The only thing that will help me now is to kick this nutcase out of my office and my life.
She stands, we shake hands. She thanks me again for my time and reassures me that Randy will be just fine. At the door she turns, flashes a smile, and wishes me a “blessed day.”
As soon as she leaves I dig out Randy’s files. Now I wish I had taken more notes. There is nothing to indicate that we ever spoke about her religious beliefs. My pre-employment psych evaluations are locked in a file cabinet in my closet. I find Randy’s and pull it out. It’s over a year old. While I’m not legally permitted to ask applicants about their religious beliefs there is a section on my questionnaire that asks “Is there anything else about you that is important for me to know?” Applicants who have deep religious beliefs usually write something about their faith. That block on Randy’s questionnaire is blank.
It’s raining now. Pellets of water are hitting the roof and the window, making a clatter. The commute home is going to be a mess. I start to tidy up, put all my files back where they belong, and lock the cabinets. There’s an accumulation of coffee cups and water glasses from previous clients to be washed and dried. I sweep Marvel’s parting gift into the trash without looking at it and go into the waiting room. As always, the stacks of magazines need tidying. Lying on top of every flat surface is one of Marvel’s laminated cards with her contact information prominently displayed next to a smiling photo of her oh-so-helpful self. That little ambulance-chasing bitch. I flip the card over. On the other side are her twelve steps. Step number nine is making amends. My heart races and my brain follows. It hits me like a ton of bricks. Randy’s defection has nothing to do with religion. She still believes that the only way to heal herself is to make amends to Ms. Gibbs, face to face, woman to woman. She’s back where she started. Where we started. She’s been conning Dr. Johnson. Randy’s not looking for spiritual guidance—what she wants is validation and encouragement to confront Ms. Gibbs. She can’t forgive herself, so she needs Ms. Gibbs to do that. Well, she’s found the perfect foil to support her delusion. Not only does she have Marvel’s approval, Marvel is cheering her on.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Four police cars, lights on and sirens blaring, pass me as I turn the corner on my way to police headquarters. This is a rare sight in Kenilworth. Most of the crime here happens behind closed doors. Lakeisha Gibbs’ death was an anomaly, the first officer-involved shooting in several years. A fifth and a sixth car speed past. I pull into the parking lot. Chief Reagon and Captain Pence are running down the stairs. There’s an unmarked patrol car with a driver waiting for them at the bottom.
“What’s happened?”
“Get in,” the chief motions me toward the car. “Tell you when we’re on the way.” Pence jumps into the front passenger seat, and the chief and I get in the back. Pence’s jaw muscles are twitching. The chief’s face is in lockdown. She doesn’t look at me but stares at the back of the driver’s head. “They’ve found a body. We think it’s Randy Spelling.”
Tiny black dots push at the edges of my eyes. I grasp the back of Pence’s seat to keep from falling forward.
“How?” I ask.
“Don’t know yet.”
“Where?”
“At a park in East Kenilworth,” Pence answers without turning around. “Some guy walking a dog found her under a bench.”
“Under a bench. What was she doing?”
“Beats me. You’re her psychologist.”
“Was,” I say. Pence looks at me but doesn’t say anything. “How?” I ask again.
“How what?”
“How did she kill herself?”
The chief turns to me for the first time. Her face is drained of color. There is a small quiver at the corner of her mouth. “She didn’t kill herself, someone shot her to death with her own gun.”
* * *
They won’t let me near her body. Too many people spoil a crime scene. I watch from inside the car. Just as well, I doubt that my legs could hold me if I tried to walk. Cops and crime technicians are everywhere, ringed in by yellow caution tape like circus performers under a tent of gray sky. A crowd of onlookers has begun to assemble. A blue tarp lays over Randy’s small body. Either the bench has been moved back or her body has been moved forward, I can’t tell. Someone is interviewing the dog walker, a tall African American male dressed in jeans and a black-and-orange San Francisco Giants windbreaker. Three small mop-like dogs and two Chihuahuas are winding around his legs. The officer is leaning on the hood of his patrol car, writing furiously on his clipboard. The dog walker is shaking his head and pointing toward a newly constructed apartment complex painted in the colors of Tuscany.
There is a low rumble in the sky and a few drops of rain splatter against the pavement. I can hear Pence telling the troops to move fast before the rain washes away any usable evidence. More people drift toward the scene, some holding umbrellas and small folding stools as though they are planning to watch for awhile. Why not? This is the morning news and it’s happening right in front of them. A uniformed officer pushes them back and puts up a second line of caution tape to expand the circle around Randy’s body.
“I seen her,” an older man shouts to no one in particular. “It’s that cop what shot that little girl. Got what she deserve, you ask me.”
Suddenly, I recognize where I am. This park with its crayon-colored slides and swings belongs to Althea Gibbs’ apartment complex.
A car pulls up next to me. Jack Shiller gets out and lopes to the edge of the caution tape. I don’t have to hear what passes between him and the officer who’s trying to hold the growing crowd back to know what’s going on. The only thing I can’t tell is which of them is yelling louder. Shiller turns to the crowd and starts asking questions. There are a lot of eager takers, what better than to be on the TV news, only Shiller is a print journalist. Still, the TV crews can’t be far behind. Too late, I slink down in my seat hoping I haven’t been seen. He turns away from the crowd toward me, the older man in pursuit, daring him to tell the truth about terroristic cops who murder black youth for target practice.
The driver’s side window is open. “One of your kind, Doc. A bona fide nut job,” he says. “Can you help cure him?” He laughs. I don’t. “So, who do the cops think is good for this? Lakeisha’s family? The father of her kid?”
“They just found her body. I don’t think they have a suspect.”
“It’s gotta be revenge.”
I suddenly feel exhausted, all I can think about is my bed, my comforter, and my pillow. I want to sleep for a week. I see the chief, Pence, and the driver walking back to the car. Shiller follows my eyes, turns around and sprints toward them. They keep walking. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Shiller points to the car and then turns back to the crowd.
The driver gets in first, followed by the chief and Pence who does not look happy. “What did he want with you?”
“He wanted to know if you had a suspect. I told him it’s too early for that.”
“You don’t know that.” He motions for the driver to start the car. “Next time a reporter asks you a question, just say ‘no comment.’”
“Do you have a suspect?” I can hear him curse under his breath. “Is this a revenge killing?”
Pence turns around. He is beet red and scowling. “We’re police officers, not psychologists. We collect evidence, not theories.” He turns to the front again as surprised as I am at this rupture in his airtight demeanor.
“It’s all right, Jay.” The chief leans forward and puts her hand on the front seat almost touching his shoulder, but not quite. “No harm done. We’re all on edge and we need to be considerate of each other’s feelings.” She turns to me. “And we all need to be careful about talking to the press and making unverifiable inferences about anything.”
There’s a sudden undulation in the gathered crowd. Those working the scene stop doing whatever they’re doing and turn toward the commotion. The cops all have their hands on their weap
ons.
“They didn’t do it, they didn’t do it.” It’s Ms. Gibbs. “Don’t let them do my boys like they did Lakeisha.” She falls to her knees, sobbing and heaving, tears cascading down her face. “Oh God,” she screams. “Save my boys.” Two young men rush to scoop her off the ground. She strikes at them. “Get away, don’t let them see you. Get away.” They lift her to her feet and turn her back toward the apartment building. I can hear her yelling, over and over, “Don’t let them take my boys,” until the crowd closes ranks behind them. The older man is still pacing back and forth, warning no one in particular about a lynching that’s going to happen. We pull out of the parking lot as the crowd disperses, past the playground where Lakeisha’s grandmother, Charla Gibbs Bernstein, is gripping the bars on a child’s jungle gym with both hands. Her eyes are closed, her head is tilted upward, and tears are sliding down her face.
* * *
We ride in silence for several minutes. I can see the driver’s stony face in the rearview mirror. He’d rather be out in the field trying to find a cop killer than cooped up with three of the most useless people on the planet: his chief, his captain, and the department shrink.
“That was an Academy Award performance, wasn’t it?” Pence says. “What do you think?” He nudges the driver who wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.
“Yes, sir.”
“Really, what do you think? Am I wrong?” It’s a safe bet he won’t get any disagreement from a low-ranking street cop.
“Don’t know about the mother, Captain. We’ve arrested the Gibbs boys several times. Petty stuff.” Pence takes this in, working his mouth around as though chewing on the possibilities.
“Chief?” He looks over his shoulder. “Your thoughts? Was this a performance or not?”
“I think not. Grief is horrible.” I wonder if she knows this firsthand. “This woman has lost one child. The idea that we might come after her other children must be terrifying. She’s obviously lost trust in us, if she ever had it to begin with.”
“What about you, Doc? Was she faking it?”
“I’m with the chief. Hard to imagine someone who wasn’t a professional actress faking being overwrought. She was in agony.”
“I thought she did a pretty good job of turning on the tears at those demonstrations.”
“Enough, please,” the chief says. “Let’s not pre-judge anyone or anything. We need open minds. And we need to remember that different cultures express their emotions differently—some do it loudly, others hold things in.” She is looking out the side window as she says this, turning her face away from us all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There is an odd stillness in the police department when we get back despite the fact that almost every officer in the department has shown up, even those who were on vacation or weren’t scheduled to work. The murder of a police officer is unthinkable. The ache of it settles on everyone like a fine dust. I pass Manny in the hall and when I reach out to him, he raises his hands defensively and backs away saying, “Not now, Doc. Not now,” as if the mere touch of my hand would shatter him into a thousand pieces.
The chief calls a hastily assembled department meeting in the council chambers. The mayor and several council people are present. The last Kenilworth officer to be killed on the job was Fran’s husband BJ. I make a mental note to check on her. It doesn’t make any difference that BJ died fifteen years ago. Randy’s death will trigger her most painful memories.
The first order of business is for the chief and Jay Pence to give the troops who aren’t working the crime scene as much information as they can and to start laying out a strategy to find witnesses and develop a suspect profile. The department conference room has already been turned into a situation room, wallpapered with sheets of flip chart paper to track information. It’s an effective, though ironically low-tech method, considering that Kenilworth sits in the middle of Silicon Valley.
Jay Pence was wrong about police officers not jumping to conclusions. The troops are unanimous in their certainty that someone in Lakeisha Gibbs’ family is responsible for Randy’s death.
“Let’s be careful not to judge events or people prematurely,” the chief says. There’s a murmur in the crowd. She steps to the front of the room, raises her hand, and waits until the noise settles. “It is our responsibility to the community to investigate Officer Spelling’s death as thoroughly and impartially as we are capable of doing.” The murmur rises and then falls. “The loss of an officer is a tragedy. I know we’re all feeling grief and anger. But, we cannot let anger get the best of us and distort our judgment. We have policies and procedures in place and we will follow them to the letter. Any questions?”
The questions come in a rush.
“What about the guy who got the Gibbs girl pregnant? Somebody interviewing him?”
“Did Randy have a gun on her? Were there any fingerprints?”
“What was she doing in East Kenilworth?”
“Was she in uniform?”
The chief raises her hands. “I need to ask for your patience. As of right now, we don’t know what Officer Spelling was doing in East Kenilworth. We’re still searching the area for evidence and witnesses. Captain Pence and I will keep you informed as details come in from the field. For now, you’re all in service.”
The chief motions for me to stay. She looks exhausted. “Rich Spelling is in my office. Will you talk to him, please? I tried to talk to him, but he was not receptive. He wants to be part of the investigation. This is understandable—he’s a law enforcement officer—but I can’t permit such a thing. He’s quite angry about it. I understand Randy’s entire family is in law enforcement. They’re going to want to be involved, and I can’t let them. They don’t seem to understand how much harm they could do to the investigation and to themselves.”
I slowly walk to the chief’s office, trying to find the right words to say to Rich. My mind is blank. Randy’s murder is beyond words. I pause at the door, wishing I were Catholic so I could cross myself.
Rich looks like hell. His face is drawn and the area beneath his eyes is red and flaky. He stands when I come in. “Got what she wanted, didn’t she? Face to face with that lunatic woman and her gangbanger sons. Mea culpa, Ms. Gibbs, mea culpa. I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.” He whines and bobbles his head as he puts his hands over his heart in a poor imitation of Randy being obsequious in a way that doesn’t fit the Randy I knew.
He sits down again with a thud, head in hands. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He looks up at me. “She had me, you know. I’m one stupid son of a bitch. Promised me she wouldn’t do this. Told me she and Marvel had talked it through and she was over it. Not going to talk to Gibbs. She was going to leave it alone, get back to work, get on with her life. Her life, not our life—her life.” He stands again, so agitated he doesn’t seem to know where his body belongs.
“I didn’t count, did I? It was all about her. Her tragedy, her cross to bear, her life ruined. You know what? I ought to thank Ms. Gibbs and her sons. They did me a favor.” Air whooshes out of him and he slumps on the edge of the chief’s desk, all his anger momentarily spent. “Tough guys, huh? No balls, two guys ambushing a 105-pound woman.”
I doubt either of the Gibbs boys weigh more than that themselves.
Rich winces back tears. “She did this on purpose, didn’t she? Got herself killed.”
* * *
By the time I get home it’s almost ten o’clock at night. There’s a message from Frank offering his support. I’m too tired to call him back. He wants to know how I am, and I don’t know how to answer his question. Blunted and muddy come to mind. I pour myself a glass of wine and sit on the couch with the lights out. Randy was tough, hard to reach, sometimes even hard to like. But I admired her spunk. And I was touched by her compassion for Lakeisha Gibbs. I can’t imagine the burden of guilt she was carrying and would carry for the rest of her life. I take another sip of wine. Who am I kidding? I know exactly what it feels like to carry that ki
nd of burden although I never said that to Randy. It’s not like I killed Ben Gomez—he did that to himself—but to this day I still feel responsible. So, if I haven’t cured myself of relentless guilt, how much help was I to Randy? Not as much as the youthful Dr. Marvel with her step-by-step game plan to certain disaster. I wonder how and what she’s feeling right now. The wine sours in my mouth.
I know what to tell Frank if he calls back; so what if he’s disgusted and never wants to see me again? Honesty is important in relationships. Relieved, that’s what I’m feeling. Relieved everyone believes Randy was murdered and didn’t kill herself. Relieved that if there’s anyone to blame beside whoever killed her, it’s Dr. Marvel Johnson, not me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The halls are crowded with cops. I pass several officers I don’t recognize. Mutual aid from a neighboring town is filling in so Kenilworth cops can work Randy’s murder. No one, myself included, looks like they’ve slept more than a few hours. I spot Manny in the briefing room, bent over his computer.
“How’s it going?”
He shakes his head.
“No leads?”
He looks at me. His smooth skin showing tiny break lines. He’s unshaven.
“Did you go home last night?” He shakes his head.
“What about the Gibbs brothers?”
“In the wind. So is Darnell Taylor.”
“Who’s that?”
“The father of Lakeisha Gibbs’ baby.”
“Who told you that?”
“The grandmother.” He looks at his notes. “Bernstein. Dr. Bernstein.”
The Right Wrong Thing Page 12
