Delusion Read Online Free PDF

women and what should happen to them. You might even say it’s a blind spot.”
    â€œPeter, we don’t know who did it. And besides, you always call them the way you see them. This time won’t be any different.”
    â€œYou may not like what I have to say.”
    â€œYou make your findings. I decide whether to use them.”
    I glanced back into the kitchen. Nick was slumped at the table again, the brim of his cap shadowing his face. Was this really different from any of the other murder cases where I’d defended an accused? Probably not. But with my nose rubbed in the reality of it, I was finding myself forced to face my own competing impulses. Admit it, I told myself, I was repelled and fascinated at the same time.
    Chip rushed on. “Can you do a preliminary evaluation right away? Once he’s charged and in custody?”
    I gave a mute nod.
    Chip returned to the house, and Annie and I walked back to the Jeep. I put my arm around her, as much to reassure myself that she was there as to show her that I cared.
    As we neared the end of the driveway, I could see neighbors huddled on the street in tight groups. They gave us the once-over.
    A Channel 12 News camera team had floodlights set up in
the street. A perfectly coiffed blonde smiled at the camera and read from notes clutched in her hand. The story would be tomorrow’s lead. Most people would hear about it and be shocked by the barbarity of the crime. They’d assume the husband did it. That was usually the case.
    I opened the door of the Jeep and reached in for the Dunkin’ Donuts cup that was sitting on the dash, opened it, and dumped the cold coffee on the ground.
    â€œHey, you!” someone yelled. When I looked up, a flashbulb popped in my face.
    Annie and I quickly ducked into the car.
    â€œAsshole,” Annie muttered. “Jerk. Didn’t even ask permission.” She had her key out and was trying to jam it into the starter. “Damn. Stupid. Asshole.”
    I put my hand on her arm. “House key,” I said.
    â€œHouse key?” She stared at me. Then she looked down at the key that was never going to fit into the ignition. “Oh.”
    She switched keys. The engine started up with a roar. Quickly Annie eased up on the gas pedal. Clearly she wasn’t as inured to violent death as she seemed to be.
    Annie turned the car around and we headed home.
    As we cruised along the main road, I thought about the Babikian home. Physical evidence isn’t my thing. I look at behavior, state of mind, not bloody smears across the floor. But what struck me were the contrasts. The fresh smell of laundry detergent against the slightly sour smell that wafted in from the pool. The restrained monochromatic walls, glass and chrome furnishings in the living room with its menacing masks, against a cozy kitchen with its puppy dog calendar, frolicking cherubim, and gallery of newborns. Tabletops with nothing on them—no unopened mail, no piles of newspapers, no magazines or books. No disarray at all. Everything in complete control, chaos squelched. And against that, an excessive crime: a woman
bashed in the head, butchered, and drowned—any one of which would have killed her.
    I knew someone had mentioned it, but at that moment, I couldn’t for the life of me remember the young woman’s name. Suddenly, that seemed very important.

4
    â€œLISA.” NICK Babikian could barely say his wife’s name.
    Nick sat hunched over the battered table in the examining room of the Middlesex County Jail. Hours after I left the Babikian home, he’d been arrested. They’d been holding him now for two days.
    In the unforgiving fluorescent light, his skin looked green against the orange of his baggy prison scrubs. Otherwise, he seemed much the same. Still wired, still suspicious, Nick kept his eyes on me from beneath bushy eyebrows and a tangle of black curly hair. The air vibrated with anxiety.
    â€œShe