by G. H. Ephron
It was nearly ten when an officer finished skimming debris from the surface of the pool and tapping it out onto a piece of plastic. I shivered. Among the leaves and twigs, there seemed to be bits of human tissue. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.
I’d witnessed two other murder scenes, but each time the loss had been intensely personal. I’d found Kate, her throat slashed in her ceramics studio in our home. I’d found my friend Channing Temple in her office, dead from what looked like a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. At those times, I’d felt pure emotion, my vision warped by rage and loss. It was only in retrospect that I had any kind of detached perspective.
This was different—the murdered woman was someone else’s wife, a friend to strangers. Despite the horror of it and the profound sadness I felt in the face of death, in another part of my brain was a disconnected sense of fascination, putting this crime firmly in the third person. I felt like a motorist who can’t help slowing down and gawking as medics pull a stranger from a car that’s flipped over and smashed up against a highway median.
I watched as a diver lowered himself into the pool, swam out, dove down, and came up a few moments later holding a fireplace poker. He handed it to an officer at the edge of the pool. Meanwhile, an officer with a grappling hook nudged the body up against the edge.
Nick stood beside me watching, gripping the countertop, his knuckles turning white. One of the police officers came in and asked him if he’d go out and identify the body. He went.
As Nick stood by the side of the pool, they pulled the body from the water and rolled her over. He shuddered and looked away. Lisa Babikian’s face was covered by a half mask—the white lacquered face made up like a clown. Intestines that trailed in the water were pulled along. She had been cut open, through the sternum and abdomen, like a carcass of meat. I closed my eyes.
Nick was led back into the house. When he returned, his face was wet with tears. Outside, Detective Boley knelt beside the body. Maybe it was the blue of the water reflecting off his face, but Boley seemed pale. One of the medics tried to tell him something, but Boley held up a hand to silence him. He bowed his head for a few moments, then seemed to shake himself out of it. He staggered a few steps when he got up, then stood back while they lifted the body onto a gurney and zipped a dark body bag over her.
It was nearly noon by the time they let us leave, and then only with the promise that Annie and I would each drop by later in the day to give them fingerprints and hair samples. I was exhausted. The fantasy of returning with Annie to pick up where we’d left off had long since faded. At least it was Sunday, and I didn’t have to go to the Pearce.
I needed a shower, something to eat, but most of all I needed sleep. I wondered how long it would be before the image of the young woman’s butchered body would wash out of my consciousness.
Chip walked us through the laundry room and to the door to the garage. A step farther and he’d have lost sight of Nick sitting at the kitchen table. Chip lowered his voice. He told me he’d talked to Detective Boley. “They think the cause of death is related to a head trauma. Her skull is pretty well dented.”
“The fireplace poker?” I whispered.
“Probably.”
Head trauma? If a blow to the head was what killed her, then why butcher her and then drown her? I could already imagine the newspaper headlines: Overkill. There would be interviews with so-called experts pontificating on the psychology of it. They’d probably tell the drooling reporter that overkill wasn’t unusual in a “thrill killing” where typically two or more killers gang up on a stranger just for the fun of it. More often you saw it in crimes of passion against a loved one. Then, the violence was intimate—strangling and stabbing as opposed to shooting or poisoning—and the perpetrator was often a man driven by a terror of being abandoned.
Chip held his hand over his mouth. “And they found bloody clothing in the bathroom hamper. Nick’s. Looks like he changed his clothes and took a shower before he drove his mother to Oakvale.”
I turned my back to the kitchen and said quietly, “If he didn’t kill his wife, then how the hell did Nick get blood all over his clothing?”
“I have no idea.” Chip’s voice was weary. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to explain.” Chip glanced back at Nick. He was sitting at the table, watching us from under the cap brim. He looked quickly away, got up, and opened the refrigerator.
“Weird,” Annie whispered. “I wonder why he didn’t change his shoes.”
“Shoes?” Chip asked.
Nick took a glass out of the cabinet and ran the water at the sink.
“Looks like they’re spattered with blood,” I said. “Wouldn’t you think someone changing his clothes to cover up his involvement in a murder would change his shoes too?”
“Not much of a cover-up if he leaves his bloody shirt hanging halfway out of the laundry basket in the bathroom,” Chip added.
Chip went on to say that he expected Nick to be arrested. He’d request bail, of course, but said he’d be surprised if the judge granted it. “The DA is going to want to get the state’s shrink in to interview him,” Chip said. “I’ve already told Nick not to talk to anybody unless I say so. I hope you’ll have time to get in there and evaluate him right away.”
“Whoa, hold your horses,” I said. It came out louder than I’d intended. I was glad that Nick had the water running as he rinsed out the glass.
Were there some crimes so horrific that they rendered the standard arguments for mitigating circumstances—insanity, diminished capacity—irrelevant? And when had we slipped from being concerned friends and friends of a friend to being Nick’s attorney and support team? There were plenty of things I could see doing with my time other than defending a man who’d butchered his wife.
“I’m not so sure you’re going to want my help on this case. There’re lots of other folks out there who, for the right amount, will do whatever you want them to do and testify accordingly.”
Chip did a double take. His eyes widened. “Peter …” he started.
I realized that hadn’t come out the way I’d intended. “I’m sorry. That sounded like I was questioning your ethics, and I don’t. But you can’t just assume that I’m going to jump in and help. And I’m not so sure you’re going to want my help on this case. I’ve got very strong biases about men who kill women and what should happen to them. You might even say it’s a blind spot.”
“Peter, we don’t know who did it. And besides, you always call them the way you see them. This time won’t be any different.”
“You may not like what I have to say.”
“You make your findings. I decide whether to use them.”
I glanced back into the kitchen. Nick was slumped at the table again, the brim of his cap shadowing his face. Was this really different from any of the other murder cases where I’d defended an accused? Probably not. But with my nose rubbed in the reality of it, I was finding myself forced to face my own competing impulses. Admit it, I told myself, I was repelled and fascinated at the same time.
Chip rushed on. “Can you do a preliminary evaluation right away? Once he’s charged and in custody?”
I gave a mute nod.
Chip returned to the house, and Annie and I walked back to the Jeep. I put my arm around her, as much to reassure myself that she was there as to show her that I cared.
As we neared the end of the driveway, I could see neighbors huddled on the street in tight groups. They gave us the once-over.
A Channel 12 News camera team had floodlights set up in the street. A perfectly coiffed blonde smiled at the camera and read from notes clutched in her hand. The story would be tomorrow’s lead. Most people would hear about it and be shocked by the barbarity of the crime. They’d assume the husband did it. That was usually the case.
I opened the door of the Jeep and reached in for the Dunkin’ Donuts cup that was sitting on the dash, opened it, and dumped the cold coffee on the ground.
“Hey, y
ou!” someone yelled. When I looked up, a flashbulb popped in my face.
Annie and I quickly ducked into the car.
“Asshole,” Annie muttered. “Jerk. Didn’t even ask permission.” She had her key out and was trying to jam it into the starter. “Damn. Stupid. Asshole.”
I put my hand on her arm. “House key,” I said.
“House key?” She stared at me. Then she looked down at the key that was never going to fit into the ignition. “Oh.”
She switched keys. The engine started up with a roar. Quickly Annie eased up on the gas pedal. Clearly she wasn’t as inured to violent death as she seemed to be.
Annie turned the car around and we headed home.
As we cruised along the main road, I thought about the Babikian home. Physical evidence isn’t my thing. I look at behavior, state of mind, not bloody smears across the floor. But what struck me were the contrasts. The fresh smell of laundry detergent against the slightly sour smell that wafted in from the pool. The restrained monochromatic walls, glass and chrome furnishings in the living room with its menacing masks, against a cozy kitchen with its puppy dog calendar, frolicking cherubim, and gallery of newborns. Tabletops with nothing on them—no unopened mail, no piles of newspapers, no magazines or books. No disarray at all. Everything in complete control, chaos squelched. And against that, an excessive crime: a woman bashed in the head, butchered, and drowned—any one of which would have killed her.
I knew someone had mentioned it, but at that moment, I couldn’t for the life of me remember the young woman’s name. Suddenly, that seemed very important.
4
“LISA.” NICK Babikian could barely say his wife’s name.
Nick sat hunched over the battered table in the examining room of the Middlesex County Jail. Hours after I left the Babikian home, he’d been arrested. They’d been holding him now for two days.
In the unforgiving fluorescent light, his skin looked green against the orange of his baggy prison scrubs. Otherwise, he seemed much the same. Still wired, still suspicious, Nick kept his eyes on me from beneath bushy eyebrows and a tangle of black curly hair. The air vibrated with anxiety.
“She was twenty-six when we met,” he said. Six words. This was the richest response he’d given me in the hour since I’d started the evaluation.
For at least the fifth time since he’d come into the bare, windowless cubicle, Nick glanced furtively about. He twisted around and checked the wall and floor behind him. Then he turned back. As he shifted in his seat, the chains from leg irons dragged on the floor.
I’d started off, as I always did with someone I evaluated, by telling him that I was there to help the team prepare his defense. I was reminded, once again, of the unique relationship between forensic psychologist and prisoner. My time is limited and my goals quite specific: to find exculpatory evidence. Typically, defendants are highly motivated to give me what they think I want, which often has its own problems.
But Nick seemed oblivious to that script. I’d begun with a mental status exam, hoping to ease his way into answering with the relatively innocuous questions. But even these encountered resistance. From the way he crossed his arms and avoided eye contact, to his terse responses, the message was clear: He didn’t trust. I needed him to lower his defenses enough to get our conversation to flow before I took him back through the crime.
As I’d expected, Nick knew exactly where he was and why. He didn’t seem suicidal. He also admitted that he didn’t feel safe. Under the circumstances, that could be considered normal. There were no frank hallucinations or delusions.
I began to probe his relationship with his wife. “You had a happy marriage?”
“I loved my wife,” Nick said. He focused on the oatmeal-colored Formica tabletop. “We had our occasional problems.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Like what?”
“You said you were having problems.”
“You know, problems. Everybody has problems.”
“Sure. I know everyone has problems. How bad were yours?” It felt like pulling teeth.
“We saw someone, couple of times,” he said, still evading the question.
“A marriage counselor?” I asked. Nick nodded. “What did you talk to her about?”
“Not her. Him.” Nick swallowed and stared off into space. “Do I have to talk about it? Why don’t you ask him?”
“May I? I’d like very much to do that,” I said.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d balked when I took him up on the offer, but he didn’t. He said, “Dr. Richard Teitlebaum. He’s in Newton.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. I wondered if this was the DR. T on their kitchen calendar.
I turned to a fresh sheet of paper and quickly wrote a paragraph that would release Dr. Teitlebaum to talk to me, and vice versa. I pivoted it and handed Nick the pen.
“What’s this?”
“He’ll need to see that you’ve given him your permission to talk to me.”
He read what I’d written, turned the page over and inspected the back. Then he gave me a guarded look and drew a diagonal line across the blank side—ensuring, I suppose, that I couldn’t add anything. He turned it back over and signed.
“You ever see anyone else to talk to?” I asked. “On your own?”
“A shrink?” Nick shook his head. “I only went to Teitlebaum because it was important to Lisa.”
“And you tried to do the things that your wife wanted you to?”
Nick picked at a curling corner of the Formica top until a little piece broke off. “I loved my wife.”
The room had turned stuffy. I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of my chair. Nick’s glance fell to my belt. He leaped up, the chair crashing over behind him. “What the hell is that? You’re taping this!” He was staring bug-eyed at the pager the guard had given me.
“Whoa, time-out,” I said, unhooking the gadget. “It’s a panic button, that’s all. They give it to visitors whenever they go one-on-one with violent offenders.” I held it out to him.
At first Nick reared back as if the thing might be about to explode. Gingerly, he took it and examined it, turning it over. Apparently satisfied, he handed it back to me. Then he righted his chair and eased back in it. “They make security cameras that look a lot like that. Tiny little things with pinhole lenses. I’ve got them all over my house.” It was the longest, unbroken thought I’d gotten out of him. “What I don’t get is why the hell the police haven’t looked at the security video and arrested the murderer.”
I remembered the stark interior of his home. Where could you hide surveillance cameras?
He seemed to read my thoughts. “You didn’t see the cameras, did you?” Nick smiled. “What the hell good would that do? They’re in the masks.”
Now I understood why someone who was paranoid would choose to hang masks on his walls. With video cameras hidden in empty eyeholes, he’d feel like the watcher, not the one being watched. His own vigilance could be extended through an arsenal of pinhole lenses.
“Maybe the police don’t realize …”
“They know,” he said coldly. “Boley does. I had a break-in at my business six months ago. He got the guy because I caught him on camera.”
“Boley?”
“That detective. Something about him …” Nick shook his head.
“Something what?”
“I don’t know. The way he was looking at me. Felt like he knew something that he wasn’t letting on.”
Nick would probably have attributed dark motives to any cop investigating the case, but there had been something odd about Boley. For one thing, here was a homicide detective who dealt with violent death every week. I wouldn’t have expected him to have been so shaken by the crime.
“Why didn’t you mention the video cameras when you were arrested?”
For a moment, Nick seemed baffled, as if he were trying to remember: Had he been arrested?
“Did you tell Chip?”
> “I …” he started. “Honestly, I don’t remember.”
“I’ll pass the information along,” I said. I made a note. It wasn’t all that surprising. In a crisis, people have lapses about all kinds of basic things. When we’d rushed my father to the hospital after his final heart attack, my mother couldn’t remember their home phone number or the name of their insurance company. But she could rattle off the list of the half dozen medications Dad was allergic to.
I said, “Whenever I evaluate someone, I try to get as complete a picture as I can. Maybe you can tell me about yourself. What was it like growing up?” Most people like the opportunity to talk about themselves, and open-ended questions like this one usually get them going. I never knew exactly where it would lead.
Nick did a slow blink, as if he were trying to read between my words and find the hidden intent.
“Sometimes the past helps us to understand the present,” I said, trying to reassure him and reaching for an offhand tone. “So what were you like as a kid?”
He stared down at the table, his gaze sliding from there to the floor.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward, “if you want me to help you, you’re going to have to do what I ask you to do, even though you may not see the point.”
For the first time, he gave me a long direct look. I could see him weighing the pros and cons. Then he started. “I grew up in Watertown. Lived with my parents, my grandparents. We owned a bakery on Mt. Auburn Street.” I knew the area. It was known for Middle Eastern grocery stores and bakeries that specialized in lamejun pizzas and baklava. “My grandparents worked in the bakery. My parents worked in the bakery. I came home and worked in the bakery. That’s all I did—I went to school and worked in the bakery.”
I was encouraged. Nick was loosening up, no longer spending each word like a precious coin. I waited, hoping he’d keep going. But he didn’t.
“You mean you didn’t hang out with other kids?”
“Huh? I didn’t have time for other kids. And my mother—well, my grandmother actually—was paranoid about letting me out of her sight. From the minute school ended until I got to the bakery, she’d be hanging out the door, waiting for me to get there.” He shook his finger, hunched his back, and with a thick accent he muttered, “Terrible things can happen out there!”
