An Old Faithful Murder

by Valerie Wolzien

  “And that didn’t happen?” Susan asked, relieved to stand by the stream and ask questions without gasping for breath.

  “George was especially busy with research the first year of Darcy’s life. He was also traveling all over the world to speak at conferences and symposia. Maybe, if he had been home more, it would have happened. But to answer your question, he didn’t ever really bond with Darcy. I’m afraid that, in some very important ways, Darcy grew up without a father.”

  “And as he got older … ?”

  “Darcy grew up, and if anything, they grew farther and farther apart. Darcy was so different than our other boys—and so different from George. George was a scientist, a sportsman, an outdoor enthusiast. And Darcy is an artist, with an artist’s personality and interests. He’s creative, introspective, sensitive. He and George just don’t … didn’t live the same life.”

  Susan thought back to the suicide attempt. “And this hurt Darcy in some way?”

  “No, of course not,” Phyllis surprised her by answering. “Darcy was a naturally happy child, and I tried as hard as I could to shield him from his father’s disinterest. But I’m afraid I didn’t succeed,” she ended, taking her ski poles in her hands.

  “It was terrible, always watching the two people I loved most in the world misunderstand each other and hurt each other through those misunderstandings.” She pushed off, and Susan followed. “I was always hoping things would get better, that George would become more open-minded, or Darcy would grow up enough to give in more easily to his father’s wishes, but it never happened. And then, the summer before he left for college, George and I came home from dinner at a friend’s home and found Darcy in the downstairs bathroom with bleeding wrists. He had taken one of the scalpels that George used for dissecting specimens and used it to make deep slices in both wrists.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and Susan respected her needs.

  “But we got there in time and my child was saved,” she continued. “I thought he was too fragile for it, but Darcy insisted on going off to college less than a month later. And he’s done very well there. He’s so talented that all his art professors just have to respect him, and he has a lot of friends …”

  “When did you find out that he was gay?” Susan asked, when Phyllis didn’t appear anxious to continue.

  “He announced it that first Christmas vacation. Although, of course, I had suspected it for some time. But George just couldn’t accept it—I don’t know why either. I guess it was some deep-seated prejudice that couldn’t accept such a thing in his own son.

  “Anyway, Darcy went back East early that December. And he has worked to stay away from home ever since. It’s been very, very sad.”

  Susan thought about Beth’s description of the apartment in New York City that this woman had apparently decorated for her son. “But you’ve seen him. I mean, you haven’t waited for him to come home to see him.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve visited him in college or wherever he’s been living for the summer as much as possible. Darcy has urged me to do so over and over. I felt like he needed his family, even if he hasn’t managed to have a good relationship with his father all these years.”

  They skied together for a while before Susan gathered the courage to ask the question. “Why do you think I have to know this?”

  “Because I can’t ignore the fact that everyone thinks Darcy is the murderer. And, Mrs. Henshaw, you’re the only person who can help my son!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Susan didn’t see how she was going to help Darcy. In fact, she couldn’t even find him. She had gone to the room he had shared with Randy, to his mother’s room, had wandered the lobby and restaurant of the lodge, and she hadn’t found him. She had checked the ski rack, and his equipment was there. She then left messages at the front desk, with most of his family, and with the hostess in the dining room. Maybe Darcy would find her.

  “At least, that’s what I’m hoping,” she explained to Kathleen, flopping down on the bed in the Gordons’ room.

  “This isn’t a very large place. If he hasn’t gone off on his skis, he’ll be close at hand,” Kathleen assured Susan, holding the baby over her shoulder, hoping to produce a burp.

  “Unless he’s feeling suicidal again,” Susan answered, and then proceeded to explain what she knew about Darcy’s past.

  “I’m surprised they leave him alone,” Kathleen commented, putting Bananas down in his portable crib.

  “Unless they hope he kills himself,” Susan said, almost to herself, leaning over to pat the baby.

  “Do you think they might?”

  “Everyone seems pretty sure Darcy did it. And I suppose, if he did take his own life, at least they wouldn’t have to worry about who the murderer is anymore. Even Phyllis, who obviously adores Darcy, isn’t saying he didn’t do it!”

  “Sounds to me like she’s trying to get a light sentence for him,” Kathleen agreed. “In fact, I was going to talk to you about that. Dr. Cockburn stopped me in the hall earlier today.…”

  “You’re kidding. You couldn’t avoid him?”

  “I didn’t want to when he explained that he was very, very concerned about Darcy—you know, I think he is the most pompous ass I’ve ever met. Dr. Cockburn, not Darcy. Anyway, it seems Mrs. Ericksen has spoken to Dr. Cockburn about her son—informally, so he felt it was ethical to speak with outsiders about it.”

  “And?”

  “And he all but told me that he’s sure Darcy is crazy.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t put it like that—you know how psychiatrists talk.” She stopped for a moment, pulling a patchwork quilt over her sleeping son. “Actually, come to think of it, he doesn’t talk like most psychiatrists talk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not very discreet. He talks too readily about his cases and his theories.”

  “But he’s no one’s doctor here, is he? He really doesn’t have to be discreet, does he?”

  “No. And it’s more than that. He’s too positive. Back when I was working, we had a number of psychiatrists who advised the police and prosecutors about suspects—and they were never positive about anything! I swear, there was nothing you could do to get one of those doctors to give a completely firm answer. They were always adding comments about their opinion only being an educated guess or that people weren’t completely predictable. Dr. Cockburn is just the opposite. He appears to be absolutely sure of the truth of his opinions. I’ve never run into anything like it.”

  “But he didn’t actually say that Darcy is crazy, did he? That doesn’t sound like a diagnosis.”

  “No. He said that Darcy was a very unstable personality and was not responsible for what he did.”

  “He just came up to you and made an announcement about Darcy Ericksen?”

  “Almost. I was walking back from the laundry, where Bananas and I had been washing his last clean pair of pajamas, and he asked if I had time to speak with him for a few minutes—very formally, in fact.”

  “And you said that you did.”

  “Sure,” Kathleen said. “I even invited him to my room.” She grimaced. “Naturally, he felt he had to make an inane comment about us being alone together in a hotel room. For a person who specializes in human behavior, he doesn’t seem to have much sophistication about his own life. Which is neither here nor there, is it?”

  “So he went to your room,” Susan prompted.

  “Yes. And after he made these dumb comments, he said that he had been talking with Mrs. Ericksen about her son and he had come to some conclusions. Which is when he explained about Darcy being unstable and not responsible. He almost blurted out a complete diagnosis—which I think we can ignore.

  “But what we can’t ignore,” Kathleen continued, “is that he said Mrs. Ericksen asked him to talk to Darcy and then to tell you what he thought.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He was only telling me about Darcy because he knew I was your friend and he
thought it was imperative that you know about this as soon as possible.”

  “I wonder why. Did he explain?”

  “No. He said that he was going to be in the lodge until after dinner and that he would love to speak to you.”

  “I think this all fits together. I think Phyllis is sure that Darcy killed his father, and she is trying desperately to set him up with the best defense possible. You know, I wonder just what she said to Dr. Cockburn.” She stood up. “Look, I’d like to talk to him right away. I think I’ll go look around. Maybe I’ll run into Darcy while I’m at it. Want to come with me?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m going to have to find Chloe first.”

  “Where … ?”

  “Her room is four doors down.” Kathleen pointed in the right direction. “But she may be in the lounge. I told her that she wasn’t going to be needed for a few hours.”

  “I’ll go look for Chloe, as well as Darcy and Dr. Cockburn. If I find her, I’ll send her back with a message so you know where to meet me. Okay?”

  “Perfect.” She opened the door to the hallway for her friend. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Susan smiled as Kathleen closed the door gently so as not to awaken the baby. She counted doors down the hall, then knocked on what she hoped was Chloe’s room. There was no answer. Sighing, she headed for the exit. She hurried down the hall, her hiking boots clunking against the industrial carpeting as she went. No one was coming in that way, and she pushed open the door, moving into the cold, crisp air.

  It was snowing more heavily now, but Susan didn’t notice. She was thinking over what she had seen through the open door of the last room on the right. In a room furnished with two double beds, Dr. Irving Cockburn had been sitting on one, apparently listening intently to Kathleen’s au pair, who was sprawled out on the other.

  Why hadn’t she interrupted them? she asked herself. After all, she was interested in talking with the doctor. And Kathleen needed the girl. What had stopped her from knocking on the half-open door? Was it the degree of intensity in the look on Dr. Cockburn’s face that made her feel uncomfortable? Or was it merely that they seemed such an unlikely couple? What could they possibly have to talk about?

  She was shaking her head at her own stupidity by the time she got to the dining room. He was a single doctor, she was a beautiful young girl. What was going on in that room was normal. Susan had been foolish not to interrupt. Now Kathleen would be stuck in her room with a sleeping baby.…

  “Hi! Find anyone yet?”

  “How … ? Where … ?” Susan had the sense not to turn quickly, but she was astounded to hear Kathleen behind her.

  “Chloe came back to the room right after you left, so I ran after you.” Kathleen answered the unasked questions. “What’s wrong?” she continued when Susan just stood there with her mouth open.

  “I just saw Chloe. She was lying on the bed in Dr. Cockburn’s room.”

  “What?”

  “Shhh.” Susan tried to quiet Kathleen’s shriek. “Let’s go in there.” She pointed to the restaurant. “I could use some coffee, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “They were together on the bed in Dr. Cockburn’s room? Were they dressed?” Kathleen asked.

  “Shhh!” Susan insisted on waiting until she was seated at a private table before discussing it. “That’s not what was going on. You’re missing the point!”

  “I hope so,” Kathleen said, sitting down across from her friend. “I know he’s a doctor, but I think Chloe can do better than that. Besides, he’s too old for her. I feel responsible—”

  “Would you shut up? We’d both like some coffee,” she added to the waitress who had appeared at their side. “I’m not talking sex,” she added when they were alone together. “They were just talking.”

  Kathleen put her napkin in her lap and looked closely at her friend. “So why are you making such a big deal about it?”

  “Because it didn’t look right to me.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a stickler for propriety.”

  Susan waited to answer until their coffee had been poured and the girl had left, leaving the pot on the table. “I’m not. You know that! There was just something strange about the way the two of them were together.”

  “What exactly?”

  “They … they acted like they had known each other for a long time—like they were relaxed in each other’s company, not like they only met a few days ago.”

  “Oh, that. That’s Chloe. I mean, that’s the way she is about everyone. We only met her ourselves a week ago, and already she seems like part of the family. It’s wonderful!” She sipped her coffee. “With her looks and her personality, that girl could find a place for herself anywhere in the world—and with anyone. I think you’re making too much of this. That’s just the way Chloe is.”

  And a perfect description of most con artists. But Susan kept that thought to herself.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “So are you going to talk to Irv?”

  “Who?” Susan stared at Kathleen.

  “Dr. Cockburn. He’s who you started off to see, isn’t he? And you saw him in his room.”

  “Oh. Yes. I guess I should go back over to the rooms.…”

  “You don’t have to. He’s here.…”

  “Mrs. Henshaw. I thought I had explained to Kathleen that I needed to speak with you,” Irving Cockburn said, and though as yet unasked, sat down in the spare chair at the table.

  “I told Susan—”

  “This is really very, very important. And it shouldn’t have to wait,” he continued, ignoring Kathleen. “I’ve always been a person who believes in getting right to the center of a dilemma, dealing with it, and getting it out of the way. Believe me, a psychiatrist knows that things have to be dealt with.”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” Susan protested.

  “We have to put the ghosts of the past to rest if we’re going to make progress in our futures,” he continued as though he hadn’t heard her.

  This from a man who apparently couldn’t even pick out appropriate clothing for himself? He went on.

  “When people start avoiding a therapist is usually the time they should be going to me … him.”

  Wonderful. He had arranged the world so that any avoidance of him could be attributed to the other person’s neurosis instead of his own personality. Susan would have been amused if she hadn’t remembered that other people’s lives were involved here. “Aren’t there any hers?” she asked sweetly.

  “ ‘Hers’?”

  “Aren’t there any female psychiatrists?” She reworded her question.

  “Naturally. We speak generically rather than sexually,” he said grandly.

  “Naturally,” Susan parroted. “But you wanted to speak to me. A female, but not a psychiatrist.” She gently nudged him back toward reality.

  “Mrs. Ericksen wanted me to speak to you. I usually don’t talk about my cases with strangers.”

  And with friends? “What did she want you to tell me?” was all she said.

  “I don’t allow others to dictate my prognosis.”

  “I didn’t think you did,” she lied, wondering when he was going to get to the point and who was paying the bill.

  “We should start, I think, with the victim.”

  “Which one?”

  “I believe that George Ericksen was the only real victim here. That other young man who came along with George Ericksen’s son was the first victim of Darcy Ericksen, but although George was the second victim, he was the only true victim.” He stopped. “You do understand?”

  “You want to tell me something about George,” Susan translated. Accurately, it turned out.

  “He was a sick man. Sicker even than his son.”

  “You mean mentally?” Susan thought of cancer, heart disease, other possibilities.

  “The greatest sickness of all.” He leaned across and glared into her eyes.

  Susan resisted the urge to laugh. “What exactly
do you mean?”

  “The overwhelming need to control the lives of others,” came the pronouncement. “It’s common enough. And it is probably even acceptable and encouraged in some functions of life—such as a guard in a maximum-security prison.” He chuckled, apparently thinking he had been clever. “But,” he continued sternly, “it can be the most destructive trait of all. A person who demands that their family, friends, and colleagues conform to their wishes has made prisoners of those who love him.

  “I have spoken extensively with Mrs. Phyllis Ericksen, and I had come to the conclusion that George Ericksen controlled his family completely, and that led to his own destruction.”

  “You mean someone killed him to stop him from controlling their life.”

  “No. Someone killed him to escape the pain of his constant disapproval.”

  “So the person who killed him was the person he disapproved of most,” Kathleen commented.

  Susan nodded her head. “Darcy. But why—”

  “That’s not the point,” the psychiatrist interrupted her. “The point is that he had no control over it.”

  “Darcy Ericksen had no control over whether or not he killed his own father?” Kathleen asked, sounding more like a police detective than she had in recent years.

  “Exactly!” He beamed approval. “You see, he could not live up to his father’s expectations and still be himself. He either had to kill himself or kill his father, thus becoming free to be whatever he wanted to be.”

  “A murderer.” Kathleen was looking angry.

  “You are missing the point, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Susan kicked Kathleen under the table. “It’s just that Kathleen and I don’t understand this type of … of personality. You’re saying that George Ericksen tried to control his family, and when he failed, his disapproval was so great that Darcy killed him to escape from it.”

  “Exactly.” Susan and Kathleen were confused. Cockburn had contradicted himself by explaining the same situation in two different ways.