I went to the mansion on Belvedere Road at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, the second day of May.
The housekeeper, Patricia, showed me out to where Mrs. Whittaker was sitting by the pool.
Mrs. Whittaker knew what had happened the day before. She was the guardian of Sarah’s person and property, and she had been informed. She knew that her daughter had been charged with aggravated assault and that a judge had ordered her immediate examination to determine her competency to stand trial.
“There are a few questions I’d like to ask you,” I said.
“Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Whittaker said. She was staring out over the bay. She knew what was coming, I was certain of that.
“On September twenty-seventh last year,” I said, “you came back to this house sometime in the afternoon, along about four in the afternoon, I believe you told me—”
“Yes,” Mrs. Whittaker said.
She seemed very weary all at once.
I kept watching her.
She did not take her eyes from the waters of the bay.
“And found that your daughter had attempted suicide.”
“Yes.”
She would not look at me.
“Mrs. Whittaker, the police believe that your daughter returned to this house after... Mrs. Whittaker, they believe she killed a woman named—”
“No,” Mrs. Whittaker said.
“That’s my belief, too,” I said.
“No, you’re mistaken.”
She turned to me.
“you’re mistaken,” she said again.
“Mrs. Whittaker,” I said, “why did you have Sarah committed under the Baker Act?”
“You know why,” she said. “She was insane.”
“Did you know she’d killed Tracy Kilbourne?”
“I do not know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne.”
“Mrs. Whittaker, did you have her committed to protect her?”
“From herself, yes,” Mrs. Whittaker said.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the law. I want to know if you had her committed—”
“No.”
“—to avoid prosecution.”
“No. She had attempted suicide. I wanted only to—”
“Mrs. Whittaker, if your daughter killed someone—”
“She killed no one.”
“—and if you knew this—”
“I knew she had attempted suicide.”
“—and if you subsequently—”
“I believe we’ve talked long enough,” Mrs. Whittaker said, and rose suddenly, and started for the house. I stepped into her path.
“What I’m trying to say—”
“I know very well what you’re trying to say. Please get out of my way, young man.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Damn you!” she said. “Must you do this to me? Haven’t I had enough?”
I stood watching her.
She took a deep breath.
It seemed for a moment that she would say nothing more.
And then, very softly, she said, “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that you come home one afternoon to find your daughter wearing a dress drenched in blood. ‘So much blood,’ she says, over and over again. Let us further assume that your daughter has an unfamiliar knife in her hands, and she is trying to slash her wrists with it, to punish herself — as she tells you — for having killed the Harlot Witch and cut out her tongue. No razor blade, Mr. Hope, only a telltale bloodstained knife. The front seat of her automobile is covered with blood. There is a pistol in that car, and it smells as if it has recently been fired.”
She hesitated.
“Would you call the police, Mr. Hope? Would you allow your treasured daughter to be most certainly adjudged criminally insane? Would you condemn her to a lifetime of imprisonment in a state hospital with true criminals? Or would you dispose of the knife, dispose of the gun and the car, dispose of the bloodstained dress, have your daughter put away where she can no longer harm anyone, in the hope that one day—”
“If she killed someone—”
“Ah, but that is mere supposition,” Mrs. Whittaker said. “you’re a lawyer, so presumably you’re familiar with Section 777.03 of the Florida Statutes.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“It’s titled ‘Accessory after the Fact,’ Mr. Hope.”
“Which is exactly what—”
“Yes, I quite understand why you’re here. But you see, I know that particular section virtually by heart. I’ll take another moment to recite it to you, and then I would appreciate it if you left.”
She looked me directly in the eye now, as if defying me to contradict what she was about to say.
“The section defines an accessory after the fact — and please forgive me if I paraphrase — as someone who, knowing that a crime has been committed, gives the offender assistance or aid with intent that he shall avoid or escape detection, arrest, trial, or punishment However, the section exempts anyone who stands, and I quote, ‘in the relation of husband or wife, parent or grandparent, child or grandchild, brother or sister.’ ”
She kept looking at me.
“If there is any truth in all that I said earlier, if in fact Sarah was drenched in blood that day, if in fact she had killed someone—”
“Isn’t that what happened?” I said.
“If that is what happened, then she committed a felony,” Mrs. Whittaker said. “The gravest felony, murder. But even if I knew she’d done such a terrible thing... and if in fact I helped her to avoid or escape detection, arrest, trial, or punishment... of what possible concern can that be to you? I am her mother. And the section holds that an accessory after the fact is someone who does not stand in the relation of parent. I am Sarah’s parent, her only living parent, her mother. The section does not apply to me.”
“It applies to Mark Ritter,” I said. “And to Dr. Helsinger. And to—”
“All of whom knew nothing of what had happened. My daughter tried to commit suicide. That is what they knew. The knife, the gun, the dress, all were at the bottom of the bay by the time they arrived. The car was locked away in the garage. I cleaned it and sold it the very next day.”
“And this is all supposition,” I said.
“Entirely. My daughter was manifestly insane. That is all any of them knew. I wanted her committed at once. They followed my instructions.”
“Mrs. Whittaker,” I said, “this goes beyond the statutes. This is—”
“Do you have any children, Mr. Hope?” she asked.
“I have a daughter, yes,” I said.
Our eyes met again.
“On September twenty-seventh last year,” Mrs. Whittaker said, “I, too, had a daughter. My poor, dear, troubled, marvelous Sarah. She is still my daughter. My daughter, Mr. Hope, can you understand that? My daughter.”
Her eyes were shining with tears.
She turned away.
“Good day, Mr. Hope,” she said, and went into the house.