to wait, she shook her head and ignored him for the first hour. After that, Zachary watched her get more and more fidgety, looking at him when she didn’t think he was looking and whispering to other office staff behind her hand. Zachary continued to leaf through magazines, covertly studying the patients who came in for their sessions.

  They all looked remarkably normal. At the support group, there had been a few people who were dressed strangely or had an odd personal appearance, and some who were obviously bacteriophobes, constantly rubbing their hands with sanitizer, or wiping down their chairs. At the doctor’s office, everyone gave the appearance of perfect normality. Zachary examined himself. He supposed he had some obsessive-compulsive tendencies himself, but he took care to look normal to other people. He had it down pretty well. No one gave him a second look. Most of the time.

  The receptionist was talking to a white-haired, heavyset man in a t-shirt and khakis, making frequent glances in Zachary’s direction. Zachary turned his head and made eye contact with the man he assumed was the doctor. He walked over to Zachary, his creased face showing his puzzlement.

  “Mr. Goldman, is it?”

  “Are you Dr. Snowdon?” Zachary stood up and offered his hand.

  Snowdon shook it. “Yes. I must confess, I’m not sure why you’re here…”

  “Could we talk privately?” Zachary glanced around at the other people in the waiting room, who although they didn’t look at him, were all ears.

  Snowdon sighed and shook his head. “Follow me.”

  He led Zachary to an office. It was pretty much like Zachary expected. A computer and desk. A couple of chairs and a couch. More magazines, fake plants, a few bookcases lined with books, certificates on the walls, a picture of his family on his desk.

  Zachary sat in one of the chairs and made himself comfortable. “This is very nice.”

  “Now, if you would explain to me what you’re doing here…?”

  “I’m a private investigator. One of your clients has come up in one of my investigations, and I wanted to talk to you about him.”

  “You must know I can’t do that. Doctor-patient confidentiality applies.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to ask you questions about him. I said I was going to talk to you about him.”

  Snowdon scowled. “Really, I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “One of your patients is Spencer Bond. He has OCD.”

  “I can’t give you any information on any patients.”

  “Spencer is married to Isabella Hildebrandt, The Happy Artist, who also has OCD.”

  “That may be.” Snowdon shook his head. “I am sorry I can’t help you.”

  “They have a son named Declan, or they did until he died last summer.”

  Snowdon’s gaze sharpened and he didn’t make any objection.

  “I know that one of the exceptions to doctor-patient privilege is when you think that someone might harm themselves or others.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If you knew that Spencer was going to harm his child, you would have had to speak up. You would
have gone to the authorities and had him committed.”

  “That never happened.”

  “No. So, I guess you didn’t know ahead of time that he was going to harm Declan.”

  “Do you have proof that he had something to do with his son’s death?”

  “You didn’t say, ‘Spencer would never do that.’”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. I just think that if I was a psychologist, I would have some idea as to whether a patient was capable of something like that.”

  “I don’t think anyone could claim to know what their patients were capable of. Not one hundred percent.”

  “No. You didn’t think Spencer would hurt Declan, did you?”

  Snowdon just looked at him.

  “I know some things about Spencer’s past behavior,” Zachary said.

  “Oh, do you?”

  “He came to Vermont because of the billboard signs law. He had a compulsion to count billboards, and it was disrupting his life, so he moved to Vermont where there were no billboards to count.”

  Snowdon cocked his head to the side a little, considering this. Then he sat down at his desk.

  “That’s what Spencer told you?” he asked.

  Zachary nodded. “And I know that he got rid of Isabella’s mismatched stuff so that he wouldn’t have to look at it, even though she would only eat from one plate. He didn’t say that he didn’t know it was the only plate she would eat from, but I think that’s what he wanted me to believe.”

  “You don’t sound like you believe it,” Snowdon suggested.

  “No. I don’t think he could have helped noticing that his wife only ever ate off one plate. One that was chipped and didn’t match anything. It would have been like a big, red, flashing light for him, wouldn’t it? Of course he knew it was the only plate she would use.”

  Snowdon shrugged, not sharing his opinion or his knowledge one way or the other.

  “I also think…” Zachary ventured into guesswork, “that he got rid of her cat because he didn’t want it shedding and tracking dirt around the house.”

  “Really?” Snowdon seemed surprised at this revelation. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. I have a suspicion that if we called their friends, the Raymonds, we would find out that he gave them the cat. I assume they swore never to tell Isabella about it. They ended up moving out of town; maybe that’s why he picked them. The cat was missing for eight years. Then when they moved back into town, the cat suddenly showed up again. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”

  Snowdon nodded, sucking in his cheeks. He didn’t give his opinion one way or the other. Zachary took a deep breath.

  “So we come to Declan,” Zachary said. “A kid takes a lot more time and energy to keep up with than a cat.”

  “That’s true,” Snowdon agreed. “But parents develop a stronger bond. A different kind of bond, with their children. As much as the cat ladies would like us to think it, loving a cat isn’t the same as loving your offspring.”

  “And you can’t just give a child to your friends and ask them to keep quiet about it.”

  “No,” Snowdon offered a little smile at this. “I would agree with that.”

  Zachary couldn’t sit still in his chair any longer. He got up and started to pace back and forth across the room. A beep sounded from Snowdon’s desk phone. He hit a button in reply. ‘I know I’m running late. I should only be a few more minutes.’

  He raised his eyes to Zachary. “We do need to move things along, here.”

  Zachary paced back across the office. “What would make someone with issues like Spencer, with the same kind of coping mechanisms as him, decide that murdering his child was the only thing to do? That’s the part I don’t understand. If he needed more help, he could have asked for more help. A housekeeper. For his wife to do more. A nanny. They had the money.”

  “You’ve taken quite a leap. I’m not aware of any evidence that Spencer did anything to hurt Declan. The child wandered out of his yard and drowned. It’s tragic, but there’s no reason to suspect foul play. Is there?”

  “He had cough medicine in his bloodstream. His mother refused to give him cough medicine. Or to let anyone else give it to him. He didn’t take it himself. He didn’t find it when he wandered from the yard. He wasn’t given it by a stranger who took him from his yard. The only explanation I can find is that Spencer gave it to him. Spencer decided to do what he always did. Get rid of a compulsion by getting rid of the trigger.”

  Snowdon tilted his chair back. He rubbed his chin, thinking about it. He didn’t look at Zachary as he let out a long breath of air.

  “There are many different kinds of obsessions and compulsions. Some people have hand-washing compulsions. Or an obsession with everything being straight and square. Or in groups of four. For other people, it’s collecting things. Hoarding china figurines, or cats, or pop can tabs. That’s another kind of obsession.”

  “Right,” Zachary agreed. “Spencer and Isabella were both OCD, but they had different kinds of obsessions. Spencer was neat and tidy, and Isabella was a collector. It was hard for them to live together, butting up against each other’s obsessions.”

  “But there are also obsessions that are rarely discussed. It’s one thing to go to your doctor or support group and say that you washed your hands forty times yesterday, that you’re stuck in a rut, and that you need some kind of intervention. Our society is pretty understanding about that kind of compulsion. They may even see it as a virtue. I’ve heard people say that they wish they were OCD so that their houses would be clean.”

  “Uh-huh…?”

  “No one ever wants to be the crazy cat lady. We still recognize and talk about hoarding. It’s still something that you can get help for if you decide it’s time.”

  “Both Spencer and Isabella were going to a support group for a while. Spencer was coming to therapy with you.”

  “But there is a whole world of obsessions that our society is not as understanding or accepting of.”

  Zachary cast his mind over what he had learned in the case, and what he had observed about Spencer, trying to find something that didn’t fit. Zachary’s own compulsions were less acceptable. People didn’t think of stalking when they thought of OCD. They didn’t think about his constant agonies over relationships as part of a mental illness. That didn’t seem to fit into the puzzle. Not Spencer’s puzzle.

  Dr. Snowdon got up and went over to his bookshelves. He pulled a thick volume down and returned to his desk with it. He opened it and flipped through the pages for a couple of minutes. Then he stopped, marking the place with his finger.

  “Obsessions with Sexual Content and Obsessions with Violent Content,” he announced. “Intrusive thoughts can cause the sufferer great distress. Patients are often reluctant to seek support for fear of being labeled pedophiles, homosexuals, or wife-beaters.”

  “What?” Zachary was stunned. He stared at Dr. Snowdon, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. “What are you saying? That Spencer—that OCD patients—can be pedophiles? That’s one of the obsessions that people don’t talk about?”

  “No, no, don’t misunderstand.” Dr. Snowdon held up a finger on his other hand as if lecturing a class. “They have intrusive thoughts. Unwarranted fears that they could hurt a child or another loved one. They are not sexual deviants, but they fear that they could be. Imagine how you would feel if you had thoughts about causing harm to your wife or your girlfriend. Or your child. Imagine how you would feel if you had these thoughts constantly, whenever you were around them. You loved them and would never do anything to harm them, yet you constantly imagined doing them violence.”

  Zachary tried to understand the concept. “So, it’s not that they want to hurt their child, but hold themselves back…”

  “No. They have no desire at all to hurt the child, but they keep seeing themselves doing it.”

  “They don’t have a compulsion to hurt them…”

  “No.
They have intrusive thoughts. Imagine that you don’t want to walk to the edge of a cliff, not because you’re afraid you’ll fall, but because you’re afraid that you will jump.”

  Zachary sat back down. He stared at the big book on Snowdon’s desk. “Did Spencer ever tell you he had this kind of intrusive thoughts?”

  “People with thoughts like these will rarely go to a doctor for help. It’s a taboo topic. Usually, they will go to great lengths to avoid the triggers, or to avoid getting into a situation where they could act out the intrusive thoughts. Statistically, a patient who is having these kinds of thoughts is less likely to actually do harm to their loved one, not more.”

  “Then if Spencer had intrusive thoughts about hurting or killing Declan, he would be highly unlikely to be the one who drowned him. Which makes Isabella the lead suspect again.”

  Snowdon didn’t smile or confirm Zachary’s interpretation. Zachary pressed his lips together and tried to figure out what he had missed.

  “Putting aside the statistics,” Snowdon said, “your earlier question was what would make someone decide to murder their child? Someone who had, in the past, resorted to drastic measures to completely eliminate the triggers of other obsessive behaviors or intrusive thoughts.”

  Zachary made the connection. “So maybe it wasn’t because Declan was messy or disturbed Spencer’s order. It wasn’t that Spencer didn’t want to be distracted or interrupted from his routines. It was because the only way to stop having these violent or sexual intrusive thoughts about his own son was to eliminate the trigger.”

  Dr. Snowdon slowly closed the book. “Most people never mention these things to their doctors,” he reiterated. “A doctor would probably have no idea if his patient was having these kinds of thoughts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Zachary got out of his meeting with Dr. Snowdon, he tried to call Isabella. There was no answer. He looked at his watch. It was late enough in the day that she shouldn’t still have been taping. She should have been back at home unless she had shopping or other errands outside the house to be done. He tried several times, and she didn’t answer. Finally, he tried Molly’s phone.