Missing Pieces Read online

  Immediately it rang.

  “You can’t make it,” I said into the receiver, convinced Robert had had second thoughts.

  “Can’t make what?” Larry asked.

  “Larry?”

  “Kate, is that you?”

  I laughed, a strange combination of guilt and relief. “This one patient of mine, she can’t seem to make up her mind whether she wants to come in or not.” I stressed the word “she.” Twice.

  “She’ll be there. How can anyone resist you?”

  I tried to laugh, ended up coughing instead.

  “You okay?” I could hear the concern in his voice. “You getting a cold?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling awful. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just checking to see if we’re free a week this Friday night.”

  “I think so. Why? What’s up?”

  “A satisfied customer has invited us to dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great. I’ll tell him to count us in. Love you, funny face,” he said, instead of goodbye.

  “Love you too.”

  I hung up the phone. “Okay, you’re going to call Robert Crowe back right this minute and cancel lunch. Enough of this foolishness. If he has anything interesting to propose, he can do it over the phone.”

  The door to my waiting room opened, then closed. I checked my watch, then my appointment calendar. Sally and Bill Peterson were early, and I was running late. Not a great combination. Hurriedly, I pulled off my sweatshirt, getting it tangled around my head. “Serves you right,” I muttered, hearing the door to my inner office open, frantically tearing the sweatshirt away from my face. Who on earth would just walk into someone’s office unannounced and uninvited?

  “Mother!” I gasped.

  She backed against the wall, her face as gray as her uncombed hair, her dark eyes wide with fear.

  “Mother, what’s happened? What’s the matter?”

  “Someone’s following me.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s following me,” she repeated, glancing furtively around the room.

  “Who’s following you? What are you talking about?”

  “A man. He’s been following me for blocks. He followed me into the building.”

  In the next instant, I was in the outer hall, my head snapping quickly to my left, then right. There was no one there. I walked down the rose-carpeted corridor, past the elevator, approaching the stairway at the far end of the hall with caution, then flung open the door. Again, there was no one. I heard the sound of elevator doors opening, watched as an attractive young woman got out, hurrying past me with a wary eye. It was then that I realized I was wearing only sweatpants and a bra. “And I’m the therapist,” I announced.

  “There’s no man out there,” I told my mother, reentering my office and grabbing my sweatshirt, pulling it back over my head. I looked around. My mother was nowhere to be seen. “Mother?” I walked into the narrrow inner hallway. “Mother, where are you?” I pushed open the door to my second office, expecting to see her standing by the window, staring out at the magnificent palm trees along Royal Palm Way. But she wasn’t there. “Mother, where did you go?” Had she been there at all? Or had my guilty conscience conjured her up to try to talk some sense into me?

  And then I heard the whimpering. Halting, muffled, as if trying desperately not to be heard. It was a sound from my past I remembered only too well, despite the passage of the years. It froze me to the spot. “Mom?”

  I found her sitting crouched behind the office door, her knees grazing her chin, her face wet with tears, her eyes narrow slits, her mouth a large open wound. I rushed to her side, slid down beside her, surrounded her with my arms. She was shaking so badly, I didn’t know what to do. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. There’s no one out there. You’re safe now. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “He was there. He was following me.”

  “Who, Mom? Do you know who he was?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “Someone from your apartment building?”

  “No. It was someone I’d never seen before.”

  “You’re sure he was following you? Maybe he was just walking in the same direction.”

  “No,” she insisted. “He was following me. Every time I turned around, he stopped, pretended to be looking in a store window. When I slowed down, he slowed down. When I walked faster, so did he.”

  I wondered whether I should call the police. Why would someone be following my mother? “Had you just been to the bank?” I asked, thinking an old woman was probably an easy target for robbers. Except that her bank was located close to her apartment building, which was on the other side of the bridge and miles away. It would have taken her all day to walk here. “How did you get here?” I asked.

  She looked at me with blank eyes.

  “Mom,” I repeated, growing fearful, although I wasn’t sure why. “How did you get here?”

  The eyes darkened, flitted anxiously about the room.

  “Mom, don’t you remember how you got here?”

  “Of course I remember how I got here,” she said, her voice suddenly calm as she climbed to her feet and straightened the folds of her flower-print skirt. “I took a cab to Worth Avenue, did some window-shopping, then decided to walk over here to say hello. Along the way, some man started following me.” She took a deep breath, patted her hair into recognizable shape. “Probably just wanted to snatch my purse. Silly me—I guess I overreacted. You’ll have to forgive an old woman.”

  The door to my outer office opened, then closed. I looked warily in its direction, then back at my mother.

  “It’s just your next client,” she assured me, running a calming hand across my cheek. “I’ll go, let you get back to work.”

  I excused myself to Sally and Bill Peterson, and accompanied my mother downstairs, waiting until she was safely inside a taxi. “Mom,” I ventured gently before closing the car door, “maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “Nonsense, dear. I’m perfectly fine.” She smiled. “You’re looking a little peaked, however. I think you work too hard.” She kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, and seconds later, she was gone.

  Chapter 9

  Define sociopath.”

  The man on the witness stand—looking both distinguished and patriotic in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red-striped tie—took a moment to consider his answer, although as an expert witness for the prosecution, he undoubtedly had his answer well prepared. “A sociopath is a person who is hostile to society,” he began. “He feels little in the way of normal human emotions, except anger. This anger, combined with an almost total self-absorption and a complete lack of empathy for others, allows him to commit the most heinous crimes without any guilt or remorse.”

  “And a sexual sadist?”

  Again a measured pause. “A sexual sadist derives sexual pleasure from inflicting pain.”

  “Do the two terms go hand in hand?” The prosecutor patted his brown paisley tie, looked toward the jury.

  I followed his gaze, noted that the jury was paying strict attention. All it took was the mention of the word “sex,” I thought, glancing over at Jo Lynn. She was wearing tight white jeans and a white tank top, the center of which was emblazoned with a bright pink heart.

  “A sociopath is not necessarily a sexual sadist, but a sexual sadist is almost always a sociopath,” came the reply from the witness stand.

  “In your expert opinion, Dr. Pinsent, is Colin Friendly a sexual sadist?”

  “He is.”

  “Is he a sociopath?”

  “Most definitely.”

  Again, I looked at Jo Lynn, whose face was calm, even serene. Was she listening to this? Was she hearing it?

  The prosecutor approached the defense table, stopping in front of the accused, staring at Colin Friendly as if he were seeing him for the first time. Colin Friendly smiled back pleasantly. He’d obviously recovered q
uite nicely from his bout with the flu. His eyes were clear; his color was good. Everything was back to normal. “But he doesn’t look abnormal,” Mr. Eaves observed, as if reading my mind. “In fact, Mr. Friendly seems as genial as his name would imply—handsome, polite, intelligent.”

  “Sociopaths are often quite intelligent,” the witness explained. “And there’s nothing that says they can’t be good-looking. As for being polite, he’s just giving you what he thinks you need to see.”

  The defense attorney was instantly on his feet. “Move to strike, your honor. The witness can’t speak for Mr. Friendly.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Speaking in more general terms, Dr. Pinsent,” the prosecutor continued, undeterred, “what do you mean when you say that sociopaths give people what they need to see?”

  “Sociopaths are extremely manipulative. Their emotions run very shallow and they’re intensely self-centered. But they can mimic the emotions they observe in others, and feed back the appropriate response, the appropriate response being whatever would be considered normal under the circumstances. They play on people’s assumptions of basic human decency. People attribute feelings to them that simply aren’t there.” He paused, looked directly at Colin Friendly. “Sociopaths are often highly articulate, very charming, and glib. They’ll make you laugh, then stab you through the heart.”

  “Can you believe anything they say?”

  “Oh yes. They’re often quite truthful. As long as you keep in mind that their version of the truth is very self-serving.”

  “What produces a sociopath, Dr. Pinsent?”

  Dr. Walter Pinsent rubbed his fingers across his chin and smiled. “I’m afraid that’s a little like asking, ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ The eternal debate—are killers born or are they made?” He shook his head. “It’s impossible to say conclusively one way or the other. There are many theories, of course, but they have a habit of changing with the times and the political climate. Sometimes we give more weight to the genetic theory, sometimes to the environment. We postulate about extra Y chromosomes and chemical imbalances. But lots of people have chemical imbalances; that doesn’t make them murderers. And lots of people have an extra Y chromosome and they don’t go around slicing up their fellow human beings.”

  “Does Colin Friendly have a chemical imbalance or an extra Y chromosome?”

  “No, he does not.”

  “And what of the theory that environment is everything?”

  Walter Pinsent cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, tugged on his tie. “There’s no question that our childhood is crucial in terms of our development. The seeds for everything we grow into as adults were planted when we were children. Almost all serial killers had truly appalling childhoods. They were neglected, molested, beaten, abused, abandoned, you name it.”

  “Is this true of Colin Friendly?”

  “It is.”

  Jo Lynn leaned toward me. “Poor baby,” she whispered, as I struggled to find a hint of irony in her words. There was none.

  “Are there any characteristics that are common to all sociopaths?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Research has shown that there is something we now refer to as the ‘homicidal triad,’ three elements that are present in virtually all children who grow up to become serial killers: cruelty to small animals; bed-wetting beyond the normally appropriate age; and fire-starting.”

  “And were these elements present in Colin Friendly’s childhood?”

  “They were.”

  “And is there any doubt in your mind, after meeting with the accused and studying his background and the many psychiatric reports made available to you, that Colin Friendly is a sexual sadist and sociopath, guilty of the crimes for which he stands accused?”

  “No doubt at all,” Dr. Pinsent replied.

  “Thank you, Dr. Pinsent. Your witness, Mr. Archibald.”

  Mr. Eaves sat down, unbuttoned his jacket; Mr. Archibald rose to his feet, buttoned his.

  “Dr. Pinsent, are you a psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  “A medical doctor?”

  “No.”

  “A doctor of psychology perhaps?”

  “No. My doctorate is in the field of education.”

  “I see.” Jake Archibald shook his head, appeared confused, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what Dr. Pinsent was doing as an expert witness. This was purely for effect. The jury had already been told that Walter Pinsent was a special agent with the National Academy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Quantico, Virginia, and part of the Investigative Support Unit that specialized in profiling serial killers.

  “How many times did you meet with the accused?”

  “Twice.”

  “Twice.” Jake Archibald shook his head, somehow managing to look subtly amazed. A neat trick, I thought. “And how long were these meetings?”

  “Several hours each session.”

  “Several hours each session,” the defense attorney repeated, this time nodding his head up and down. “And this was enough time for you to come to the conclusion that Colin Friendly is a dangerous psychotic?”

  “Sociopath,” Dr. Pinsent corrected.

  Jake Archibald chuckled derisively. So did Jo Lynn.

  “You concluded after approximately four hours with my client that he was a dangerous sociopath and a sexual sadist?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me, Dr. Pinsent, would you have reached these same conclusions had you encountered Mr. Friendly in another context?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Let’s say you encountered Mr. Friendly at a party, or ran into him on a holiday and spent a few hours talking to him. Would you have come away with the impression that he was a dangerous sociopath and sexual sadist?”

  For the first time since he took the stand, Dr. Walter Pinsent looked less than sure of himself. “Probably not. As I’ve already stated, sociopaths are often very charming individuals.”

  “You consider Colin Friendly charming?”

  “He seems very affable, yes.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  The prosecutor raised his hand. “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Is it possible, Dr. Pinsent,” the defense attorney pressed, “that you were influenced in your appraisal of Mr. Friendly by the fact that he was already under arrest, that your meetings with him took place in prison?”

  “I was influenced by the things he told me.”

  “I see. Did Colin Friendly tell you he was guilty?”

  “No.”

  “Did he, in fact, repeatedly protest his innocence?”

  “He did. But that’s typical of this type of personality.”

  “Interesting. So, what you’re saying is that if he confesses his guilt, that means he’s guilty, and if he says he’s innocent, well then, that means he’s guilty too. Damned if you don’t, damned if you do. Reminds me a bit of the witch hunts in Salem.”

  The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “Your honor, move to strike. Is Mr. Archibald asking a question or making a speech?”

  “Sustained.”

  “I’ll rephrase that,” Jake Archibald said, a noticeable bounce to his words. “Do you see serial killers under every bed, Dr. Pinsent?”

  Mr. Eaves’s ample backside barely had time to graze his seat before he was back on his feet again. “Objection.”

  “I withdraw the question,” Jake Archibald said quickly. “I have no further questions of this witness.”

  “The witness may step down.”

  The judge called a ten-minute recess.

  “Tell me you weren’t fooled by that,” I said hopefully to Jo Lynn, as people all around us stood up and stretched.

  “Fooled by what?” She was squinting into her compact mirror, applying a fresh coat of lipstick to already very pink lips.

  “By the defense attorney’s attempt to throw a smoke screen over the evidence.”

>   “What’s that supposed to mean?” She raised the mirror, dabbed at her mascara.

  “It means that Dr. Pinsent is about as expert a witness as anyone could find,” I began.

  She interrupted. “He’s not a psychiatrist. Or even a medical doctor.”

  “He’s a specialist with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Since when did you become such a fan of the FBI?”

  “I’m just saying that he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “His is only one opinion.”

  “An expert opinion,” I reminded her.

  “You put too much faith in experts,” she said. “Just because someone has a degree doesn’t mean they know everything.”

  I took this as a direct dig at me. Jo Lynn was always trumpeting the value of practical experience over a university education.

  Don’t bite, I told myself, determined to be pleasant. “So, anything new?” I asked, looking for safer ground.

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “Have you had any calls about those resumes you sent out?”

  She clicked her compact closed. “You know I haven’t.”

  Strike one, I thought.

  “Have you spoken to our mother?”

  She dropped the compact into her purse. “Why would I do that?”

  Strike two.

  “Do you have a date for the weekend?”

  She snapped her purse shut tight. “I have a date for Friday.” She spun toward me, her mouth forming a provocative pout.

  “That’s great. Someone new?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Someone you think you know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you think you know him, but you don’t. It means you’ve got him all wrong. It means you don’t know him at all. It means that you’ve been staring at the side of his face all morning.”

  Strike three.

  The room darkened around me. Normal courtroom sounds gave way to a loud buzzing in my ears. I felt dizzy, faint. I gripped the bench on which I was sitting, digging my fingers into the hard wood. “Please tell me this is a joke.”