Authors: Charlene Weir
Parkhurst held the door for her, and they trucked up to the second floor.
Brent was still lecturing when they found Room 220. They eased in and stood against the back wall. Every desk was occupied, and the students, predominantly female, gazed entranced. Like an actor, he spoke clearly, paused at crucial moments, and altered the shade of his voice for emphasis.
He had to be aware of two cops standing in the rear, but he didn't so much as flicker a glance. “⦠abandonment. Physical desertion. Left all alone. It takes no great effort of imagination to realize the consequences in a child. Ah, but what about physical presence and emotional abandonment? To be abandoned by the physically present creates even more far-reaching results.”
His voice, rich and resonant, was used expertly. As he spoke, he paced back and forth in front of the class and along one side, occasionally brushing a hand through dark hair that fell appealingly over his forehead. The dramatic effect was enhanced by his clothing: black pants, turtleneck, and jacket.
The stage setting was perfect: gray sky outside two tall, narrow windows, shadowy room. He ought to be pacing around emoting to be or not to be, she thought.
“We give of our time to that which we love, be it activities or people. The impact of not having the parents' time and attention engenders feelings of worthlessness in a child. There is something wrong with me, or else my mother or my father would want to be with me.”
He paused to let his words be absorbed and let the note-takers catch up. “The child's identity comes from the mirroring eyes of the parent or caretaker. Children can't learn who they are without these reflective mirrors. In the nonverbal early stages emotional interaction is crucial. Emotionally damaged parents are unable to affirm the child's emotions. Without this affirmation he cannot thrive.
“As this child grows, he is loved for his achievements, she is loved for her performance. He or she develops in such a way as to reveal only what is expected. The result?” He paused and lowered his voice. “Disconnection with feelings.”
Susan looked at Parkhurst. He raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and propped a shoulder against the wall.
“This child develops a sense of emptiness, loneliness, and futility.” Wakeley strode to the front of the room, leaned back against the desk, and gripped the edges with his hands.
Susan felt like applauding. The class sat perfectly still, as enthralled as an audience when the curtain falls on Act One.
“Next class,” Wakeley said into the silence. “Denial, idealization, repression, disassociation. Survival mechanisms.”
Conversation rose as the students gathered their books and notebooks and drifted toward the door. One young woman, an armload of books clutched to her chest, went up to speak to him. He stopped popping books and notes into a briefcase and listened to her, actually listened, looked at her while she spoke, gave her his undivided attention: intoxicating to young female students. A charismatic, flamboyant man, the stuff of which romantic fantasies are made.
“Slaying dragons for the fair maiden, you think?” Parkhurst said softly. “Born too late. He'd look great with tights and a sword.”
Wakeley asked the student something. She nodded, tossed blond hair over her shoulder, and responded earnestly. Wakeley smiled, and patted her shoulder, and she tripped out, pretty young face flushed, eyes shining. Wakeley picked up his briefcase and strode toward the door, putting on a great act of being unaware of them.
“Dr. Wakeley?” Parkhurst held out his ID. “A few questions.”
Brent Wakeley sighed, switched the briefcase to his other hand, and shoved the free hand through his forelock. “More about Dorothy, I assume.” Without waiting for a response, he said, “My office. This way.” He turned right and strode down the corridor, not bothering to check if they were following.
“The take-charge type,” Parkhurst muttered.
“Without a doubt.”
Several paces in the rear, they followed him down the corridor and down the stairs and caught up with him as he pulled keys from his pocket and unlocked a door.
“I have an appointment at the clinic in forty-five minutes,” he told them.
Susan smiled pleasantly. “I certainly hope we'll be finished by then.”
Wakeley moved behind the gray metal desk, stood looking at them for a moment, and then sat down. The window at his back framed a large maple tree; beyond were hills crisscrossed with footpaths and buildings obscured by trees. A ray of sunshine poking through the clouds made his hair gleam blue-black like the iridescent feathers of a crow. He wasn't as young as he liked to pretendâmid-forties, most likely, with tiny lines around the eyes and a slight softening to the chiseled jaw.
A laptop computer sat on the desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. File cabinet, two shabby chairs covered with a worn fabric, prints on the wall. Bookcase crammed with books, center shelf sagging under the weight.
“Please have a seat.” He gestured to the two chairs, as though the interview being conducted on his turf would be dictated by his terms.
She'd been a cop enough years to recognize bravado when she saw it. She wondered what he was trying to prove. Or hide.
“I don't know why you're wasting your time here,” he said. “There's not a thing I can tell you.”
“Background information is always useful,” she murmured. She stood in front of his desk, forcing him to look up at her. He wasn't intimidated, regarded her openly, a polite look of skepticism on his handsome face.
“How long have you been a cop?” he asked.
She was aware that Parkhurst made a slight shift in his stance behind her, irritated by Wakeley's stage-managing. “Long enough to recognize evasion when I hear it.”
Wakeley studied her with the same intent interest he'd given the student. “I was just wondering about your background. Why people become police officers is often quite revealing.”
“My background has no relevance.”
He switched his gaze to Parkhurst. “How about yours, Lieutenant?”
Parkhurst, standing in the doorway, was at his most wooden.
“Did you know that a great many cops come from alcoholic families?”
“That right?”
Wakeley turned the full blast of his charm back onto her. “What did you want to ask me?”
She shifted books and papers unceremoniously from a chair to the floor, sat down, and took out her notebook. “Where were you at one-thirty on Saturday afternoon?”
“I believe I've already answered that. More than once, I may add. So if that's allâ”
“If you'd just answer the question, sir.”
His good humor started to slip. He grabbed a pen and tapped it against the desk. “I was right here. In this office. At this desk.”
“We've not been able to corroborate that statement. How do you explain that?”
He tossed down the pen. “I don't have to explain it. But if I did, I'd say it's not that surprising. Not everybody works on Saturday.”
“Why were you working on Saturday?”
“I was preparing this week's lecture.”
“Here and not at home?”
“That is correct.”
“Who in the family has reason to want Dorothy dead?”
“You might benefit from my next lecture, Ms. Wren.”
He'd deliberately omitted her title. Reducing her stature. “Yes?”
“Denial, idealization, repression, disassociation.”
“All this applies to the Barringtons?”
“Young children make themselves responsible for the abuse they suffer.”
“The Barringtons were abused?”
“Not all abuse is physical.” Wakeley leaned back in his chair. “The family is the scene of the most intimate and powerful of human experiences. Family situations are bloodier and more passionate than any others, and the costs are greater.”
“You suggesting a member of Dorothy's family killed her?”
“The family line is a drug addict killed her simply because she happened to be there.” His voice shifted from lecture mode to banter.
“You toeing the family line?”
“Yes, ma'am.” He smiled.
Beautiful Brent had a beautiful smile. “You don't want Dorothy's killer found?”
The smile decayed a tad. “I certainly want to see justice prevail.”
Not exactly an answer. “Anything you can tell me to gain that end?”
He shook his head. “Family pathology is part and parcel of its secrets.”
Right. Sounding profound and meaning nothing. She could feel Parkhurst, even though he hadn't moved a muscle, getting steamed. “Did the Barringtons have secrets?”
“All families have secrets. There's more than one kind of secret. The secret nobody knows, and the secret everybody knows but nobody talks about. You'd be amazed at how many families harbor this type. It is often the case with alcoholism, for instance. Everybody knows Daddy's a drunk. They tiptoe around it, never mention it. The hippopotamus in the living room. You've heard of that? Nobody looks directly at it. Mama crochets a tablecloth and covers it. Everybody carefully steps around it. Nobody mentions it.”
“You sound very sincere. Personal experience?”
“Quite sharp, Ms. Wren. It was something that puzzled me greatly as a child. My father had a debilitating illness.”
Alcoholism, she wondered.
“How long have you been lecturing here?” Parkhurst asked.
“This will be my third year.”
Parkhurst took a step closer. “Enjoy it?”
“Certainly.”
“Like being looked up to?”
Wakeley lost a little of his composure. “What are you trying, in your heavy-handed way, to imply?”
“Admiration. Not getting a whole lot from these Barrington doctors down there at the clinic?”
That dart hit home, she could see.
“Room full of eager young women all looking at you with adoring eyes. Must be pretty heady stuff. Ever take advantage of all that adoration?”
Wakeley leaned back in his chair, an attitude of nonchalance that didn't come off. “You have any evidence for throwing around accusations of this sort?”
“Not an accusation, a question. Would you care to answer?”
“Give me some credit, Lieutenant,” Wakeley said with exasperation. “Do I look like a stupid man? Would I risk my career, my reputation, for some eager young body?”
“I don't know. Would you?”
Wakeley shot forward in his chair, glared at him, then turned to Susan. “Don't you people have to have some evidence before you can harass the innocent? You spread this kind of thing around, and I'll slap a lawsuit on you so fast you won't even see it coming.”
He leaned slightly back again and got his breathing under control. “What does any of this have to do with Dorothy?”
The man had a temper; that much was clear. “Who would want to kill her?” she asked.
“Isn't that your job?”
“Yes, Dr. Wakeley, it is my job, and it entails asking a lot of questions, annoying questions sometimes. Dorothy's death means your wife will be coming into some money.”
“Are you accusing me of killing Dorothy so Marlitta will inherit money?”
“We're not accusing you of anything, Dr. Wakeley. We're trying to find out what happened.”
Suddenly, he smiled, Brent the Beautiful with a beautiful smile.
“If we're getting down to truth here, Ms. Wren, I won't deny that money is a nice thing to have. But I can tell you, in truth, that I didn't kill her.”
“Who did, Dr. Wakeley? Who wanted her dead?”
“I really can't help you there. Shouldn't you be searching for the weapon? I hesitate to tell you how to do your job, but I'd think that would be your top priority.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“I do not.”
“Your wife?”
“Marlitta knows nothing about guns.”
“I see. Does she have one?”
“No.”
“Anybody else in the family? Have you ever seen any of them with a revolver?”
“No.”
“Has any member of the family been acting differently lately? Anyone who has seemed more troubled?”
“Ellen. She's trying hard to be independent, self-supporting. It's a struggle in a lot of ways. Money is a part of it.”
“Anyone else?”
“Taylor. He's always wanted to be a big financial success. He may have made some risky investments that he's worried about.”
So the good doctor wasn't above tossing out a little spite where he could. “What kind of investments?”
“I wouldn't know. Something with the possibility of a great payoff.”
“Stock market? That kind of thing?”
“Something like that, perhaps. Speculation in high-risk ventures; that would be the kind of thing he might try.” Wakeley glanced at Parkhurst. “It's somewhat uncomfortable for him to be a member of the Barrington family and not have some outstanding achievement of his own.”
“You think that's what he's trying to do? Gain outstanding achievement?”
“I think it's a possibility.” Wakeley looked at his watch. “Now, if that's all, I have patients waiting.”
“Certainly, Dr. Wakeley.” Susan got to her feet. “We may need to talk with you again.”
She and Parkhurst went back along the hallway and outside. The clouds were darker and larger; rain was imminent. Again.
“Talks rather well around questions, doesn't he?” Susan said.
“My daddy used to maintain, if you have to use ten-dollar words, what you're trying to say isn't worth a dime.”
13
I
F SHE HAD
any sense, Marlitta thought, she'd skip dinner and go straight to bed. She dragged the chicken out of the refrigerator. No sleep last night. She barely got through the day by putting one foot in front of the other. Dorothy's patients had to be shared out to the rest of them. She got the Ackerbaugh baby. Problems there. But maybe not. Ackerbaugh was very angry. More work. So tired. Brent saying he'd be late. How could he, when he knew she needed him?