“Laura called Grady a couple of hours ago. She, she . . .” Tracy Chaucer’s voice thinned and finally disappeared altogether.
Webber took over. “She claimed her friend, Harriet Beckerman, had been murdered and that she—Laura—had a lock of her hair. Then she concocted a wild story about being drugged and waking up with her throat slashed. But since she’s running around all over campus none the worse for wear, there’s no question she’s lying about that part.”
Chaucer turned even more purple and grabbed his old friend by the collar, yanking him to his feet. “You’re the one concocting the wild story, Grady.”
Webber coughed and sputtered, and put one hand up. “I’m sorry, Whit. Truly, I am. But I have to tell the truth.”
Spense and Caity exchanged a glance.
Was she thinking what he was thinking? Why would Laura believe Harriet had been murdered unless she’d done it or witnessed it or . . .
“Grady, I respect your opinion, but this time, I think you’ve got it wrong. Laura is simply not capable of such a horrific crime.” Tracy Chaucer pulled her husband by the hand to sit back down. He continued to stand, so she gave up.
“You just lost me,” Spense said.
Hatcher cleared his throat. “While you and Dr. Cassidy were out, Webber rendered a professional opinion: he’s fingered Laura Chaucer as a killer.”
This was getting very interesting. Spense could hardly wait to hear the good doctor’s theory.
“I didn’t finger anybody. I just threw out the possibility. Tracy’s absolutely correct. In her right mind, Laura wouldn’t kill a spider if it sat down beside her. When she’s lucid, she’s a sweetheart of a girl with a generous spirit. I’m not suggesting anything to the contrary. But we have to face facts. If she’s lost touch with reality again, we don’t know what she’s capable of doing. If she has a lock of Harriet Beckerman’s hair, and if Harriet really has been murdered, well, I’m afraid we all know what two and two equals.”
“What the hell do you mean lost touch with reality again? The only reason she ever lost touch with it in the first place was because you prescribed the wrong medications. She hasn’t had a hallucination in years.” Chaucer grabbed his chest like he was out of wind and finally, sat down next to his wife.
“Whit, please don’t play the blame game with me.”
“Don’t play the shrink game with me. I am not a goddamn patient of yours, Grady. Save the cutesy lingo for Tracy. She appreciates your cleverness more than me.”
Tracy inhaled sharply.
“Let’s be clear on two things, Whit. Both you and Tracy wanted Laura . . . comfortable. You insisted I do whatever it took to keep her anxiety at bay. You’re the ones who wanted her to never suffer a sleepless night. If it took some adjustments to get her meds right, that’s no fault of mine.”
“He’s right, Whit.” Tracy looked up from the floor.
“What’s the other thing?” Hatcher asked.
“Hmm?”
“You said let’s be clear on two things,” Caity put in.
“Oh, yes. About Laura’s hallucinations. I said they were largely due to the medications. But the truth is the etiology of psychosis is multi-factorial.”
“English, for God’s sake.” Hatcher rubbed his temples.
“A break with reality is rarely due to one thing. It’s the result of genetic predisposition, environment, organic issues like alterations in brain chemistry, and social stimuli.”
“That’s not English.”
“It’s nature, nurture and the bad shit that happens to you.” When Webber looked at Tracy and Chaucer, Spense saw his expression turn ingratiating. “Not that you should hold yourselves in any way responsible.”
“We don’t,” Whit retorted.
“And that’s as it should be.” Now Webber’s tone was downright obsequious. It wouldn’t surprise Spense if the guy kissed the senator’s ring.
“Hold on,” Hatcher interrupted. “Regardless of Laura’s sweet disposition, and who’s to blame for her problems, I’d like Dr. Webber to elaborate on this break with reality theory of his.”
“All right. Let’s see. I believe the bad shit that happens to you category would include Laura’s kidnapping and Angelina’s murder. Now we’ve reached the anniversary of that traumatic event. Laura is off her meds and living away from her protected, safe, familiar environment. Her neighbor friend happens to look like her dead nanny. I believe those factors combined to create a perfect storm and cause what laymen call a nervous breakdown.”