A Guilty Mind Read Free Page A

doctor-­patient privacy rights that so often stymied a homicide investigation. Such was the way of the modern world. After more than twenty years on the force, the investigations had not gotten easier, even with all the forensic advances. Cancini believed that for every step forward achieved by science, the legal system itself took two steps back. Even a guilty man, a man who had confessed every detail of a horrific crime, could find himself free on a technicality. He squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.
    A small woman sat perched on the edge of the couch. Bent forward, she held her head in her hands. Her hair, medium brown and streaked with gray, hung in a short ponytail at the base of her neck. A few stray pieces had fallen loose, partially obscuring her pale, tear-­streaked face. He cleared his throat once. Stifling a sob, she lifted her head and blinked. In an instant, Cancini understood Smitty’s snap judgment of Mrs. Watson. Her face, kind and compassionate, reminded him of someone’s mother or grandmother. Light brown eyes shimmered with tears. The interview would not be easy.
    He stepped forward. “Mrs. Watson, my name is Detective Cancini.” He gestured at the sofa. “May I?” Her lips quivered. After a moment, she nodded once. He sat and took both her hands, wrapping them in his. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

 
    Chapter Three
    G EORGE SA T ON the steps of the small bungalow, knees jutting up toward his chest, and breathed in the crisp night air. A nearly empty bottle of Jack Black, swiped from his dad’s liquor cabinet, sat next to him. Eyes bleary, he turned toward the drive and the approaching headlights. She was late. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and drank deeply, coughing at the strong taste of the alcohol. Hand holding tight to the railing, he staggered to his feet. Watching the car, he waited.
    The battered yellow Toyota rolled to a stop on the gravel drive. He watched her alight from the car and walk toward him, hips swaying with each step. Wavy chestnut hair fell past her shoulders, accentuating almond eyes and an olive complexion. Tall and lean, she brushed at the hair, pushing it off her face. The black stretch pants and white shirt she wore for work at the Red Raider Tavern could not hide the curves of her lithe body. Drawing in his breath, he felt a rush in his stomach at the sight of her.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” he asked. He heard the slur in his voice and concentrated as he spoke. “You were s’posed to be here an hour ago.”
    Facing him, she brushed it off. “Bob made me work late because Susie didn’t show up.”
    â€œYou could have called.”
    She squatted and picked up the bottle, tipping it slightly. Her dark eyes slid back and forth between him and the liquor. “You’re drunk.”
    George started to deny it, then thought better of it. “Yeah, maybe I am.” Sinking to the steps again, he ran his fingers through his longish hair. Stubble had erupted across his chin. Sitting next to him, she reached over and touched it, lightly rubbing her fingers across the rough skin. Reaching up, he took her hand in his. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
    â€œI almost didn’t,” she said, eyes weary.
    The single light on the porch cast shadows across their faces. They sat together for several minutes, holding hands, staring out at the river that ran along the edge of the property. A full moon hung in the cloudless sky, perfectly reflected in the calm waters. Glancing at her, he saw the wisps of glossy hair that caressed her high-­boned cheeks in the warm breeze. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths to counteract the woozy effect of the Jack Daniel’s. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.
    She pulled her hand away. “I haven’t changed my mind, George.”
    â€œBut I have.” He leaned closer. “Let’s get