by Sarah Lovett
The second story—which ran the following day on page eight—explained that both of Lily's sons had been staying with the family's housekeeper on the night of the tragedy. It continued: "Away on business, state Sen. Duke Watson was not immediately informed of his wife's death. Watson, D-District 9, was not available for comment, but the dead woman's sister, Belle Nash, expressed the family's shock and sorrow."
Sylvia skimmed the next column and stopped short when she saw the article's last paragraph: "Medical investigators have determined that 28-year-old Lily Watson died from a self-inflicted bullet wound, Bernalillo Sheriff's Deputy Matthew England said Thursday."
So Matt England had investigated Lily's death when he was a deputy sheriff. He hadn't mentioned that fact last night. His antipathy for Duke Watson was almost two decades old.
She put her speculation on hold and turned her attention back to the stack of newsprint in front of her.
Six days after the tragedy, the Journal ran a photograph of Duke Watson standing over his wife's grave. Next to him, two small boys clutched the hands of Lily's sister, Belle Nash. Sylvia recognized the colonial church in the background; Lucas had been buried in the same cemetery as his mother.
It occurred to Sylvia to pull papers for the one-year anniversary of Lily's death.
Under funeral notices and memorials:
Lily Nash Watson, on that darkest of nights, you left us. Our prayers for your comfort seemed unanswered until we accepted God's will as all-knowing and ever-wise. We will meet again in the next world. We love you. And we miss you since you went away a year ago today.
As she copied down the memorial, she wondered who had placed it in the paper. Duke? Probably not two boys under the age of eight.
Lucas Watson's arrest for murder was easier to find because it was recent . . . the murder he committed, and his trial, were unremarkable, except for the brutality of the beating and the fact that his father was a state senator.
Finally, Sylvia pulled up the sole reference on William Watson. At the age of seventeen, Billy had been arrested for false imprisonment.
In print, the eighteen-year-old victim told a horrifying tale of stalking, kidnapping, and attempted rape. Three weeks later, the charges were dropped when the victim recanted—she now claimed to have willingly posed for the telephoto pictures found in Billy's possession.
IT WAS HOT in the court as Duke Watson slammed the ball against the whitewashed wall. "It takes balls to play squash, Herb."
Herb wiped sweat from his forehead on the sleeve of his gray T-shirt. "Just need to get in shape." "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-one."
"Don't rub it in."
Duke tossed his squash racquet in the air, caught it in one hand, and slapped it against his thigh. "Let's get in the sauna. I need to burn out a cold." He led the way through the low wooden door to the locker area.
The Kiva Club was the only men's club in Santa Fe, and Duke Watson had joined in the mid-seventies. He continued to pay his dues because he enjoyed the squash games, and, most of all, he appreciated the gentlemen's agreements that were sealed with sweat and a beer from the lobby's vending machine—a sub rosa courtesy of the management.
The club was housed in a historic adobe complete with fifteen-foot ceilings, cracked vigas, and thick earth walls that were whitewashed year after year. From the outside, the building looked like a part of the old La Posada Hotel property that was immediately adjacent. No sign; to find the club, you had to know where you were headed.
Duke folded his clothes and laid them in a loose pile in front of his locker. As he strode toward the sauna, his gut trembled, but his thighs and butt didn't budge. Herb followed the older man into the dark interior of the cedarwood room. They were its only occupants, and Duke immediately ladled water from a bucket and splashed it over hot rocks. Vapor billowed up, and Herb gasped as he sucked fiery air into his lungs.
Duke Watson took the high bench.
Herb eased his rear onto the low bench and wiped his hands over his face. "Toasty."
"That's the idea."
To Herb, Duke looked like Humpty-Dumpty. His legs were toothpicks, but above the hips he swelled into a huge egg. There was a strong chance Humpty would be New Mexico's governor by next term. A drop of sweat dripped from Herb's nose and landed on his penis; he remembered where he was.
"So, what's on your mind?" Duke asked.
"This complaint—"
"What about it?" Duke leaned back, spread his knees wide, and his genitals hung loose like a bird's wattles.
Herb said, "Sylvia saw the photos."
"How did that happen?"
"She barged into my office, screamed at me, said she'd get a lawyer."
"So you rolled over and showed her your belly?"
Herb didn't answer, and Duke's expression hardened. "It's her bad luck those pictures survived the riot. My son had them tucked inside that book she wrote."
Herb frowned. "But who took them?"
"Herb . . ." Duke spoke as if he were gently correcting an errant child.
Herb wiped the sweat from his face. He was breathing harder now. His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. "All I know is Lucas wanted a shrink for the parole board—he wanted Sylvia. Fine. You told me to keep him in the pen. I did. I killed two birds with that evaluation." He swallowed hard. "Now, he's dead."
Duke's eyes narrowed. "Neither you nor I could have prevented a riot."
Herb sputtered. "I just . . . It's just, to ruin her career—I know she didn't sleep with Lucas, and I don't like the idea of filing the lawsuit just now—"
"She was at Luke's funeral." Duke raised a finger, took a breath, then dropped his hand to the bench. "She had some kind of relationship with my son . . . she's to blame for his escape, his transfer to North Facility. In my mind, she's to blame for his death."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AT 7:35 A.M., Sylvia found Matt England shooting baskets in the gym of the Law Enforcement Academy. He was bounding around the court, drenched with perspiration, doing his best to intimidate the hell out of a young recruit.
He seemed to be succeeding. The recruit didn't get many shots in before the round ended and Matt tossed the ball to a noodle of a kid dressed in gym grays.
"Take over, Waters!"
England acknowledged Sylvia, picked up a towel, and joined her at courtside.
She said, "Can we talk?"
"How did you find me?"
Sylvia shrugged. "Rosie knows half of your buddies; she did me a favor." They both stood silent for a moment, watching the athletes, then Sylvia said, "Why didn't you tell me you worked on Lily Watson's suicide when you were a deputy?"
"None of your business." The basketball shot out of the court and slapped against England's thigh. He caught it between palms, hollered, "Heads up!" and tossed the ball back into play. The kid named Waters caught it, dribbled, and scored a basket.
Sylvia stared blindly at the game; she seemed oblivious to the screech of rubber soles on varnished wood, the high-intensity energy level of the players. Matt noticed her hair was uncombed, her clothes looked slept in, and she wore no lipstick, no makeup at all. She looked like she was under stress and buckling.
He said, "I've got some brochures at home—dream vacations where you can get away from it all for two weeks."
She frowned. "I'm serious—"
"I'm serious. You look like hell. Get out of town, get your mind on other things. Get your life back together."
"I can't." She tipped her head forward and dark hair tumbled in front of her eyes.
"I read about the complaint in this morning's New Mexican."
Sylvia had started her day over an hour ago when she walked down the road to pick up her morning paper. The headline ran COMPLAINT LODGED AGAINST LOCAL PSYCHOLOGIST. The byline belonged to Tony Vitino. The article at the bottom of page one was short and to the point. Duke Watson had filed a complaint against psychologist Sylvia Strange alleging sexual misconduct with his son and her client, Lucas Wats
on. Watson's attorney, Herb Burnett, was quoted briefly, "The evidence is being considered by the state's Board of Psychologist Examiners."
England assessed her for an instant, not unsympathetically, then said, "Let me throw on some clothes. I'll meet you in the cafeteria."
She watched him jog back to the court to confer briefly with both recruits. By the time she reached the stairs, he had disappeared. She exited the gym and found the cafeteria on the lower level.
A half-dozen tables were occupied in the small self-service snack area. Male and female state police recruits hurriedly consumed institutional-style scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, and coffee.
Sylvia had bypassed the steam trays and had just taken her first sip of coffee when England pulled out a chair and joined her at a corner table. Her eyes skimmed over Matt, tan slacks, leather jacket, and boots. "That was quick. It takes me that long to pull on a pair of cowboy boots."
He grinned and clicked the heels of his boots together. "Lucchese's. They're made with local ostrich hide, completely handcrafted, the dyes are natural."
She dredged up a smile. "Can I buy you breakfast?"
"Thanks, I ate three hours ago." He pulled a napkin from a plastic container and blotted up a small puddle of coffee near the sleeve of her sweater. She was close enough so he could see a tiny freckle on her nose.
She lifted her chin and gazed directly at him. Her eyes were almost black under fluorescent lights. She watched his tongue working behind his cheek while he considered what he would say next.
When he finally spoke, his voice was subdued. "It was the first real case I worked in New Mexico. I'd been a sheriff in Oklahoma, but I left in a hurry and took what was offered when I got here: deputy." He glanced out the window, saw a somber, cloudy sky, and frowned. "That morning, I was the first officer on the scene. I got there after a security cop showed up." He predicted her question and said, "The caretaker—he'd worked for the family for three or four years—he found her mid-morning. Called us, then he called his buddy who worked a few minutes away from the house."
Three recruits finished their coffee and walked past the table with a nod to England; Matt watched them silently until they exited the cafeteria. "It was hot that day. Sweltering. I remember it made me think of Oklahoma. Muggy, dense, big thunderheads." He frowned. "She was on her bed. You could tell she'd been beautiful."
Sylvia imagined an overheated bedroom and a dead woman stretched out on a large bed. The story fed some empty internal place in her, but her eagerness to hear it disturbed her, made her feel unclean.
He continued. "I felt it right away—something was hinky. They'd already moved evidence . . . and they'd left coffee cups on the vanity and cigarette butts in the ashtray."
"The security man?"
"And the caretaker. Later, they claimed it was accidental."
"Did Lily have any history of previous attempts?"
"Her doctor admitted she'd had a problem with downers and booze. OMI found a generous supply of Valium in her system. From what the sister said, Lily was high-strung . . . a firestorm."
"Where was Duke Watson?"
England gave her a speculative look. "According to one of his law partners, he was in Denver at the Brown Palace."
"Did the hotel confirm that?"
"A maid, a bellhop, the desk man all vouched for him—he was registered for three nights—but they couldn't swear he was there the night Lily died. There was nothing to place Duke at the suicide." He crumpled up a napkin. "That's it. End of story."
Sylvia nailed him with her eyes. "Not quite."
Matt resisted the urge to shift his butt in the hard chair.
She said, "Ten people a week tell me their stories, and I know when it's time to peel back another layer and go deeper." Sylvia inched forward in her seat "We haven't reached the end of your story."
She waited, kept her eyes on him, and ten seconds crept by before she saw him make up his mind.
"When I got there, the .22 was a few feet from the body." Matt had lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Later, after I was off the case, I had a chance to read the medical investigator's report; it said the weapon was found in her hand." His voice stayed even as he continued. "The hole in her face, to me it looked like an exit wound. The one in her neck looked like entry. It's hard to shoot yourself in the back of the head . . ." With his finger he traced an invisible infinity sign on the table. "The autopsy report disagreed with my opinions."
"You think he murdered his wife? What motive?"
"There was none . . . her money went in trust to her children, he never remarried, her family gave him the connections he needed."
"But you still think he killed her." Sylvia stood and gathered her things. As she left, England didn't say a word.
THE PENITENTIARY PSYCH office was too cold, and the jackal said so. He watched as psychologist Sylvia Strange rolled her chair a few inches along the floor, adjusted the thermostat, and rolled back behind her desk. She eyed him intently.
He had just spent the last hour drawing pictures, looking at ink-blots, and free-associating. Now, they were discussing his past.
He wondered, Does she know who I am? If she doesn't, she lives. If she does, she dies. He wanted to spare her; he didn't kill anymore for pleasure.
He said, "I first heard the voices in Vietnam. I killed babies and innocent women. I don't do that anymore; that's what separates me from all the predators."
It was interesting to confide in her, to tell her about himself. He knew she was smart. He knew he didn't frighten her; his dark corners didn't even make her blink. He was sorry they couldn't be friends. He had a feeling she might understand his mission in the Lord's Army.
"The voices, what were they like?" Sylvia asked.
He thought, She wants to know if I'm psychotic. "They were loud. They said I should kill myself. The Army docs said they were the voices of people I'd killed. Guilt."
"Do you think that's right?"
"It seemed right."
"Is there anything else you can describe about the voices?"
"Sometimes they spoke Vietnamese." The blade was taped under his armpit. It was scalpel-sharp and bore no resemblance to a blunt, clumsy shank.
"Do you speak Vietnamese?"
"Just the little bit I learned over there."
Her questions continued. She encouraged him to elaborate and focus: Were the voices repetitive? Did they speak in complete sentences? Did they come from inside or outside?
He said, "They could've been my own thoughts. But the orders to kill came from Washington. You'd be court-martialed if you didn't obey." He smiled at her. "The voices from Washington, they weren't crazy."
He told about the shock therapy and how the voices disappeared for a while. About his second time in the hospital. About his discharge. The way she sat so quietly, accepting him, his words, made him feel better.
She was silent, leaving him space to continue.
"That's when the Lord's voice came," the jackal said simply. He could tell she was interested. "He talks to me."
"When?"
"Whenever he has important things to say." He felt the need to change the subject. "I've always been religious." It was the first lie that he'd told her, and it made him feel bad.
Her eyes were following him closely. "I'd like to hear more about the Lord's voice."
"I'd rather talk about growing up."
"You seem uncomfortable," she said softly.
"Yes. I'd really rather back up." He shifted in his chair and the tape under his arm gave way. The blade slipped down his shirt sleeve and fell out his cuff. It lodged in the seat of the chair next to his thigh. His mouth tightened. She was watching him so closely.
He closed his hand around the base of the blade; he nicked a finger as he told her he had been a Boy Scout. She was impressed. They talked about his childhood, his younger sister, and the way his pa had screamed at his ma. It occurred to him that her father may have been a soldier, too. Korea? Maybe Nam in the
early years. The jackal nodded to himself; that was probably the genesis of her darkness.
"You said you started committing the robberies when you were twelve?"
"Twelve or thirteen." He felt blood drip from the cut on his finger.
"Did your sister know about the robberies?"
His sister had asked him to see a psychologist. She was worried about him, about the letters he was writing her every week.
She worried about the money—after it was delivered by one of the hacks—even when he told her an Army buddy had finally paid back an old debt.
But it was payment from higher powers for a job well done, he thought.
Sylvia asked, "What are you thinking about?"
He saw that she had her head tipped at an angle like a bird. He felt a sense of relief: She doesn't know who I am. "My sister."
He'd sent his sister every penny; all he needed was the head.
When the session was over, he stood and thanked the doctor.
She stood also and walked around her desk. Her hand brushed his arm just as he covered up the now-bloody blade.
"—you ever a medic in the Army?"
He heard the edge in her voice; she'd picked up his panic. Shit, she does know who I am. The Lord had okayed his plan; it was quick and efficient. He would put her out of her misery.
As he turned in readiness, she stepped back, and the office door opened. A woman breezed in, her arms overflowing with files.
"Oh, sorry," Linda DeMaria said. Files tumbled onto the desk. She was a compact, perky woman with short dark hair, bright eyes, and forceful brows. "I thought you'd already finished."
Sylvia said, "We were just leaving. We'll give you back your office." She stared at the jackal. "I'll see you in the new year."
The general in the Lord's Army had no choice but to make his exit. As he reached the door, he caught the ghost of his reflection in the frosted glass and he turned his head abruptly away.
