Dark Side: The Haunting

by J. M. Barlog

  “That’s good to hear. I’m sorry to intrude during your convalescence. Do you feel up to speaking with us? We’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “S-s-sure.”

  Warren slid the chair beside the bed, offered to bring in another from the den, and when Rick refused, took his place across the bed from the detectives, retaking Jenny’s trembling hand.

  Why would detectives come here? Jenny thought, waiting for Rick to speak.

  “Mr. Garrett, we need to speak with Mrs. Garrett alone. Could you wait outside? It’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Jenny searched Warren’s eyes. Why must he leave? What possibly could be going on? She bounced her eyes off Rick to Vicki. She found no compassion in those eyes either. Something felt terribly wrong.

  Warren let concern stream off his face. There was an edge of hesitation in Warren’s response, as if he initially thought he should refuse. But he nonetheless departed, closing the door quietly in his wake.

  “Mrs. Garrett...”

  “Jenny, please, call me J-Jenny. I-I hate being called M-m-mrs. Garrett. Makes me seem like I’m my h-husband’s p-p-possession or something.”

  “Jenny, we just need to ask you a few questions regarding your accident on the night of September fifteenth.”

  “Okay. B-but I must tell you, I-I c-can’t remember much.”

  “Do you remember driving your the car that night?”

  “N-no.”

  “Not at all? Do you remember where you were just prior to the accident?”

  “No.”

  Rick sought to conceal the surprise in his voice. Although he maintained his poker face, his voice, however, was a different matter. He glanced down at Vicki, who had taken the chair in hopes that it might make Jenny feel more at ease with them. It appeared, though, as if the gesture offered little in the way of easing the tension of the moment.

  “Jenny, it’s very important that you remember what happened that night,” Vicki said.

  Jenny detected their concern; her eyes moved from Rick to Vicki back to Rick. A sudden burning erupted in her stomach surging into the back of her throat. A electrified pain clawed its way up the back of her neck.

  “I d-d-don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember leaving the restaurant?”

  “I c-can’t remember that night at all.”

  Jenny’s voice cracked. She clung to the edge, on the verge of tears.

  Rick switched tactics fast, burying the growing anger that was now trying to buoy to the surface. He stowed his interrogator’s voice and pulled out a seldom-used paternal tone. Jenny was having trouble dealing with his questions.

  “You have no recollection of having dinner at Diamante’s that night?”

  “N-no, none.”

  Rick scribbled a line in his notebook.

  “Jenny, your husband said you and he shared a bottle of champagne at the restaurant. Do you remember that? Was that all you had to drink?”

  “I’m sorry. But I-I can’t remember. Oh, my God! Did I kill someone?”

  For a moment neither spoke.

  Jenny’s hands trembled out of control.

  Vicki reached out to calm them.

  “You sideswiped a car before going over the guard rail. A woman and her nine-year-old daughter were injured in the accident. I’m afraid the daughter’s still in a coma,” Vicki said.

  “Oh m-my God.”

  “Mrs. Garrett, it’s our job to reassemble the pertinent information about the accident. We need to get a clear picture of exactly what happened that night. We were hoping you could help us,” Rick said.

  “You’re saying I...injured someone.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Jenny pulled her hands from Vicki’s and began working her sheet nervously through her fingers. For a moment, she sought the dark recesses of her memory, hoping to force something into her conscious mind. Something that might help explain what these detectives were talking about. Nothing surfaced.

  Rick noted Jenny’s nervous habit. Could that have contributed to the accident that night?

  Tears found their way into the corners of Jenny’s eyes. Why were they questioning her? More importantly, a part of her deep inside needed the truth about that night. Did she cause the accident?

  “W-was I...at fault?”

  “Jenny, that’s exactly what we need to determine. At this point, we have very little information about your accident. I was hoping you might be able to fill in some of the gaps.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t remember. I’m sorry if I hurt someone. I can’t even remember what happened before the accident.”

  “Jenny, can you remember anything that occurred that Friday, the day of the accident? Where were you in the morning or the afternoon?” Vicki asked plaintively, though she was cleverly probing for the least little scrap of useful information.

  The detectives had come here to determine if Jenny could be held criminally responsible for the accident, and if so, what charges should then be filed against her. How much did Jenny drink before leaving the restaurant? If the little girl died, they may have to charge her with involuntary manslaughter. That is, if Jenny were driving while intoxicated that night.

  Jenny paused.

  Rick could see her mind churning behind those seemingly-innocent blue eyes. It would appear she was trying in earnest, but failing.

  “No. I’m sorry. I just can’t remember.”

  Jenny’s voice grew frantic.

  “Jenny, can you tell us what you are able to remember clearly?”

  Leaden moments dragged on; Jenny ransacked her jumbled memory. Bits and pieces of her life lay scattered about. Her pounding heart echoing in her ear only worsened matters. She had to put the pieces back together. But where to begin?

  “I was h-having lunch with K-kate,” she said. There was triumph in her voice. “We were...I’m n-not sure where we were. There’s a black waiter...we had...I can’t remember.”

  “Who is Kate, Jenny?”

  “Kate M-Matheson, m-m-my partner. We own a small uptown advertising agency. Matheson and Garrett.”

  “How long have you been in business?”

  Jenny thought. Why didn’t that come automatically to mind?

  “Our fourth year.” She felt relief in knowing that. “We’re still s-s-struggling, but we’re getting better.”

  “When might this lunch have taken place?”

  “I don’t know.” Jenny closed her eyes. “We were happy, excited...Kate had to leave...everything after that is blank. It’s like I didn’t exist.”

  Vicki looked up at Rick. Was that lunch on the day of the accident? Had they been drinking at that lunch?

  Rick scanned some scribbles in his notebook. He stopped suddenly, looking at Jenny, then he returned to his notes.

  “Is there any c-c-criminal...”

  “Right now, Mrs. Garrett, we’re investigating. I understand your husband has been handling the details with the insurance company, so we’ll be able to get some of the information we need from him. We would like to come back as our investigation continues...to interview you again.”

  “I understand. I really wish I c-c-could help you. But I can’t remember. I-I didn’t d-d-do anything wro...”

  Vicki stood up, her eyes concerned, her face like stone. Rick slipped his notebook into his coat pocket, signaling the end of the interview. Afterward, he removed a card from his wallet and slid under the ashtray on the table beside Jenny’s bed.

  “Here’s my number. If you remember anything about the accident, or the days leading up to it, please contact me immediately. It’s very important that I hear your side of what happened that night.”

  Jenny took in the card. The words beneath Rick’s name sent a wave of nausea into her throat: SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS. Jenny felt no relief at their departure. Guilt swarmed over her like angry bees. What had she done?

  ****

  Warren sat waiting with cigarette in hand at the bottom of the stairs when Rick a
nd Vicki came down. He tapped his cigarette nervously along the edge of the ash tray he held in his other hand. The action seemed more an unconscious tick rather than a sign of unrest.

  “Could we ask you a couple questions, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Sure. But I gave everything I know about the accident to the police at the hospital that night. A couple of days later someone from the county sheriff’s department called me for a follow-up. I haven’t learned any more since then.”

  Rick’s face remained expressionless, his tone level and unrevealing.

  Warren led them from the foyer into the sitting room, where he settled into his overstuffed leather chair with its own standing ash tray beside it. He indicated that Rick and Vicki should sit on the sofa. It implied that no one occupied that particular chair but him.

  “This shouldn’t take long.”

  Rick and Vicki took opposite ends of the damask Victorian straight-backed sofa, finding it impossible to sit comfortably upon. A sure way to keep the interview short was to force the detectives to sit on that sofa, which appeared to be an expensive antique, but felt like sitting on a rock.

  Did Warren intentionally choose a position distant from the officers?

  Rick surmised that the room’s lavish accouterments, along with the cloth-bound original edition books on the shelves, were meant definitely for show rather than use. Warren seemed the type who needed to display the accumulations of his accomplishments. Only if others could drool over it, did it mean anything to him.

  Vicki remained silent during their brief interview. Her task now was to carefully monitor Warren’s mannerisms to see if she could detect anything out of the ordinary that might aid them in analyzing the little they already knew.

  “That night, Mr. Garrett, you said Jenny had not been drinking, correct?”

  “Yes...no. Wait. I said we split a bottle of champagne. That was, I guess, two glasses each.”

  “Did you have a long wait for a table at Diamante’s?”

  “I don’t know. I arrived late. Jenny was already at the table when I got there.”

  “Did you have a reservation?”

  Warren looked down his nose at the detective.

  “We’re regulars.”

  “Did Jenny consume any alcohol while she waited for you?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Why? What are you suggesting?”

  “Were there any empty cocktail glasses at the table when you arrived?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  Warren pressed out his cigarette, fumbled in his pocket for his pack, but abandoned it when it refused to come out without effort.

  “Just answer the question, Mr Garrett.”

  “No. I don’t remember. Jenny’s not a drinker anyway.”

  Warren looked back at his crushed out cigarette in the standing ashtray. His eyes came back to settle on Rick’s in a stare that, though it was meant to intimidate, did little to affect Walker.

  “We spoke to a Ruben Alejandro. He was your waiter that night. He informed us about the champagne, but he said he also remembered bringing drinks to the table during dinner.”

  “That was me. I had a Scotch, neat, and a refill.”

  “Mrs. Garrett had no cocktails with dinner?”

  “No, she nursed the champagne. I told you Jenny’s not a big drinker. Wine mainly, or occasionally a whiskey sour when it’s socially required.”

  “She’s an advertising agency executive, correct?”

  “Yeah, so.”

  “Do you normally have champagne with dinner?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Was it a special occasion? An anniversary or a celebration of some kind?”

  “No.”

  Rick paused intentionally, the silence meant to afford Warren a chance to add to or alter his statement. A sign that there might be something more Warren wanted to get on the record. He didn’t.

  “How would you describe Jenny’s state of mind during dinner? Did she seem preoccupied or upset?”

  “No. We talked about work and the house.”

  “Did you argue or disagree at any time during dinner?”

  “No. And I can’t see...”

  Warren shifted uncomfortably at the insinuation. He reached for his cigarette pack, worked it out of his pocket this time and brought one to his lips.

  “I trade commodities for a living, and I’m losing money every minute we spend going over and over what’s already been put on record.”

  “I know that, Mr. Garrett, I’m almost finished here.”

  While he spoke, Rick jotted Warren’s obvious agitation to these questions into his notebook. The very act of writing would grind away at Warren’s brain. There was something behind this investigation. Rick could feel it in the way both Jenny and Warren responded to his inquiries.

  “Your waiter said he thought he saw you lean over the table to kiss Jenny.”

  “There was no special reason.”

  “You weren’t attempting to make up for anything then?”

  “No.”

  Rick remained silent for a long minute, offering Warren a chance to continue, if he was so inclined.

  Warren, however, sat dutifully silent, tapping his cigarette along the edge of the ash tray. He stopped suddenly, anticipating Rick’s next question.

  Rick, instead, scribbled in his notebook, keeping his eyes focused intently on his scribbling. He was writing nothing in particular, but Warren would never know that. Clicking the top of his pen, Rick seemed to stare through Warren for a moment, then rose suddenly.

  Warren pressed the cigarette out in the ash tray, despite being only half consumed, and hesitated before getting up.

  “No other questions then?”

  “None for now. Thank you for all your help.”

  “So what’s the verdict?”

  “We’re still investigating. I left my card with your wife. Please contact me if you think of anything that might be helpful to our investigation.”

  “Helpful? What is this all about? Jenny’s accident was just that—an accident. Your questions are way out of bounds...”

  “We just need to confirm that we have all the facts. That’s all.”

  “Was Jenny able to help you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Rick and Vicki remained silent during their descent down the stairs and the short walk back to their car. They had hoped to gain more information. Jenny’s selective amnesia could be legitimate, or it could be feigned to allow time to prepare her story.

  Rick scratched at the graying strands standing up on his neck. They did that each time he took a case with the word ringer written all over it. In his nine-year career attached to the State’s Attorney’s office, Rick had three other ringers, cases where he knew the party reeked with guilt, yet he failed to unearth the necessary evidence to prove it. His gut told him to stay with his feelings.

  But, if Jenny legitimately had no memory of that night—which was not that uncommon in cases involving head trauma—that would gravely complicate matters. He would have to find another way to uncover what really happened those thirty to sixty seconds before impact.

  The woman driving the other car involved in the crash believed she saw headlights coming up behind Jenny’s as she came around the bend in the road. Still, no one had come forward with testimony as to what really occurred that night. That elusive other car might reveal insights into Jenny’s driving just before impact. Driving under the influence, Jenny could have crossed the center line. If he could locate the other driver who had been on the road that same moment, Rick could get corroboration. But he had nothing to go on. No license number, no vehicle make, not even the color.

  Rick needed some indication of erratic driving, since due to the nature of the crash, the officers at the scene were unable to get blood alcohol samples right after the accident occurred. A mix-up at the hospital during those first critical hours had deprived the authorities of the much needed evidence of DUI.

  “That pretty
much got us nowhere,” Vicki said, once they were ensconced inside the car.

  “Well, for right now, let’s let them think about us.”

  6

  Dr. Sy Rosenstein maintained an austere tenth-floor office on the west side of the city. The unadorned cubicle was one of a thousand in the West Lake Insurance building. The mahogany door displayed simply his name and the suite number.

  Jenny’s mind was a jumble as Warren assisted her into the anteroom, which offered a secretary’s desk and chair, a worn brown leather sofa and a side table with a lamp, whose shade had faded over the years, and an ashtray. The magazines arranged neatly on the table were at least three months out of date and dog-eared from use. Jenny could only wonder how long she would have to wait to see this man.

  She was anything but crazy. What possibly could a psychiatrist do to help her?

  Warren grabbed a magazine, flipped through it in record time and returned it to its place on the table.

  A prunish sixty-year-old secretary, wearing clothes as faded by time and use as the lamp shade, addressed Jenny by name, maintained warm eye contact, and offered not the slightest hint of a smile, making it equally obvious she was intentionally avoiding Jenny’s scar.

  Jenny found her hand moving instinctively to cover her mouth. She forced herself to bring her hand back down to her lap, and battled the urge to walk out. Finally, logic won out with Jenny realizing that talking to someone like Rosenstein could only help her now. If he would believe what she was about to tell him.

  Sy kept them waiting less than ten minutes. When he opened his inner office door, Jenny hid her surprise. He stood no more than a heel taller than five feet, his sparse hair stretched to minimize his typical male-pattern baldness, and his black plastic glasses rimmed narrow hazel eyes. Bushy gray and chestnut brows grew over the glasses and afforded Jenny an inkling of what his hair must have looked like decades ago. He certainly was the image one might expect to find on the cover of ‘Psychiatry Today’ magazine.

  He greeted Jenny first with a smile that seemed a permanent fixture to his face and meant to ease the anxiety inherent in a first visit. Jenny wondered if he knew why Warren had brought her here, or if this would be one of those exploratory sessions.