“Would you consider autism a kind of insanity?” Armand asked.
This question was extremely disconcerting. “Well…” she considered for a moment. “It would depend on how you define insanity.”
“Very true. To the layman, insanity provokes fear. To the lawyer, insanity implies lack of culpability. The term has come to mean so many things that in the psychiatric professions, it is not even used. Instead, we simply refer to these conditions as mental disorders.”
Dulcie was thoughtful as she looked down into her nearly empty cup. “You’re right about provoking fear. I hadn’t thought about that, but it does.”
“Are you fearful of Xander?” Armand asked.
Dulcie shook her head instantly, swallowing the list sip of cappuccino. “Not at all. He seems so gentle. Tell me,” she put down her cup now that it was empty. “How much were you able to do with him? I mean, did you spend quite a bit of time with him?”
Armand paused. How much should he tell her? Would it be prudent to divulge everything? Probably not. “I initially evaluated him. Then I provided expert opinion after the unfortunate death of his grandfather,” he said.
“I see,” she nodded. Glancing at her watch she added, “I’m so sorry, but I have to get going. I have yet another meeting,” she said with a slight frown. “It seems my days are filled with them now.” He hadn’t finished with his coffee, but started to get up anyway. “No, no!” Dulcie exclaimed. “Don’t rush just for me. Finish and enjoy. Thanks so much for the conversation.” She hurriedly rattled her cup on its saucer over to the counter, grabbed her coat, and with a small wave to him, pushed through the door.
Dulcie had not seen Detective Nicholas Black standing outside. She was heading quickly in the opposite direction. She had not seen him walk by the window several minutes before, stop immediately, then attempt to peer inside without looking obvious. As he watched her chatting with Dr. Raymond Armand, Nick’s heart had lurched, pounding against his chest.
Dulcie had not seen him, but from the corner of his eye, Raymond had. And although they had never met, Raymond knew exactly what Nick was thinking.
The artist is a receptacle for emotions
that come from all over the place:
from the sky, from the earth,
from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape,
from a spider’s web.
― Pablo Picasso
CHAPTER 4
No one appreciated order more than Edith Bernstein. Where she found any sort of disorganization, she would apply her wealth of skills and patience to make the chaos conform to one of her myriad of systems. No one was exempt. This included her nephew, Xander.
Edith realized that she had to show some restraint in this particular case, however. Xander had his own order, his own systems, for organizing his world. He rigidly followed these systems. Edith was careful to observe him and quickly learned where and how they applied. Where there was no system, however, Edith felt that she had free reign. She had awakened to a rainy day, which was perfect for tackling the paintings in Xander’s studio.
Dressed as always in a cardigan and sensible shoes, Edith firmly stepped into the studio and headed straight for the paintings in the corner. The walls were lined with canvases, as many as ten deep. They overlapped each other so that Edith couldn’t get a rough estimate of how many there were. She started counting, touching each lightly with her finger and whispering each number.
Xander worked quietly, as he always did, on his latest painting. While Edith was counting, however, his head began to bob up and down with the rhythm. His lips moved slightly. He stopped painting and kept moving with the rhythm.
Sensing something different in the room, Edith stopped and turned around. Xander continued to bob up and down while his lips continued to move. After several seconds, he stopped. Without acknowledging Edith, or anything else, he started painting again.
Edith was intrigued. She had never seen him interact. At one point, when he was quite young, he had used basic hand signals, but since his father had been sent away, since the shocking death of his grandfather, he had not acknowledged the outside world in any way that Edith knew of. She started counting again, then stopped quickly. He bobbed and moved his lips, as he had before, then stopped abruptly and changed colors on his brush.
Edith turned back to her work. She was a practical woman and did not feel that a situation required pondering. It was either obvious or it wasn’t. Xander had just interacted with her albeit in a rudimentary way. She knew he had done this in the past. Why not do it again, she reasoned. That was all she needed to know about the situation.
She began moving the paintings along the wall to create stacks. She had decided to classify them by subject. Older ones were of Xander’s mother. Edith found several of Giselle. Only two were of Xander’s grandfather. Many, especially more recent ones that still smelled of paint, were of his father. Edith picked these up gingerly in case they were still wet. She didn’t care whether the painting was harmed, but she didn’t want to get paint on her cardigan. It was worn and old, but certainly not in need of replacement yet. No need to rush things, especially when it came to spending unnecessarily.
She steadily worked her way into the mass of artworks. Putting down yet another of Xander’s father, she began to step away when something caught her eye. She stooped over and looked more closely.
The painting showed Xander’s father in what had been Oscar Bernstein’s study. Edith could make out his desk in the background, and the windows were obviously the same. Her nephew-in-law had a look of despair on his face. Xander was extremely good at capturing emotions, which Edith found odd given his condition. What had caught her eye, however, was a small figure in the background. Edith squinted and groped at her chest for her reading glasses, hanging by a cord around her neck. She flipped them open firmly and placed them squarely on her nose. Then she leaned closer.
She was staring into the tiny face of her brother, Oscar Bernstein. He was laughing, his features contorted into a nearly maniacal form that she had, unfortunately, had the great displeasure of having seen far too many times in her youth. It was the look that he had when he was laughing at someone, usually when he had just exerted his narcissistic ego successfully. The old feelings of disgust washed over her as she looked at his painted image. He wore his “evening robe” as he liked to call it, a royal blue silk wrap. His green-pajamed legs and slippers stuck out beneath it. He was standing beside his desk. The window behind him was the one that he had fallen through on the evening of his death. It was open.
Edith knew that the pajamas and robe were the clothes he had worn when he died. And as she looked more closely at the painting, she could make out a shadow. It was the shadow of another person in the room. Someone other than her nephew. Someone that Lawrence would not have even seen.
Edith knew that Xander only painted what he saw. The psychologist had told her that. All of Xander’s paintings showed evidence of that. Had he really been there that evening? In Lawrence’s confession, he had insisted that he was the only other person in the house, that he and his father-in-law had argued, and that he had become so angry, he pushed him out of the window. No one could find evidence of the death not occurring in this manner. The judge was forced to believe the story.
It would have been unusual for Xander to be out at that time, but it had been a summer evening and the sun was just setting. Giselle said that she had taken Xander for a walk down the path to the ocean, since it had been so hot during the afternoon. She liked to get him outdoors at least once each day. Yet it was possible that they had come back in time for him to look into his grandfather’s study. He passed by it on the way to his studio. It was possible….
Edith stepped back from the canvas and took off her glasses. She glanced over at Xander. He was working away, as usual, his face blocked by the easel in front of him. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t take notice of anything that Edith looked at, she was sure. She picked up the painting and se
t it to one side. Quickly she sorted through the remainder of the canvases. She hoped to find another similar to this odd one, but had no luck.
Would Xander notice if she took this painting from the room? Would he notice of she moved it into her room? With her most abrupt, businesslike manner, she picked it up, moved so that he could not see the front of it, and strode from the room.
Xander had not even looked up, yet he knew exactly what had happened. He knew which painting she had taken. He knew that one was different. Different from the others. He had felt different making it. He knew that she would be interested in it. Even though he had no real understanding of the concept, he somehow knew that it told a story.
Edith brought the painting in to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She put it on the bed, dragged a chair close to the window, then propped the painting on it so that she could see it in the light better. Although it was a dark day, she could make out more detail than she had seen in the corner of Xander’s studio.
Oscar Bernstein was, most certainly, laughing. She had hated that laugh. There was nothing in the painting to indicate why he would be laughing. The figure was so small in the background, it was difficult to tell the direction that he was looking. He seemed to be leaning backwards, his head tilted back slightly as he laughed. The window was probably about three steps behind him. Would someone in the room have been angry enough to lunge forward and push him out the window? Perhaps Lawrence could have turned back around quickly and charged toward Oscar. Perhaps the other person in the room could have waited for Lawrence to leave, then stepped forward to launch Oscar out of the window. Perhaps Lawrence and the other person could have been working together.
Edith sat down on the edge of the bed. She did not like mysteries. Her mind was in constant motion attempting to remove complication, not to find it.
She thought about Lawrence and sighed. He had never stood a chance against his father-in-law. He was a good husband for his timid wife, Gisa, and without the difficulties from Oscar Bernstein or a son with a condition such as Xander’s, might have been able to keep Gisa from sinking into her state of depression and alcoholism. With the combined burdens, however, it was too much to ask of Lawrence Bellamy. He had to make a choice, and he chose to focus on his son. Edith reflected on the notion for a moment. Without children of her own she did not have any means for comparison, yet the more she considered Lawrence’s options along with his capabilities, she knew that she would have made the same decision. He had essentially sacrificed his wife for his son. He could not have helped both. He only had the power and stamina to choose one.
Edith stood and went to the window. She blamed herself for some of the tragedy. She knew Oscar’s character. When he had demanded that Lawrence’s family move in to the mansion or not receive a penny of his considerable money, it was for his own selfish benefit. Oscar was disgusted with his step-daughter’s choice in husband. He was even more disgusted by the fact that his grandson was not the “perfect” child he had anticipated. Oscar viewed the situation as a huge mess that reflected very poorly on him, and he was determined to make them all pay. Yes, Edith should have seen all of it coming, one way or another.
Edith was grateful for Giselle. Lord knew how Lawrence had found her, but evidently the woman had cleaned their house each week when they lived in Canada. Somehow he had convinced Oscar to bring her to the States and hire her as a full-time housekeeper. Why she had agreed, Edith wasn’t sure, but she was now grateful. Giselle had stepped in where Xander’s mother had failed. Giselle had held the household together as much as possible.
Edith liked her, which was saying a great deal. Although Edith had met many, many people on her travels, she liked few of them. Her expectations were high, and not many could meet them. That was fine with her. On the whole, she didn’t like people very much anyway.
#
Nicholas Black found it difficult to stay seated. He was cooped up in one of the police station’s conference rooms trying to pay attention to the weekly briefing. His mind kept wandering, and he wanted nothing more than to stand up and start pacing.
At last the speaker stopped droning on and ended the meeting. Nick quickly stood. His partner beside him, Adam Johnson, stood as well. “All right there?” Johnson asked quietly.
Nick shot him a quizzical look.
“Never seen you fidget so much,” Johnson said, knowing exactly what Nick was thinking.
Nick shook his head in reply. “Not now,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.” He quickly walked out of the room and went straight to the front door of the station.
The rain had subsided to a heavy mist. He wasn’t sure why, but Nick found it comforting. He shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way down the street.
He knew that he had no right to be thinking about her, but his mind was focused on Dulcie. Who had she been having coffee with? Was it a business meeting, or something more personal? Nick had only seen her companion’s face for a few moments, but it was long enough to recognize that the man’s interest was more than professional.
“Dammit,” Nick muttered to himself. “Yeah, I really screwed things up. How am I going to fix this?” So far he had managed to turn his life around in terms of his career, but had accomplished little else. The rest seemed as though it was still a mess. True, he had extricated himself from a ridiculous marriage through an extremely prolonged divorce, but in the end it didn’t seem like much of an accomplishment. At best, whenever he thought about it, and he tried very hard not to, it seemed like a trial. He had won; why then did he feel like he was the losing party?
Time. He had to keep reminding himself that time was the critical factor, and that he simply had to be patient. It was difficult for him. He desperately wanted to reestablish some sort of relationship with Dulcie. He deluded himself into believing that a simple friendship would suffice, but deep down he knew that it wouldn’t. He was in love with her. There was nothing he could do about it. It gnawed at his heart.
He had no idea who the man was drinking coffee with Dulcie. It could easily have been a colleague. A simple work meeting. From the look on the man’s face, however, Nick was inclined to believe otherwise. He knew that look. Unfortunately, he had not been able to see Dulcie’s face, and she had rushed off so quickly that he had not been able to reposition himself so that he could observe her better. He snorted at the thought. He was thinking of the situation in terms of his police skills, using undercover observation on a stakeout. In reality, it could be considered borderline stalking.
He needed to refocus, to immerse himself in something that would take his mind off everything else. Off her. He stopped and glanced behind him. Down the street, through the hazy mist, he saw the large bulk of his partner heading toward him. Nick waited for him to catch up. It was then that Nick remembered how Adam Johnson had problems of his own.
“How’s the diet going?” Nick asked.
Johnson just glared at him.
“That good, eh?” Nick did sympathize. Plus, the look on Johnson’s face was so pathetic, Nick abandoned all thoughts of poking fun at him. He wasn’t in the mood, anyway. “Coffee?” It was nearby. Might as well get some.
“That’s about all I consume these days anyway,” Johnson said. “But one condition. I can’t go in there.” He nodded to the coffee shop down the street a few doors away from them. “You have to get it.”
Nick’s forehead wrinkled. “Mind if I ask why?”
Johnson sighed. “Think about it,” he said, his feet firmly planted on the brick sidewalk. He wasn’t going to budge one step closer.
Nick swiveled his head from Johnson back toward the plate-glass window of the coffee shop. Then it dawned on him. “Oh!” he said. This time he did laugh. “Too much temptation?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Johnson muttered.
Nick had remembered the array of pastries in the large display beneath the counter at this particular coffee shop. No amount of willpower would have kept his partner from caving
to a sight like that. Nick even had trouble avoiding it, and pastries weren’t his nemesis. “You wait here,” he laughed. “I’ll be right back.”
Johnson nodded and muttered something as he attempted to become absorbed in the shop window beside him. It held various ladies’ shoes and handbags. Definitely not enough of a distraction to keep his mind off the delectable treats down the street. His thoughts were detracted from food for a moment by some particularly odd and ugly shoes. Did women think they were attractive? He imagined someone wearing them, teetering along on the spindly high heels. He shook his head vigorously. Nope. Decidedly unattractive.
Nick came back as quickly as possible. They crossed the street and walked along in the direction of the ferry terminal. Nick knew that there would be few temptations of the culinary kind there. “So, have you dared get on the scale yet?” he asked.
Johnson shook his head as he swallowed. “Nope. I don’t really want to until we’re at the end. It’s either going to be completely depressing or totally great. No sense in getting my hopes up. Or down, as the case may be.”
Nick knew about getting his hopes up. He was silent for a few moments. “I talked with Dulcie’s brother the other day,” he said, changing the subject for his partner’s sake.
Johnson knew exactly what Nick was really saying. He had watched the entire sequence of events between Dulcie and Nick unfold. He knew Nick was still interested. He also knew that, since Nick had not been completely straightforward with Dulcie about his own past, she now distrusted him. Johnson didn’t think her attitude was completely without merit, but almost. Nick certainly had not intentionally misled her. He had simply been carried away by his feelings and probably should have kept them in check. Johnson couldn’t blame him, though. The first time Adam Johnson had met his wife Maria, he thought his heart had stopped. He still felt that way, in spite of her current challenge. He would do anything for her, including spending a week at a weight-loss center and spa, although if he could avoid it he’d certainly try.
A Mind Within Page 5
