Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

He gave me a strangely careful look, as though he was trying to gauge my reaction to his story.

  “Besides,” he went on, “in a real sense I didn’t desert my children. They deserted me. Years after I left Banford, I made repeated attempts to contact them, and was rebuffed. This was after I’d founded Wingfield BioTech. I merely wanted to help them. To have them share in my good fortune.”

  He looked off toward the huge window. “But they each, in their own way, rejected me. Kevin changed his name, lived like a bum. In and out of mental institutions, straggling his way through college. Karen ran away, got married and divorced. There may be a child.” He shook his head. “Frankly, they’ve both been quite a disappointment.”

  Classic. Nothing’s his fault. He’s the injured party, the aggrieved, the justified.

  “Since Kevin’s death, I feel I should try to contact my daughter again,” he went on distractedly, adjusting the makeshift bandage on his hand. “Carl has his people on it, and assures me he’ll have a name and location in two or three more days.”

  “Whatever he comes up with, you better hand it over to the cops,” I said. “They’ll be wanting to talk to any of Kevin’s immediate family.”

  “Of course. Anything that will help catch the killer. Not that it matters. I don’t care about some sub-human piece of trash. And I don’t care if his intended victim was really you. I hold you, and you alone, responsible for what’s been done to me.”

  “That’s just it. Nothing’s been done to you. It happened to your son.”

  The silence between us was very still. Dead air.

  Then, as slowly as if attached to a set of old gears, a smile began to form on his lips. That small, hard smile.

  “You know, you’ll soon wish it had been you killed in that garage after all,” he said quietly. “Not Kevin.”

  Another aching silence, emptied of everything but his hate.

  Then, as though nourished by it, he stood up abruptly and put his hands together. As if in prayer.

  “Anyway, time to get down to business. As I say, my legal representatives will be taking over from this point on, so it’s unlikely I’ll be seeing you again. You’re not the only project demanding my attention, you know.”

  “Yeah, I heard. The Cochran merger. The Senate. You’re a busy guy.”

  He ignored this. “I will of course be suing you for malpractice, wrongful death, loss of your license, and financial damages for my emotional pain and suffering. You’ll be brought before the appropriate boards, as well as civil court, and, if possible, criminal court. You will, I promise you, be eviscerated to the fullest extent possible by law. Shall I have Peter call you a cab?”

  My jaw tightened. “No thanks. I’ll get myself home.”

  He shrugged, uninterested, and turned away.

  I watched him cross the room. He was a businessman, on a schedule, and this part of his business had been concluded. I literally felt myself drop, like a downed plane, from his radar screen.

  Meanwhile, my mind raced, considering what he’d just laid out. I had all the appropriate insurance, and thus access to lawyers, support from various professional organizations and the like. I had resources, too. But not like Wingfield’s. Not enough for what I’d be up against.

  It was time to see myself out.

  Wingfield was flipping idly through a stack of papers as I headed for the door. Without looking up, he spoke again.

  “By the way, you might be interested in the expert witness we’ve retained to present the clinical evidence against you. The foremost man in his field, they tell me.”

  Only then did Wingfield look up.

  “In fact, I believe you two know each other?” He spoke easily, hooded eyes devoid of light. “Dr. Phillip Camden?”

  Chapter Thirty

  It was midnight by the time I got home, changed my clothes, and poured myself an Iron City. I was in the kitchen, with Coltrane’s dusky tenor pouring softly from the CD speakers.

  I’d flagged a cab—a legit one—outside the hotel and spent the ride back up to my place with both rear windows down. I let the bracing cold hit me, clearing the cobwebs.

  I brooded on the darkness, and the events of the past forty-eight hours. Kevin’s death, and then Brooks Riley. The cops. Wingfield. And now Phil Camden.

  It was like a black storm rising up out there in the night, gathering strength, heading in my direction. My life’s work, everything I’d built. That mattered to me.

  As we drove over the lookout, a sliver of moon hung in the sky. Edged like a knife-blade.

  He was out there, too, I thought. In that same night. Perhaps gathering strength as well. Watching that same moonlight glint off the length of another long, thin blade.

  Watching. And waiting.

  That’s when something shifted inside me. Fueled by rage, and incomprehension, and a welling grief over the obscenity of Kevin’s murder. Those sad, lifeless eyes still looking up at me…

  Fuck the cops, I thought. And Miles Wingfield. Hell, fuck the killer.

  I was through playing defense.

  By the time the cab pulled into my driveway, bathing it in lights from the front porch, I already knew what I had to do.

  ***

  Sam Weiss’ voice was a hoarse mumble on the phone.

  “Jesus, Danny, it’s after midnight.”

  “Yeah, I know, Sam. Sorry. We need to talk.”

  Bed sheets rustled as Sam turned to his wife and whispered something. Then his voice again, coming more fully awake.

  “Okay, just give me a minute to get to a phone downstairs. This better be good.”

  I waited, taking another pull from my beer.

  I’d known Sam Weiss for years, since first coming back to work after Barbara’s death. Sam was a feature writer now for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, but he’d started there on the police beat. He’d been one of the lead reporters on the Handyman story, and had snagged an exclusive interview with Troy David Dowd after his arrest. A year later, Sam wrote the best-selling book on Dowd’s crimes that became the basis for the movie now underway in Hollywood.

  Naturally, this got him local notoriety, a feature position at the paper, and the veiled envy of his colleagues. It also got him the expensive two-story house in Squirrel Hill where I’d just called him.

  I heard the click of a receiver picking up.

  “I’m here,” Sam said. “I just realized, this is about your patient that got killed, right?”

  “Right. Kevin Wingfield.”

  “Wingfield? I thought his name was Merrick.”

  “So did I. Watch the morning news. Kevin was Miles Wingfield’s son.”

  “The Miles Wingfield? Holy shit. You know what this means? This could be bigger than—Holy shit.”

  “Tell me. That’s why I’m calling you. I need to get the jump on this before the circus comes to town.”

  Sam’s voice dropped an octave. “What do you need?”

  “Everything there is on Miles Wingfield. Background, financial stuff. Whatever you can find. Rumor, gossip. The works.” I hesitated. “And, Sam, I need it by tomorrow.”

  He gave a laugh. “Sure. No problem. Anything else?”

  “Look, I know what I’m asking. And if you can’t do it, that’s okay, too. I know you work for a living.”

  A long pause. “You also know I owe you. Big-time.”

  I was taken aback by the emotion in his voice.

  “That’s got nothing to do with this,” I murmured. “Believe me, you don’t owe me anything.”

  “Not how I see it, Danny. Never will be. You got her through it, man. It was you. So shut the hell up about it.”

  A few years back, Sam had called me in a panic about his beloved kid sister. A high school junior, she’d been brutally raped by a hitchhiker she picked up. Before leaving her bruised, naked body by the side of the road, he’d taken the trouble to carve swastikas in her face and breasts with an Exacto-knife. Sam used to drive her to my office himself almost daily for eighteen months
.

  “So,” Sam went on, “how ’bout we meet at Primanti’s tomorrow, around one? I’ll have the goods by then.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  I hung up, and immediately began flipping through my address book again. I found Nancy Mendors’ home number and dialed. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?” Guarded but alert. I knew from experience that she’d be wide awake. Nancy was an insomniac.

  “It’s me.”

  “Dan. Thank God. I thought it was another reporter. I almost didn’t pick up.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I paused. “How’re you holding up?”

  “Not great. I-I still can’t get the image of Brooks out of my mind. The blood…”

  “I’m so sorry you had to find him like that.”

  She hesitated. “You know, it’s funny, about you and me…Do you realize we’ve each found a dead body in the past two days? I mean, what are the odds?”

  That thought had already occurred to me. But I didn’t say so. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could make sense of by talking about it.

  “The cops have been there all day,” she went on. “Poor Bert’s going crazy. All the press, the bad publicity. Patients destabilizing left and right. Not to mention their families calling, frantic—”

  “But what about you?” I insisted. “Shouldn’t you take some personal time? I’m sure Bert—”

  “He’s already ordered me to stay home the next few days. Though one of the cops actually told me not to leave town. Can you believe that? Like on TV.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You found the body, and that makes you a prime suspect. I’ve been there. They’ll get over it.”

  “Elaine did say I should get a lawyer.”

  “Bert’s wife?”

  “Yeah. I have to admit, I was surprised. I mean, the Lady Garman came right down with their lawyer in tow. Like a tigress protecting her mate.”

  “Why were you surprised?”

  She managed a rueful laugh. “Does Elaine strike you as Loving Wife of the Year?”

  “I guess I haven’t given it much thought. Listen, what about Lucy and Helen? That fight in the yard.”

  “Yeah, a detective interviewed each one separately. Female cop, I forget her name.”

  “Detective Lowrey.”

  “That’s her. Anyway, pretty soon Lucy’s lawyer showed up—real high-powered type—and that was the end of that. I swear, there were more lawyers than cops on the scene.”

  “Christ, tell me no other patients were questioned.”

  “Oh, yes. Another cop set up a makeshift interrogation room, I guess it’s called, and trooped them in one by one.”

  “No way Bert Garman should have allowed that.”

  “He tried to stop it, Danny. Though you should’ve seen Richie Ellner. Had to be sedated and restrained. All the fear and confusion, uniformed authority figures throwing their weight around…It was all too much for him.”

  “I can imagine. Poor bastard.”

  “Anyway,” she went on, “according to the grapevine, doesn’t sound like anybody saw anything. Practically all the patients were out in the rec yard at the time, undoing years of treatment.” A wry whistle over the phone. “Must have been some party.”

  “You didn’t miss a thing.”

  “Danny?…” Her voice small. Tentative.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for calling. I…it’s good to hear your voice, you know? I mean, after today.”

  I took a breath. “You just get some rest, okay?”

  A beat of silence. “Right. Sure.”

  She softly hung up.

  ***

  I had one more call to make. Unfortunately, I got Sonny Villanova instead of his wife.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Sonny, it’s Dan Rinaldi. I know it’s late, but could you put Angie on the phone? It’s important.”

  “Angie? Angie’s asleep. I was asleep. The whole goddam world’s asleep, except the asshole I’m talkin’ to.”

  “C’mon, Sonny, cut the shit and put her on.”

  “All right, hold on. Christ.”

  I opened a second Iron City. Though I’d turned down the volume, I could still make out the honeyed timbre of Sarah Vaughn. A night siren luring me out of myself, my troubles, my own damn stubbornness. Was Sonny right? Was every sane person in the world asleep?

  Angie’s sharp voice crackled in my ear. “What’s up?”

  “Angie. Thanks. Listen, I need a favor.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me? I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you. I heard about you refusing police protection. The DA’s spittin’ nails. Biegler wants to pull you in again, charge you with obstruction. Just to get your ass off the street.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “No, sir. ’Cause this time I’m inclined to agree with them. We’re in the middle of a high-profile case here. Word is, Wingfield’s going public tomorrow—”

  “I know.”

  I could tell this threw her, but she did her best not to indicate it.

  “Good,” she said crisply. “So you know. Then you also know you’re a big piece of this puzzle, and the last thing we need is you getting yourself killed.”

  “Gotcha. Now, about that favor—”

  “I’m gonna hang up, I swear it.”

  “No, you’re not. ’Cause we’re paisans. Family.”

  She laughed. “Yank my other one. Shit.”

  “Just make a call to the uniform watching my office. They’ve still got it under seal. But I want to get in.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a hunch. But I think I know how the killer got in and planted the murder weapon on my desk. Don’t you want to find out if I’m right?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Phil Camden’s house was on a quiet street off Walnut. Many Pitt faculty lived in the area, a hushed conclave sheltered by trees and stone fences. Close enough for a short commute to campus, far enough away in style and ambience as to be of another world entirely. Where the houses all had libraries and velvet-toned wall clocks, and drinks were served before dinner.

  I stood at Phil’s front door, framed by the porch light, and leaned on the bell.

  In a minute, I heard a heavy shuffling from the other side of the door, then the sound of bolts being unlocked.

  Phil Camden opened the door and peered out through sleep-clouded eyes, his glasses at an angle on his nose.

  “Who the hell—? At this hour?”

  That voice, so sharp, so threaded with authority, still had the size and weight I remembered.

  But the man did not. Though it had been only five years since I’d last seen him, he had aged much more. And gotten smaller, shrunk into himself, burdened at last by time and labor. And grief.

  “Phil…” I began, though half the anger I’d carried up to his porch had already faded. “Look—”

  He adjusted his glasses and drew himself up. The cold fire in his eyes leapt up, as if on command, and steadied.

  “You?…What in God’s name?…How dare you…?”

  “We have to talk,” I said quickly. “I know you’re working for Wingfield. I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Go to hell!”

  He started to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot. He glared at me in disbelief.

  “I should call the police,” he said hoarsely.

  “But you won’t. You want to talk to me. That’s why you called me earlier. On my cell phone.”

  “That was a courtesy. To notify you that I’d been retained in legal action against you by Miles Wingfield. I thought it the proper thing to do.”

  “Maybe. But right now, the proper thing is to let me in your house so we can talk about this like men.”

  He considered this. I guess propriety won out, because he stepped back and let the door swing open.

  I let out a long breath as I watched him turn and pad down the carpeted hall toward his study. I closed the door behind me and
followed.

  The house was just as I remembered it. Formal, tasteful. Antique furniture. Venerable bookshelves laden with classic texts. Dim, hushed. A house born before the era of civil rights, feminism, and pop culture. A house shaped and contained by one man’s proud intellect and iron will.

  Phillip Camden turned on the lamp over his study desk, then sat heavily in the stuffed leather chair. Sighing, he motioned impatiently for me to take the one just beyond the pool of light.

  We’d said not one word since I’d entered the house.

  He found a small notebook and consulted it.

  “I’ll be brief,” he said. “Regarding Kevin Merrick, nee Wingfield. I’ll assume you’re familiar with his case history prior to coming into treatment with you.”

  “Yes. I got his files from County psych after his confinement there.”

  “Following a robbery and assault he’d suffered—”

  “That’s right. It happened six months prior to entering therapy with me. Kevin had surprised a burglar in his apartment. There was a struggle. Kevin managed to escape.”

  Camden studied a document paper-clipped to a file.

  “I further assume you noted Kevin’s diagnosis at his three previous psychiatric institutions. As well as the results of the tests administered periodically during the last seven or eight years of his life.”

  I shrugged. “He pretty much got the whole buffet. TAT. MMPI. Bender-Gestalt. Plus about two dozen mental status exams, over the years. Clumsily administered, I’m sure, by some trainee trying to impress his or her supervisor.”

  “Is that mere cynicism, or are you trying—fairly clumsily yourself—to make a point?”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “People like Kevin get tagged with labels pretty early on, and spend the rest of their lives trying to wriggle out of them. You know what it’s like in the mental health system.”

  “So we should just throw away diagnosis altogether?”

  “Of course not. But calling the categories of mental illness objective is total bullshit. Hell, they change every time there’s a new edition of the damn manual.”

  Camden threw down the folder in disgust. “This discussion is over. You are as infuriating now as when I had the misfortune to select you as my graduate assistant.”