by Tom Bierdz
“Is she okay?” My first thought was that something happened to her: she was in an accident, hurt or worse. That would explain why she hadn’t answered her phone.
“Physically? Yes, she’s more than okay. This has to do with Sasha Kovich’s death.” His dark eyes squinted, sizing me up, as if he suspected my concern went beyond the professional.
“Detective, I’m sure you know I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and can’t talk about my patients.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business-sized envelope. Opening the envelope, he unfolded a sheet of paper and placed it on the desk in front of me. “A medical release signed by Megan Wilshire, witnessed and notarized.”
I studied it.
“Everything in order, Doc?”
I nodded. “What’s this about?”
He took a ballpoint and notepad from his jacket pocket. “Sasha Kovich died early this morning from an overdose. A toxicology report will follow, but it is not expected to change the cause of death...”
I didn’t hear what else he said as I suddenly felt dizzy and faint. Somehow, his verbalizing became a scolding whiplash. I started to fall, braced myself with my hands in the desk.
The detective leaned forward, “Are you all right, Doc?”
“Yeah,” I struggled to say, catching my breath. “I take these suicides too personally.” I wiped the perspiration off my forehead with my hand.
“I’m not sure it was a suicide. That’s why I’m here.”
“You said overdose.”
“But did she take them voluntarily?”
“You mean?” I buzzed Bobby. “Bobby, bring me a glass of water.” I turned to Rollins,
“Detective?”
He shook his head, smiled at me with a gap between his front teeth.
“That’s it. Thanks, Bobby.” I looked at Rollins, scrunched my face. “What makes you question if it’s self-inflicted?”
“Bruises on Sasha’s arm and face.”
“Have you questioned her husband?”
“He’s being investigated.”
“And?”
“Dr. Garrick,” he said, sneering, “if you don’t mind, we’re here to talk about Megan Wilshire, not Mr. Kovich.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Why you were seeing her.”
I gave him the professional version. “Megan thought Sasha was suicidal but Sasha refused to come in. So, we tried to treat her indirectly, or at least, prevent her from killing herself. Apparently, we failed.”
Bobby appeared with the water. I practically drank it all in one gulp.
“When did you begin seeing Megan?” He leaned back, readied his pen and notepad.
I paged through my calendar, gave him the date of her original contact, asked Bobby to list all the appointments for the detective.
“How did the sisters get along?”
“Megan was very invested in Sasha. They were extremely close, talked daily. Megan is two years older than Sasha. They were parentless when Megan was only eighteen. Megan’s cared for her sister ever since. She must be devastated.”
He didn’t share my compassion. “Did you pick up any animosity or conflict between the women?”
I could hear Sasha telling me that Megan should mind her own business, but all families quarreled from time to time. If I mentioned that to the detective he would take it out of context. “No, like I said they were extremely close. Megan voiced concern about Sasha and Nick, that he abused her. But, that’s only hearsay. I don’t know it for a fact.”
“Did Sasha ever come in to see you?”
“No.” I thought of our encounter at the lake house. Something stopped me from sharing that. Rollins didn’t ask me if I ever saw her. I must have had a blank expression on my face because the detective asked, “Was there something else?”
“No, No. I’m still somewhat in a daze about her death.”
He chewed his lip, checked his notes. “Do you know of any reason why Megan would want Sasha out of the way?”
“No. None.”
He stood, put his pen and pad into his breast pocket Thanks, Doc. If our investigation of Megan goes any further, you’ll know as you’ll be subpoenaed to testify.”
I expected him to leave, but he meandered around my office like a potential renter taking everything in. On the far side of the room, he made an about-face. “My ex-wife was in the decorating business. She’d preach to me how you tell a lot about a person by the way they decorate. Take these posters, for example. All movies related to your field, highlighting psychological problems.” He stopped in front of the Final Analysis poster, inched his head closer, examining it. “Final Analysis with Richard Gere and Kim Basinger.” He turned toward me, his eyes curious and probing. “Wasn’t that the movie where the shrink falls for his patient’s sister and she tries to kill him?” He sneered, drew me in. “I wouldn’t kick Kim Basinger out of bed, but a guy like me would never have the chance. Now you on the other hand, Doc, women find attractive. You got money, position, power. A modern day Kim Basinger...let’s say someone like Megan Wilshire...she’d find you attractive. Maybe even latch on to you, but would it be love? Or would she want something from you? It can’t be money. I haven’t checked you out yet, Doc, but I suspect you’re a pauper compared to her. Power? Prestige? Not likely. See, Doc, that’s the part I can’t figure out.”
“Interesting theory, Detective, but I’ve already told you Ms. Wilshire was seeing me because of her sister’s suicide ideation.”
“Perhaps. You can be sure we will be investigating the nature of your relationship. But if it is more, I come back to my earlier question that I can’t figure out. What does she want from you?” He looked at the poster, scratched his head, before looking back at me. “Unless you’re her alibi.”
I shot up from my chair. “That’s enough Detective. You can stop with the insults and innuendos. This is a difficult time for Megan and for me. Mrs. Kovich’s death is a tragic loss. You could show some respect for the dead.”
“That is precisely what I’m doing, Dr. Garrick,” he said with determination as he traipsed toward me. “If Sasha Kovich did not kill herself, she’d want me to bring her killer to justice.” He stopped at the edge of my desk.
We locked eyes like two gladiators preparing to fight.
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “My card. Call me any time.”
My hands remained at my side. I refused to take his card.
He dropped it on my desk, smirked, and then walked away.
I wanted to hit him, smash the left side of his face so it would look like the right. Disfigured. I suspected his deformity was a constant reminder of an event he didn’t want to remember, and I wanted him to have a keepsake from me, one that said don’t mess with me or twist things around.
Once he left, I laid my head down on my desk and thought about what he said. How could he think I was an alibi for Megan, and even more outlandish, how could he suspect Megan for murdering the sister she cared so much about?
15
Later when I finally reached Megan by phone she reluctantly agreed to see me claiming exhaustion, but responded to my need to see her. She agreed to pick me up at the office and meet briefly for a drink, after which she would return home to put her dragging body to sleep. I finished with my last patient at six but she didn’t arrive until almost seven.
Hyperactive and confused due to Sasha’s death and Detective Rollins visit, I took a Xanax and pocketed the container to take home. A rumbling volcano-like rage began to stir inside me. I was angry at Sasha and Kevin for killing themselves, angry at Megan for dismissing me at this most critical juncture where I could help her, angry at Detective Rollins for suspecting Megan and for his ridiculous insinuations, and angry at myself for my inability to control the people around me. I wanted to, needed to explode, release the rage within. I had to gather my wits about me, cool it, so I wouldn’t take it out on Megan
. She needed my broad shoulders.
Roaring rain thundered the roof and pelted the windows, obscuring my view as I stood by the window watching for Megan. When she rolled into the drive flashing her lights, I locked the door, raised my collar, dipped my head and darted for the car. She apologized for being late, chalking it up to complications with the final arrangements. The wind shattered rain against the car windows as she drove to a bar in the vicinity. Parking as close as she could, I hoisted the umbrella over our heads and we dashed inside.
Due to the storm, the tavern was especially quiet, inhabited by the bartender and his two male customers. We took a table in the corner, under a big screen TV, and shed our wet raincoats. Rain dripped down Megan’s cheeks like tears. She dried her face with a paper napkin on the table.
“It will be a wet day for a burial if this doesn’t let up soon.”
I noted the dark hollows under her eyes, then went up to the bar to order a dirty martini for her and a scotch for me. A couple swallows of scotch and Megan’s presence softened my anger. “A Detective Rollins was in to see me.”
“I know I signed the release,” she answered, hand-combing her hair. “I assume your answers satisfied him.”
“Of course, the idea that Sasha’s death could be a homicide blew me away.”
She sipped her drink, exhaled loudly. “You can’t imagine how I felt. I’m mourning my sister, berating myself for not doing more to stop her, for not arriving sooner, and he questions me about her death. I wanted to murder him!” She smiled and followed that with a look to make sure I knew she was kidding about the murder.
“He said there were bruises on her face and arms.”
“Yes, I saw them.”
“Was it Nick?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how long it takes bruises to develop. He was out of town. He would have had to bruise her before he left. She didn’t say anything about that when I talked to her. I tend to think she did it to herself somehow. She could have fallen. She was drugged. Could have easily lost her balance and fell”
“Where exactly were the bruises?”
“I didn’t see the one on her face. The bruises on her arms were on her biceps.”
I was in my male, need-to-fix it mood. You know, ‘Men are from Mars, Women from Venus’. I thought about the bruises, then acted out what might have happened, tripping with my arms extended to catch my fall. “Let’s say she fell like this, and throwing her arms up to break her fall, she hit something with her biceps like a...metal bar or bed headboard. She could have got the bruise on her face that way too.” I was excited like I had found a solution to the puzzle. I expected a shout of approval or at very least a show of gratitude.
Megan chewed the inside of her cheek. “But the bruises were on the top of her biceps.”
I scrunched my face, sipped my scotch. “Let’s say her arms are down at her sides, her palms up.”
She scoffed.
“Or,” I continued, “if there was an opening between the bottom of the headboard and the mattress, she could have banged her head on the headboard, her arms into the slot...”
Megan’s response was subdued. “Possibly. Can we get off this? It’s too much for me to handle.”
Rain pelted the window like waves of birdshot. The guys at the bar remarked about the weather, commenting they hadn’t experienced a storm like that in a long time and weren’t going back out until it calmed down.
Megan buried her face in her hands.
I put my arm on her shoulder, gently rubbed it.
She took my hand off her shoulder, clasped it tightly with both of hers, raised her head and looked at me with moist eyes. “Sasha was my only family. I have no one now. Only you. I need you to be there for me, Grant.”
I nodded, my eyes also moist.
“It’s been a nightmare. I’m drained. Exhausted. I can barely function.”
“You can crash at my place tonight.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company.”
“I said you could crash there so you wouldn’t have to drive home. I’m not concerned with company.”
“Thanks, but I need to be home in my own bed tonight. I hope you can understand that. And the funeral is tomorrow morning.” She sipped her drink, made a face as if it was some alien concoction.
“What did you think of the detective?”
“Rollins? I thought he had an atrocious sense of timing. Remember the Jon Benet Ramsey murder, the six-year-old in the child beauty pageant? How the police and the press hounded the mother, suspecting her of killing her daughter? Years later they caught the real killer. That mother went through hell. Not only did she lose her daughter, but she had to endure the abuse of suspicion. I can’t help but see a comparison here when Rollins enters the picture. Bad enough to lose your sister, but then to be a suspect in her death.”
Megan forced a smile. “You do understand.”
“Except in your case, I expect suicide will soon be officially ruled as the cause of death.”
“It better be.”
“Is there anything I can do for you now?”
“Come with me to the funeral tomorrow.”
“Sure, glad to.”
“And,” she said, seizing my arms and pulling me closer to her so that are heads were but inches away, “promise me you’ll never leave me.”
“I promise,” I said, ignoring the chill that coursed through my body.
With the wind diminished, the rain fell straight and soft. On the drive to my place Megan filled me in on the funeral details, and promised to call me when she got home so I knew she was safe.
I poured myself a scotch and reflected on what just happened. I had promised never to leave her, responding to her need when I knew that was impossible, a fairytale, like the wedding vows Hanna and I made for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. No one can predict the future to know what things, or events, will impinge on a relationship. And, Hanna and I were in love, getting married, and believed, at the time, that our commitment was forever. I had fallen off the deep end for Megan, but did I love her? I didn’t know. Possibly. Time would tell. I don’t think I told her I loved her. I don’t remember if I did. I was sure she hadn’t told me she loved me. Yet, I had promised never to leave her.
Was I being too analytical again? Wasn’t it just one of those things that are said in the heat of the moment, that none of the parties feel obligated to uphold, that meet a need in a crisis and provide a link for an eventual solution? Always the giver, the good doctor, I needed to heal her pain and told her what she needed to hear. Will she regard it as such?
16
The funeral was held in the Brawny Lake Christian Church, a small, non-denominational, A frame-style church, built sometime in the sixties to serve the largely summer lake community. Minimalist with rows of wooden pews, an altar stood behind a railing and a few wooden crosses were tacked on the walls between ordinary windows. Absent were the stained glass windows usually seen in churches.
Surprisingly, the church was filled to the brim, almost entirely with Nick’s relatives and friends. Neither he nor Sasha attended church, but the service was held here at his request. Megan claimed to have no living relatives and few people knew she had a sister. Still, I expected to see friends and acquaintances from the tennis club and other community organizations. The contrast between the poor parish and wealthy inhabitants who dressed in their expensive, stylish clothing was glaring.
A pianist played hymns in the sanctuary as the people entered the church. Once they were settled, a young clergyman dressed in a blue suit, powder blue shirt and white tie entered the pulpit. A white stole, with a gold cross and gold ornamental trim, was draped over his shoulders. He said a few prayers, then spoke to the congregation. “What the caterpillar perceives as the end, to the butterfly is just beginning. And so it is with Sasha Kovich. She has gone into her cocoon, her tunnel, our modern-day spiritualists might say, and has emerged as
a butterfly, a beautiful creature who has left her worries, those sorrows that bore down on her and caused her to take her own life, to fly freely with God... “
I choked, bit my lip to stem the tears. He could have been talking about Kevin. I could barely tolerate the ache in my heart. Why did I so readily agree to accompany Megan to the funeral? Certainly I should have known I’d be affected. Was this some masochistic need to punish myself for his death? Tears snuck down my face. Had anyone noticed they have thought I was grieving for Sasha. I wasn’t concerned what they would think. I was afraid that if I let go, I wouldn’t be able to stop crying. I tried to imagine Kevin leaving his cocoon, emerging as a butterfly, and take some solace in that.
I focused on Megan and Nick who exchanged angry glances, wondering what that was about. I knew Megan accused Nick of abusing Sasha. I couldn’t account for Nick’s anger but assumed he blamed Megan, at a minimum for her interference if for nothing else.
When the clergyman finished his speech he asked if anyone wanted to come up and say a few words about Sasha. It seemed like no one would when Megan stood and motioned with her arm.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, grabbing her elbow. Her speaking wasn’t planned as far as I could tell.
She nodded, strutted up to the pulpit. Eyeing the crowd, her face contorted with emotion as she prepared to speak, clearing her throat, making false starts. She had the audience holding their breaths. “Sasha was my sister, my only relative, my closest friend. Our parents were both dead when I was eighteen and Sasha sixteen. Just the two of us. We had to be there for one another. We remained close throughout Sasha’s lifetime, talked daily, even after Sasha married Nick. I’m sure Nick resented our daily talks, especially during the honeymoon...”
The audience laughed.
“...but he soon learned to accept, or at least, tolerate our closeness. I didn’t come to tell you about all the wonderful things about Sasha–and there were many–most of you knew her and have discovered her warmth, her infectious laugh, and how she could make you feel like you were that one-in-a-million, special person.”
