Fever Dream (36 page)
I nodded. “Believe me, I’ve seen patients feud endlessly over
pets
. Over what they perceived as dirty looks. I’ve seen delusional hatreds simmer for years. But premeditated murder?
That
, I admit, I’ve never seen.”
I stared at Stan Willis. “Till now.”
The young man’s face hardened, as though a dark mask. Unreadable. Unmoving. Only his jaw working.
“This is so—”
He never finished his sentence. Never intended to.
Instead, with a guttural howl, he pushed past me and ran out of the shed.
He didn’t get far.
Willis hadn’t made it across the threshold of the door before Harry Polk was on him. The burly detective threw himself at Willis, arms outstretched, barreling low. He tackled him hard at the knees, both men spilling onto the grass just outside the shed.
By the time the rest of us had clambered out into the blazing sun, Polk had Willis face-down on the ground, hands behind his back. Snapping on the cuffs.
With an angry grunt, Polk hauled his suspect up to his feet. Willis, the wind apparently knocked out of him, stood on wobbly legs. Bent at the waist.
Polk shook him like a rag doll.
“Fuck, I hate when they run.” He leaned down, face at the same level as Willis’. “You hear me, asshole? Do it again, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Got it?”
Willis, still gasping, managed a quick nod.
I went up to Polk. “Sorry I let him get past me, Harry.”
“Yeah, well, ya don’t look sorry enough.”
A gruff, reluctant smile. Bagging a killer does a lot for a policeman’s day. Especially when the rest of the week’s news has been relentlessly bad. Polk probably figured a win is a win, even one whose circumstances were as bizarre as this.
As he dutifully read Willis his Miranda rights, Nancy Mendors joined us. “I…I can’t believe it.”
“
I
can.”
It was Victoria Tolan, standing off to one side. Her face translucently pale in the bright sun. “I know it’s true. I knew it the moment Dr. Rinaldi started to explain what happened.”
She risked a careful step toward Stan Willis, who’d finally straightened. “You killed Andy. It was you.”
Willis allowed himself a tight smile.
“Maybe I did. Maybe it happened the way Rinaldi says. But if so, I’m not guilty of anything.”
Polk snorted. “What the—?”
“Get real, will ya? Not guilty by reason of mental defect. That’s how this’ll go down. I watch
Law and
Order.
I know my rights.”
He swiveled his head toward Victoria.
“Okay, so I gotta let them say I’m crazy. Fine. I can live with that. But at least I know I’m human. Shit, I may be crazy, but Andy Parker was crazier. Why couldn’t you see that, you stupid bitch?”
For the first time, I saw something take hold in the young woman. A calm, sober strength. A clarity.
“No,” she said. Quietly but firmly. “Andy
was
human, after all. Unlike you.”
Willis stared back at her, at a loss, but Victoria had already turned to Nancy. Voice still calm. Measured.
“May I return to my room now, Dr. Mendors?”
“Of course.”
Nancy took Victoria’s arm and led her back the way we’d come, toward the main building. Neither woman looked back at Polk, his prisoner, or me.
***
I skipped the memorial to the slain bank employees. I couldn’t bear the thought of listening to Sinclair and Garrity speak to the assembled crowd. Mourners and media. Supporters and handlers.
I didn’t want to hear the candidates take turns being outraged at this heinous crime, showing empathy to the bereaved loved ones, calling on God to gather these four innocent souls into His loving bosom.
I didn’t want to see the grieving families and their attorneys. Nor watch eager print and broadcast reporters shove microphones in their faces to get their reactions to the memorial. The extent of their loss, what good they hoped might come from this tragedy. How much they thought Sinclair and Garrity really, truly felt their pain.
Maybe I just didn’t want to see how far Mrs. George Vickers had proceeded with her makeover for the cameras. Or put it down to a growing cynicism about political opportunism, public displays of carefully-crafted emotion.
Regardless, instead of joining hundreds of others on folding chairs at Point State Park, I was sitting at a quiet midtown Starbucks. Sipping strong black coffee, waiting for Treva Williams to appear. A few blocks from the memorial site, I’d picked a meeting place within walking distance for her.
What was it like, I wondered, to be sitting in the front row, facing the dais. The only one who’d survived the bloody massacre that had taken her friends and colleagues. As well as Bobby Marks, the man she loved.
I was about to find out. Just as I was finishing my coffee, I saw Treva Williams step through the doorway from the busy sidewalk. Glancing shyly to her left and right.
I rose from my seat and waved her over.
“Dr. Rinaldi. How good to see you.”
Her face was red from the sun, and her eyes, though moist from recent tears, were unusually animated. She wore a somber gray skirt and blouse under a black blazer. As when I’d first met her, her make-up was muted, nails unpainted. But despite her obvious sorrow, appropriate to the occasion, she seemed less fragile, less emotionally depleted than before. I thought this a good sign.
“Can I get you something? Iced coffee, maybe?”
She shook her head and we sat opposite each other at the table.
“I can only stay a few minutes,” she said quickly, as though a clock were actually ticking. “My driver from Victims’ Services is waiting for me at Point State Park. I had to beg him to let me come and see you, before he drove me home.” A rueful grin. “He says he’s on a tight schedule. Must be a lot of victims out there to take care of.”
“Too many, I’m afraid. How was the service?”
Her chin lowered. “It was a nice ceremony. But really hard…I kept thinking about Bobby and everything. But everyone was quite nice…”
“I’m glad. I was worried that Sinclair and Garrity would just use it to make speeches…”
“Well, they did, I guess…but it wasn’t obnoxious, you know? It was okay. And Brian Fletcher was very sweet to me. He sat right next to me the whole time.”
That didn’t surprise me much, though I said nothing.
“After it was over,” Treva went on, “he said that Leland Sinclair wanted me to attend the debate tomorrow night. To be in the audience.”
“The debate?”
“They’ve invited me to sit with some other special guests. With the families and friends.”
“You don’t have to go, Treva. Not unless you want to.”
“I think I do, Dr. Rinaldi. Mr. Sinclair is going ahead with the debate to show that he wasn’t scared by that man who shot at him.”
“Jimmy Gordon.”
“Yes. I mean, it’s not like I’ve decided absolutely that I’m going. I’m thinking about it, that’s all. Since Mr. Fletcher asked me and everything.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she involuntarily lowered her eyes. I was reminded suddenly of something Treva mentioned to me once. About how flattered she’d been when her boss at the bank, James Franconi, had said she was good at her job. That she had a flair. I realized that Treva had probably spent a lifelong yearning to be truly
seen
, appreciated. To be taken seriously. To be noticed.
We chatted amiably for a few more minutes, mostly about the memorial service. The other victims’ families. Then, finally, I steered the conversation back to her. And the work I felt she needed to do. I suggested that we set up a regular appointment schedule, in my office, starting next week.
To my surprise, she readily agreed.
“I know there’s a lot I have to talk about. To work through. Everything I saw and heard. Plus Bobby…”
Here her lower lip trembled. Eyes blurring with tears. Then, blinking, she looked at her wrist watch.
“Oh, geez…I really have to go. My driver is waiting for me.” She rose suddenly, straightening her skirt with her small hands.
I got to my feet as well.
“Dr. Rinaldi, are you going to the debate, too?”
“I’m planning to.”
Her smile seemed more relieved than pleased.
“Good. I was hoping—I mean, I’m glad you’ll be there. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
The smile melted from her face, replaced by a look of grim expectation. A seriousness of purpose.
“You
do
remember your promise to me, don’t you?”
“Yes I do, Treva. But what do you mean? Are you afraid someone will try to hurt Sinclair again? And that
you’ll
get hurt or—”
She shook her head. Vehemently. Almost angrily.
“No! Nothing like that.”
“Then, what, Treva?”
Treva pressed her palms against her forehead. Hard. As though to keep it from exploding. Suddenly, she turned on her heel and ran out the open door.
Stunned for a moment, I took off after her. Bumping right into a middle-aged couple coming into the coffee shop. By the time I’d side-stepped them, hurried through the doorway, and made my way onto the crowded pavement, she was gone.
***
I went back inside and sat at the same table, just as my cell abruptly buzzed. It was Angie Villanova.
“What is it, Angie? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”
“Shit, do a guy a favor and what do ya get? Attitude.”
“Sorry. Been a weird day.”
“So I heard. Somebody told me about Harry Polk’s collar earlier today. Some kid from that mental clinic.”
“Stan Willis.”
“Right. Though I gotta tell ya, they’ll never make it stick. For one thing, the kid’s family has hired some pricey defense lawyer. And now Willis is denying everything. There’s not a shred of proof against him.”
“Yeah. It was pretty much all conjecture on my part. Polk came along to put some teeth in it.”
“Point is, you and I know what’s gonna happen here. Willis is just gonna end up in another psych ward.”
“Probably. We expect it. Is that why you called?”
“No, Mr. Charming. I called because you asked me to nose around about Dave Parnelli.”
“Jesus, that’s right. I’m sorry, Angie. Really.”
“Turns out, there’s not much to tell. Parnelli’s from Brooklyn. Worked for the public defender’s office for years. Divorced, with a kid. Ex and kid still live there.”
“So he relocated down here alone?”
“Looks like. I put my ear to the ground, like you asked, but came up squat. Nothing special about him since he started with the DA’s office. His coworkers think he’s arrogant, but what Italian male isn’t? Word is, he drinks too much, and flirts too much with the female staff, but stops short of sexual harassment.”
“What about his record with the public defender’s office in New York? Anything there?”
“
Nada
. Journeyman mouthpiece. Got his share of creeps and scum-bags off, and then got sick of it.”
“So he moved straight to the Steel City and the side of the angels.”
“Not exactly. After leaving the PD’s office, he spent a year in private practice. Some law firm in Harrisburg.”
My heart stopped. “Which law firm?”
“Outfit called McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz. Why, you know them?”
The rooftop lounge at the downtown Hilton was nearly empty, so Parnelli and I managed to grab a window seat. It was just sunset, and streaks of red, yellow, and purple crossed the sky, their reflections dancing on the waters of the Monongahela River below.
Iron City in hand, I leaned my shoulder against the cool window glass. Sipped my beer. Looked and listened. Sparse river traffic, the mournful sound of a lone tugboat. The streets emptying of cars and pedestrians. The hum of drive-time vehicles on the Parkway, heading for home. The scattered glow of lamps coming on behind office windows. The city gathering itself up for the evening, as the day gathered up its light.
I swallowed a sigh. My favorite time of day, right before darkness falls, and I was spending it at a window table with ADA Dave Parnelli.
“Glad you took me up on that drink, Dan.” Parnelli was on his third Scotch. His tie was askew, his sweat-dotted comb-over curling at the ends. “Though this is a bit early. Even for me.”
Somehow I doubted that.
Parnelli pointed the rim of his glass at me.
“Plus, I usually don’t get to work banker’s hours. It’s a twelve hour slog most days for this dedicated, under-appreciated public servant. But not today, with the victims’ memorial. Not to mention another big fund-raiser in Squirrel Hill.”