Say You're Sorry(126)
“I would never do that.”
He leans back, satisfied with his first salvo.
“We got off to a bad start,” I say. “I won’t lie to you if you don’t lie to me.”
“I haven’t yet,” he says.
“You lied about why you came back from America. You were accused of falsifying data on treatments for cancer and were publicly rebuked by your peer reviewers.”
Martinez barely moves a muscle. His glossy avid eyes remind me of a ventriloquist’s dummy.
I keep pushing. “Two journal articles were published under your name. You took research funds under false pretences. You had to pay the money back.”
His jaw flexes and his eyes glaze over.
“In your wildest dreams, Mr. Martinez, did you imagine that I wouldn’t check up on you?”
There it is—his breaking point. He rocks forward in his chair, his lips peeled back, canine teeth bared.
“How dare you,” he spits. “How dare you insult me and question my ethics. Look at you! You’re diseased! You’re only functioning because of the drugs that people like me have discovered and tested. Your condition is getting worse—eating away at your nerves, robbing you of balance, movement, speech and eventually your mind. One day, not so many years from now, you’ll be a jerking, shitting, quivering sack of bones, unable to walk or talk or feed yourself. Instead of insulting my reputation, you should be praying I find a cure. You should be begging for my help, you pompous, self-righteous schmuck. You need people like me.”
Watching spit fly from his mouth, I recognize a classic narcissist, a perfectionist governed by his own ego and sense of worth, someone who cannot accept anyone who questions the carefully crafted, flawless image he has manufactured of himself. He will destroy the messenger, rather than hear the message.
He leans back, fire still burning inside him. He wants me to apologize. Expects it.
I give him that much. “I’m sorry, Mr. Martinez. I didn’t mean to question your professional integrity.”
He waves his hand dismissively.
“Can I ask you some questions?”
He nods.
“Does the name George mean anything to you?”
“Why?”
“It’s a simple enough question.”
“It’s a nickname. When we first married my wife called me Gorgeous George. She thought I looked like some wrestler who was big in the fifties. We both had curly hair.”
“How did you get the bruise on your face?”
He touches the side of his head. “I told the police. Emily threw a plate at me because I wouldn’t give in to her blackmail.”
“Why would she blackmail you?”
“She wanted to spend Christmas with her mother. I told her no. She threatened to accuse me of molesting her unless I gave in.”
“She doesn’t like living with you.”
“We disagree on certain things.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t believe in coddling children, Professor. I will not become a slave like other parents. I am not a servant, chauffeur and secretary to my daughter. Other parents pamper and create monsters. Driving them everywhere, fulfilling their every wish—birthday parties, ballet, football practice, piano, violin, tennis; Ritalin if they’re hyperactive, Prozac if they’re depressed, antibiotics if they sniffle. Not me. I am a parent, not a best friend or confidant… and certainly not a slave.”
“Congratulations. You’re father of the year.”
He doesn’t react.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“I drove to London.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I don’t know. It was quite late, nine, maybe ten o’clock. You can ask the landlady at the hostel. She wouldn’t let me see my wife.”
The drive to London takes less than two hours. He had ample time to snatch Piper, clean up the basement and hide her somewhere before driving to the capital.
“How do you explain your stationmaster turning up at the scene?”
He hesitates. “Isn’t it obvious? Somebody planted it there. They’re trying to frame me.”
“Who would do that?”
He shrugs. “It’s happened before. That business with the falsified test results—somebody sabotaged my experiments. I was set up.”
“Why?”
“To discredit me, of course.” He makes it sound so obvious. “Medical research is full of venal people: rivals jealous of my success, trying to steal my funding, scared they might be beaten to a breakthrough that could be worth billions of dollars.”
“You don’t really believe a rival would try to frame you for kidnapping and murder.”
He shrugs dismissively. “This is a waste of time. I had nothing to do with the Bingham Girls. Never met them. I wasn’t living in Abingdon when they went missing.”