by D. J. Palmer
She researched him the way she always did—relying heavily on social media and reports from the mitochondrial community for which he was something of a hero—but found little joy in his life or his past that could be used to ingratiate herself to him. He worked and he grieved, and that was the extent of Dr. Zach Fisher as far as Becky could tell. She figured he was lonely, as she could find no evidence of a girlfriend, wife, or lover. Maybe he was still pining for his ex, or it could be she needed to turn up the charm factor a few ticks higher. She’d do that if she thought it would be of benefit to Meghan—unlike Carl, whom she’d watched flirt aimlessly, with no justifiable goal in mind.
“How do we get this procedure done?” Kelly asked.
“We need Jill Mendoza to authorize it,” Becky said bitterly. “She’s the one in charge.”
“It’s an invasive procedure,” Carl said with evident reservation. “Meghan’s in a fragile state. She has a terrible needle phobia because of all the treatments she’s received.” He turned his attention over to Becky—and no, he did not look at her the way he did Kelly London.
“If I may be very candid,” Kelly said somewhat tentatively, “it sounds to me, Carl, that you doubt your wife.”
Becky perked up. Well, now, she thought. This girl had more fight in her than it would appear.
“I do,” Carl admitted, slightly sheepish.
“Why is that?” Kelly asked. “If I’m going to be of value, I need everything put on the table. No secrets, no hidden agendas. Those won’t help your cause.”
“What do you know about Munchausen syndrome by proxy?” Carl asked.
Kelly gave a rote answer, a textbook definition of the mental health disorder.
“What do you know of the psychology—the background of the illness?”
Color flushed across Becky’s cheeks, as she knew exactly where this was headed—to Sammy, Cora, to her life.
“Not as much as you, I suppose,” Kelly offered.
“You see, I didn’t know much about the condition myself until my wife was accused of it,” Carl said harshly. “But I went online, did my research, and found some common characteristics.”
“Such as?” Kelly’s eyebrows were raised.
“Grief,” Carl said. “The loss of a loved one. We had a son, Samuel. He died at fourteen weeks of SIDS.”
Kelly’s hand reflexively went to her mouth. “I’m so very sorry,” she said. Becky noted that her sympathy came across as genuine.
“But that’s not all,” Carl continued. Becky clenched her jaw. “Mental health professionals have compiled something of a profile of these mothers—it’s almost always mothers, you see—who use their children to gain attention from medical professionals. And—surprise, surprise—these women had childhoods not too dissimilar from my wife’s.”
“Carl, please.” Becky pursed her lips, feeling the blood throbbing in her veins.
“No, sweetheart,” Carl answered coolly. “Ms. London encouraged us to be honest, so let’s try that for a change. Let’s be honest.”
Kelly shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It is important,” she said, directing her attention to Becky. “Better the issues come out here than some other way.”
But there would be no other way to find out, thought Becky, not without Carl volunteering it.
“All these mothers have attachment issues,” Carl continued unabashed. “They have an insecure or ambivalent attachment to or are estranged from a parent. Becky’s mother is dying in California, but my wife won’t go to visit her.”
“Because of Meghan,” Becky said.
“No, it’s because of Cora,” Carl shot back. “She was a terrible mother—abusive, if you ask me.”
“My father died when my sister and I were very young,” Becky said, unsure why she felt a sudden compulsion to defend her mother. “It was difficult. We didn’t have much money. My mother, Cora, did the best she could.”
“She faked disability to get money from the government,” Carl said flatly. “She taught her kids how to lie for her, how to trick the system, and when the kids didn’t live up to her expectations, she hit them.”
Becky’s face burned as if Cora herself had reached across the country to smack her with the cane she pretended to need. She could see her mother in that ratty, pit-stained nightgown she always wore; heard her voice, coarse from the cough she’d been feigning for years.
“If they don’t believe you, we don’t eat,” Cora had said prior to the social worker’s arrival. “Make them believe. Make them believe!”
Becky snapped back into herself as Kelly pursed her lips, perhaps in an attempt to hide a grimace. Becky nervously pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She hated talking about her mother, but she hated even more that Carl had shared her painful secrets so willingly.
“When you add it all up,” Carl said, “why wouldn’t you suspect my wife? Becky stopped working when Meghan was born because she got physically ill when someone else looked after her daughter. To call her an attentive parent would be like saying the Secret Service pays attention to the president.
“When Meghan got sick a few years back, my wife took her to see doctor after doctor, never getting any diagnosis. Mito is just the latest in a string of possibilities that have all been disproved.”
Becky returned a strained smile. “Do you feel happy getting all that off your chest?” she asked, making her resentment clear.
“It would all have come up in my investigation,” Kelly offered, making an effort to dress the fresh wounds. “I’m honestly glad you shared. The question now is what to do going forward.”
“We have to get Meghan tested,” Becky said with authority. “It’s our best hope.”
Kelly took down some notes on her legal pad while Becky sent Carl a withering stare.
“And you, Carl,” Becky said, “need to decide whose side you’re on here. Don’t make me choose, because it won’t be a choice.”
Before Carl could rebut, the doorbell rang again. He looked at Becky, confused.
“Are you expecting someone else?” Kelly asked.
“No,” said Becky, wondering if Veronica had gotten word out to the media, if it might be the press already chasing the story. She got up to find out, with Carl falling in behind her while Kelly London waited in the living room. Becky opened the front door, and was mildly surprised to see two men in suits who looked nothing like reporters.
“Becky Gerard?” one man said.
“Yes?”
Both men flashed official-looking badges.
“I’m Detective Richard Spence, and this is Detective Howard Capshaw of the Boston PD,” said the thinner of the two.
Spence had the more hard-bitten face, along with a full head of hair. Capshaw’s thinning hair had fewer grays, while his plump cheeks held a ruddier complexion.
“What’s this about?” Becky asked nervously.
“Last night we were called to the home of Dr. Peter Levine. I believe you know him,” Spence said.
“I do,” Becky said, glancing anxiously back at Carl.
“He’s dead,” said Capshaw. “And we’d like to ask you a few questions about that, if we may.”
CHAPTER 31
They gathered in the living room, the detectives seated on the comfortable chairs last used years ago, when Becky and Carl had still hosted parties. The furnishings, in general, all of it oversize dark wood pieces, went together because it had come—down to the lamps and throw rug—from a showroom at the furniture store. Becky had come from nothing, had never dreamed of having anything, which was why she’d never cultivated any style or flair for interior design. She sold homes, not the furniture that went in them. She went for the largest pieces, not the prettiest ones, but even then, the massive room looked spare and lifeless to her.
Becky and Carl sat on the sofa, holding hands—something they used to do that no longer felt natural or even authentic. Kelly London kept to the dining room, reviewing her notes, checking her phone, and most likely eavesd
ropping on the conversation.
“How did Dr. Levine die?” Becky began.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll ask the questions,” the heavier Capshaw said, returning a tough guy stare.
“Very well,” said Becky, removing her hands from Carl’s to fold them on her lap. “Ask away.”
“What’s your relationship with Dr. Levine?” Spence began.
News of the man’s death had cleansed Becky of much of her anger.
“He and Dr. Amanda Nash have been … examining and looking after our daughter.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“He was assessing her mental health,” Becky said, unsure how much she should share.
Spence wrote something in his little black notebook.
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Levine?”
“That would be yesterday afternoon,” Becky said, a hitch in her voice. “When he and Dr. Nash took Meghan away from us after she got sick while we were visiting her at White.”
“What was she sick with?” Capshaw asked.
“We don’t know,” Carl said, eyeing Becky in an unloving way. “It’s been … let’s just say … difficult to figure that one out.”
“We have some background, but feel free to elaborate for us,” Spence said.
“Happy to,” Becky said, sounding a defiant note. “The doctors at White believe I’ve been abusing my daughter, medically speaking—making her act sick, or fake an illness, or just putting ideas in her head so that she feigns sickness for the attention. None of which is true, but I’m having a hard time convincing anyone of that fact, my dear husband included. The hospital took her from us, and they are keeping here there against our wishes.”
Becky sat up straighter, as if unloading her emotional burden had physically lightened her load as well.
Spence jotted furiously in his notebook like a beat reporter getting a scoop. “And I’m guessing you haven’t been criminally charged?”
“No,” Carl said. “We’re in court. Trying to figure that one out.”
“So with Dr. Levine—” Capshaw said.
“Are you going to ask if I think he got what he deserved?” Becky said, interrupting Capshaw while drawing Carl’s ire. “Or if I had something to do with his death? The answer is no, to both. If you ask if I’m broken up about it, well, yes, only because he was so young. But he’s also put my family through a bit of hell, so forgive me if I don’t display the expected degree of shock and sorrow. Now, are you going to tell me how he died?”
“We don’t know,” Spence said, glancing at his notebook. “A Dr. Zachary Fisher was supposed to meet him for dinner. When he didn’t show, Dr. Fisher went to the house and broke a window to gain entry.”
“No evidence of trauma, no sign of forced entry, just a guy sitting on a sofa like you’re sitting on now, only he was dead,” Capshaw added.
“What was Dr. Fisher meeting with Dr. Levine about?” Carl leaned forward, thumb pressed to his chin hard enough to leave the skin bloodless underneath.
“According to Dr. Fisher, it was about you, Mrs. Gerard,” Capshaw said. “Did you happen to have a sit-down with Dr. Levine at the Moonlight Diner a few days ago that did not go particularly well?”
Carl whipped his head in Becky’s direction. Deep creases sank into his furrowed brow. “You met with him? Without me? Without telling our lawyers?” Carl was seething. “Dammit, Becky, what are you trying to do here? Sabotage our chances?”
“I was trying to get my daughter back, which I don’t believe is against any law,” Becky answered imperiously. “So what? We had breakfast, a very short breakfast—what does that matter? How do you even know about that, anyway?”
“Because Dr. Levine mentioned it in an email to Dr. Fisher; said something about you threatening him. Did that happen, or do you think that doesn’t matter, too?”
Becky replayed that day in her head. She had said something, hadn’t she? A warning to Levine not to cross her—or else. It came out sounding overly dramatic, she remembered thinking, even a bit silly, but she’d meant every word of it. She was about to confess, to explain it away, when her mother’s voice came to her like a whisper on the wind. Deny it until the day you die. Deny it and never admit to them you were lying. Of course, that little bit of parental advice had been in reference to the scam Cora had been running, but the lesson applied across a broad spectrum of life’s travails. Here it was rearing its head once more, goading Becky back into a past she had tried so hard to leave behind.
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“So he made up that you threatened him?” Spence asked incredulously.
“I don’t know what he did or didn’t do or say,” Becky replied. “I just know that I never threatened him.”
The “I’ve heard that one before” look that Spence gave Becky showed his cop’s seasoning.
“Can you tell us where you were last night, Mrs. Gerard?” Capshaw asked.
Becky’s hand went to her chest. “Am I a suspect or something, Detectives?”
“Just answer the question if you can,” Spence said impatiently.
“Well, I was … I was home, I suppose.”
“All day, all night?” Capshaw asked.
“No, I went out for a while—the grocery store, the gym—the owner can vouch for me if you want to call him.”
“What time did you come home?”
Becky glanced up at the ceiling, as if tilting her head back would dislodge some stuck memory. “Maybe four, five that afternoon. Around that time, anyway.”
“And was anybody home with you?” Spence sounded distracted, like he was putting together the time sequence in his mind.
Carl shook his head glumly. “I worked late that night,” he said. The suspicious look he gave Becky made her want to disappear, but not before she left him with two black eyes.
“What time do you think you got home?”
“It was after midnight,” Carl said. “Why? Do you have a time of death?”
“Medical examiner thinks it was between three and six o’clock, but we’re still trying to narrow that down.”
Becky looked confused about something. “Did you say there was no foul play? No break-in, no struggle, no apparent injury? That he just died, suddenly?”
Capshaw nodded. “Yeah, that’s what we said.”
Spence chimed in. “But when a young person like Dr. Levine dies suddenly, with no apparent cause of death, and he’s involved in a contentious situation—and I think it’s fair to say this situation can be called contentious—then, you know, we get a bit curious.”
“Well, did you do a toxicology screen or something like that?” Carl asked.
Capshaw shrugged. “Let’s just say that’s a work in progress.”
“Well, I had nothing to do with it,” Becky snapped. “I may not have liked him, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”
Spence’s thin smile adequately conveyed his disbelief. “In that case, we’re hoping you’d be willing to provide us with elimination fingerprints, as we call them, and a DNA sample, just so we can check those boxes.”
“Fine,” Becky said with a curt nod.
Capshaw added, “And we’re wondering if you mind us taking a look at your computer; let us borrow it for a few days to have our forensic guys comb through it.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Carl asked.
“Not if we get permission,” Capshaw said.
“Carl, let them take it,” Becky said, giving a dismissive wave. She had painstakingly restored her files, research, and bookmarks from her backups, which provided confidence that if something were to happen to this computer, she’d be able to recover her data with little trouble. “I’ve nothing to hide. It might look bad in Judge Trainer’s eyes if we’re not seen as cooperative. It’s terrible what happened, and I’m happy to assist with the investigation, even though it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.”
Capshaw stood, and Spence did the same.
&nbs
p; “Great,” Spence said. “You show us where the computer is; we’ll bag it up and give you a receipt. I promise we’ll get it back to you in a few days’ time. Home delivery, so it won’t be a further inconvenience. Thanks again for your cooperation.”
“It’s no problem, really,” Becky said. “I can use Meghan’s computer in the meantime. Obviously, she’s not using it.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Capshaw said. “Does this look familiar to you?” From the pocket of his sport coat, Capshaw retrieved a clear plastic police evidence bag with a single diamond pendant earring inside. “We found this on Dr. Levine’s living room floor, not far from his body. Just curious to know if it looks familiar to you before we send it off to the lab for DNA analysis.”
Becky studied the earring closely. “No. I don’t recognize it,” she said firmly.
Spence gave a nod that was neither a show of approval nor disapproval, just the acknowledgment of a claim that was not yet a fact.
Carl did not buy Becky much jewelry these days. His last purchase was a diamond-encrusted pendant from Tiffany’s with her initials engraved on the back, which she wore more than any other piece she owned. He probably would not remember those earrings even if he had bought them for her.
A knot formed at the base of Becky’s neck. She grew quite anxious, rethinking her decision to willingly give the detectives her computer and submit to their forensic tests. But there was no easy way to back out of the arrangement now. After the detectives were gone, Becky would go to her bedroom. She’d rifle through her jewelry box, even though she had little doubt that she’d find only one of her pair of diamond earrings inside.
CHAPTER 32
MEGHAN
Happy stinking birthday to me.
What a joke. Never in all my life did I think I’d be celebrating my sixteenth birthday in a psych ward, but here we are, so let the festivities begin. There were a lot of tears when Mom and I saw each other, but that was nothing strange. People cried all the time here. They hollered at empty space or stared blankly at their feet the same way they did at the television in the common rooms. There were always odd noises—weird gurgles, grunts, cries. One girl was convinced she was a horse. She’d gallop down the halls neighing and snorting at people so they’d know to keep away. It worked.