Waldman looked into Nicole’s eyes and shook her hand. He kept his gaze directly on her and spoke so she could see his lips – the way a person familiar with Deaf culture would know how to do.
“Do you have any idea where Mrs. Rahm might be? We got a call from the central station alarm at four o’clock this afternoon, but we can't reach her at her contact numbers,” he said.
“She's away for the weekend. A cousin’s wedding in Massachusetts,” Nicole signed as I translated. “I'm taking her paper and mail while she's gone.”
“You have any contact numbers besides her cell?”
“No, but her brother's nearby. Lives in Hicksville. Rajesh Tansoo.”
Waldman jotted the name down.
“Officer, what happened?” Nicole asked aloud.
“A cursory check of the house showed a break-in,” he said, keeping eye contact with Nicole. “Closets and drawers were tossed in one room. We call it a grab-and-go.”
Nicole blinked in disbelief, as did I.
“According to the alarm company, the motion detector tripped the siren. Suspects couldn’t have gotten away with too much.” Waldman unsnapped his radio from his belt loop and turned to the side. “Scott, I got neighbors.”
“Copy. I’m Side C,” a voice said.
“Affirmative.” Waldman looked back at Nicole and me. “Detective Scott is in the back. He’ll take it from here. Just don't touch anything till the crime lab arrives.”
After thanking Waldman, Nicole, Shasta, and I walked up the driveway. As we continued along to the backyard, we found Detective Scott taking notes by a broken window. The screen was on the ground, stripped of its metal wiring, and the glass was fully opened to its sash. There were scuffmarks on the vinyl siding underneath and around the frame, as well as footprints, which flattened the thick grass. Taking all this in, we made sure not to let Shasta venture closer.
Scott stuck his pen behind his ear and flicked the notepad closed. He busied himself with getting the pad into his suit pocket, not looking up as Nicole spoke.
“I’m Soraya's neighbor, Nicole Cappas.”
“What about a cactus?” Scott asked.
Nicole looked away for a moment, irritated. She was used to hearing people not knowing how important it was to look at Deaf people when they talked. Doing so made it easy to read lips. Not just for the Deaf person, but also the hearing person. If Detective Scott focused on his conversation with Nicole, he wouldn’t have misunderstood her. “Cappas” wouldn’t be “cactus.”
Scott saw the “Hearing Dog” emblem on Shasta’s orange leash and vest and shifted his attitude.
“I’m Nicole Cappas,” she said again, articulating and overstating her words. “I live next door.”
“Yes, of course. Mrs. Cappas.” He extended his hand. “I’m Detective Randy Scott.”
Nicole turned and signed to Shasta that it was time to sit and rest.
“I’m Alicia Reese, her sister,” I signed and said aloud, introducing myself to Scott.
“It’d be a lot easier if you translated for me,” Scott said, his eyes glued to the windowpane instead of us. “I don’t have time to babysit you guys.”
“He wants me to translate, okay?” I signed, raising my eyebrows to Nicole who was already rolling hers back to me in imitation. Then I slipped my hand to my side and signed “Asshole,” to her—out of eyesight of Scott.
Nicole smirked.
“So what happened here?” I said to Scott.
“Looks like each entry was checked to see if it was unlocked. Suspects created their own access here. It’s the most remote part of the house.” Scott pointed around the area as he talked. “Cut the screen, smashed the window, climbed in. Worked the room, took whatever they could—fled through the front door when the motion detector went off.”
I listened to Scott and then signed to Nicole.
“So, you think more than one person?” I asked after reading Nicole's signs.
“We're thinking that. One keepin' a look out while the other breaks in. Could also be one suspect running the whole show,” Scott said, opening his notepad. “Crime scene should be able to tell us. They’ll be here soon.”
“Can’t believe this happened. Shasta and I just left for a walk. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago,” Nicole signed.
I translated back to Scott.
“These things can happen fast. Mrs. Rahm did all the right things, though. Alarm system. Signage on the property. Doors and windows locked.” Scott slipped the pen from his ear back into his hand and jotted more notes. “Not much more anyone coulda done. Sometimes bad things just happen.”
My hands fluttered at lightning speed as I signed what Scott said for Nicole.
“Good no one was home when this happened,” I said.
Scott tightened his lips and nodded. “Burglary’s always better than robbery. Mrs. Cappas, did you notice any vehicles while you were out?” Scott asked, finally looking at Nicole as he spoke.
“No cars,” she signed.
“What about people?” he asked. “Anyone suspicious?”
“No. Nothing,” she said aloud.
“Have there been other burglaries in the neighborhood, Detective?” I asked.
“No,” Scott said. “Reports of Juvees taking batting practice with mailboxes though.”
Sensing there wasn't much more to talk about, Scott asked for Nicole's name and contact information, which she jotted down, herself, in his notepad. As we headed back toward the front of the house, Officer Waldman was checking the contents of the Rahm mailbox.
“Some mail here for you, Mrs. Cappas,” he said, waiting until she was in lip-reading distance to speak.
“That happens.” Nicole smiled. “Postal workers mix up our mail sometimes. Can I take it, or is this evidence?”
Waldman looked at Scott, who hiked his shoulders and waved off his consent. “No, you can have it,” Waldman said and handed it to Nicole.
Just before we made our way back to Nicole's house, Waldman asked if he could pet Shasta.
“Sure,” Nicole replied.
Not everyone who’s Deaf needs or wants a Hearing Dog, but when I was growing up, Nicole really wanted one. Though she was an independent and fierce girl, with a history of kicking my ass and anyone else's in the neighborhood, Nicole loved animals and always wanted a dog of her own. Hearing Dogs can help Deaf people hear things many hearing people take for granted. The noise of an oncoming car. A police siren. An approaching ambulance. A whistling teakettle. A microwave ding. So just before graduating high school, Nicole began working with Cocoa, an Akita German Shepard mix. Cocoa went to college with her at Gallaudet University—and then to work when Nicole became a graphic artist in New York City. Ten years or so later, Shasta, a golden retriever, joined Nicole and Keith just before they got married.
Shasta was instrumental in helping Nicole adjust when the twins were born. It always amazed me seeing how she alerted Nicole when the babies were fussing. Or crying. Or when they awoke from a nap. Even now, as I watched Shasta’s protectiveness of Nicole with the police officers, I felt a profound admiration for the bond they shared.
“Beautiful dog,” Waldman signed. His signs were slow and hesitant as if he was trying to get the movements down just right.
“Wow,” Nicole signed back.
I smiled, admiring this gesture of connection.
“How do you know sign?” I asked.
“My neighbor growing up was Deaf. She used to teach me signs,” Waldman said and signed simultaneously.
“That’s so cool,” Nicole said.
“Yeah. Anyway, just let us know if hear from Mrs. Rahm—or if anything else comes to mind,” Waldman said, handing Nicole his contact card.
“Sure thing,” Nicole said.
Then she turned toward Shasta and signaled him. Nicole took her right hand and pinched her fingers together. She moved them to her mouth, almost touching her lips and then to the side
of her right cheek.
“Home,” she signed.
Session Four
Monday, June 12th
“
Luke, I’d like to do a session on the couch today.”
“Why?”
“By lying on the couch, two things happen. First, it helps reduce anxiety.”
“So maybe there won’t be another panic attack?”
“Yes.
“Second, it makes it easier for you to concentrate on inner experiences without being distracted by me. Resting on the couch gives us a better way to manage things before they get too big.”
“So, just lie down here?”
“Yes. I’ll be sitting off to the side of you, out of your line of vision. But if you feel uncomfortable, just sit up, okay?”
Luke nodded walked over to the couch. Using his hands as leverage, he placed his body slowly across its line of cushions. He moved the pillow a few times to get comfortable. Then he crossed his feet and rested his intertwined fingers across his broad chest.
“Tell me how you’re feeling now?”
“It’s weird not seeing you.”
“I know. It may take some getting used to, but let’s give it a try.
Allowing a therapist into the margins of pain and dread, of shame and humiliation takes great courage on the part of the patient. I never minimized how hard it was to take that step. I waited for him to start the session.
“You must think I’m a monster or something.”
“Our work is to help make sense of what happened, not sit in judgment of it.”
Luke was quiet. Sensing he was adrift in his thoughts, I gave him a starting point.
“What happened that night?”
“My friends and me—we went to a new club. A place that had shadow dancers. Y’know, when girls dance behind a screen?”
“Mhmm.”
“I was standing at the bar getting a beer when one of the dancers sat down next to me. She had this long hair, below her waist. I don’t throw lines around, but she was a great dancer. And I wanted to tell her. I started to talk to her, but she threw her hand up in my face—like she didn’t want to be bothered with me.”
“She rejected you.”
“Yeah. And I thought to myself, If you don’t want to talk, don’t come out to the bar.”
“Did you say that to her?”
“No. Said nothing. Got my beer and went back to my friends.”
“Did they see what happened?”
“The place was really crowded. So, no, they couldn’t see the bar.”
Luke was quiet for a long while. It was important for him to talk uninterrupted. When he spoke again, his speech was slow and labored. There were many pauses, and, at times, his voice was slight, like wisps of air.
“But there was this guy who did see what happened. At the bar. He laughed at me.”
“Was this guy Donald Gallin?”
Luke nodded. “I drank my beer. Had a few more and left on my own because my friends wanted to stay longer. When I got to the parking lot, I saw him out there. He was walking to his car too. I can’t remember, but the next thing I knew I hauled my fist into his face.”
I said nothing as I sat further back in my chair and took in a deep, quiet breath.
“His car door was open, so I dragged him in—cracked his head against the steering wheel. Did it another time, busting his front teeth out. Damn, the blood went everywhere.”
I listened, motionless. But I felt the blow of his every word in my own gut.
“He didn’t fight back. Didn’t even yell out. I pushed him into the passenger seat and got in the car. Found the keys and drove off.”
I fought the mounting anxiety and struggled to keep my focus. I needed to search for the psychological conflicts, the origins of pathology, and anything clinical I could grasp.
“Drove for a while, in circles mostly. But then I stopped and pulled the car off the road, into the woods. Next thing I know, I’m standing over him. He was groaning, trying to speak.”
Luke was quiet for another long moment.
“As I hear myself—it’s horrible what I did. I feel ashamed. But it’s like it wasn’t even me doing it.”
“Let’s put shame on the sidelines for now. It’s important to tell your story. To free yourself from this terrible secret.”
“He tried to get away, crawling on his hands and knees, but I kicked him down. Then I jammed my knee in his back and grabbed his neck.”
I felt dizzy, and a disgust churned within me. I sensed those things in Luke as well. His voice became sharper and more amplified, as did his breathing.
“Next thing I remember—I snapped my hand all the way back. I felt the break of his neck run through his body.”
I felt a chill creep along my skin as I cataloged feelings. Though I had so many questions, I remained still.
“When he was dead, I realized what I did. I freaked out. Up till then, there was like two of me. One that didn’t care and another that was just watching.”
“How’d you freak out?”
“I went apeshit. Couldn’t believe what I did. Got so fucking sick I choked on my own puke and threw up.”
“What happened next, Luke?”
“Somehow I got home. Must’ve gone back to the club to get my car, ’cause when I woke up the next morning, it was there at my apartment. Got rid of my clothes. My sneakers. Tossed them all in the garbage. Then took a long shower. My roommate, Jeff, came in around four a.m. He was totally shitfaced.”
Luke rubbed his hands over his face and exhaled heavily.
“Next day I called in sick. All I did was look at the news and listen to the radio—y’know, to see if anyone found him. I was a fucking mess. I couldn’t stop thinking of about it. What I’d done. Even thought about confessing.”
“You did?”
“Thought of other things too. Calling anonymously. Leaving a note. But none of those were good. I mean, c’mon, no way I was gonna let myself go to jail for this.”
As I watched him lying on the couch, I slipped my trembling hand in my pocket and found the panic alarm. I lifted it out and placed it on the desk so it was readily accessible.
“After a couple of days, I went back, to make sure no one could find him. I parked my car about a mile away, far into the woods. I took out a bucket I had in the trunk I used to hold tools and grabbed a shovel. Then I walked to his car, staying away from the road.”
“You walked along the wood’s line?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want anyone to see me. When I got there, I saw the car was in the same place. The keys still in the ignition. Saw him on the ground. Just like I left him.”
Luke was quiet for a moment. From where I was sitting, I saw him close his eyes.
“I don’t know how long it took, but I made a big enough ditch to bury him. Then I turned the bucket over and sat down on it to catch my breath. But I couldn’t catch it. Couldn’t breathe. It was like the dirt was everywhere. In my nose. My mouth. My throat. I think I puked a few times.”
Luke’s eyes flew open.
“Took off my shirt. Used it to get the dirt off. It didn’t help much though. But I was able to breathe again. Then I went back to his car, got in, and drove it near where my car was. Found a spot and parked it there. I wiped everything down. Everything.”
“What happened next?”
“Walked back to my car, making sure to stay away from the road. Counted three cars that drove past. A red Honda Accord. Old yellow Subaru and a Lincoln Aviator, black with tinted windows.”
Amazing he was able to remember so many details, I thought to myself. Trauma sends a person down one of three paths. Remembering everything. Remembering nothing or remembering bits and pieces.
“I drove back home, took another shower, and threw away my clothes again. Got rid of the shovel and bucket. And all the shit I used to clean the car. And then I waited.”
“Waited for wha
t?”
“For whatever would happen next. I called in sick all week. Watched every newscast. Reports said he was missing. I read in the paper the club didn’t have cameras. There were no leads. Few clues. And nothing happened to me. By the end of the weekend, I was ready to go back to work.”
“So you go from regret to relief,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“How’d you come to write the article?”
“Got assigned to it. How’s that for Karma?”
“Wow.”
“When my editor called me, I thought it was a setup. I was freaking, thinking the police would be waiting for me there. I sat at my desk for almost an hour before leaving. Thought about getting in my car and taking a header into a tree. Had a panic attack before I got there, but when no one got in my face and I didn’t confess anything, something changed.”
“What’s that?”
“Covering the case helped me learn what the police knew.”
“Gave you an edge.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel revealing this to me?”
Luke pressed his crossed arms tighter against his chest. “Relieved, but...” His voice trailed off.
“Yes?”
“But—conflicted.”
“Why?”
“That he’s there. That his family can’t rest.”
“Tell me why that upsets you.”
“It just does.” A tinge of remorse deepened his voice. “A proper burial ends it all.”
“For who?”
“Ends it for the family.”
“And would that make you feel better?”
“It’d be a start,” he said.
I remained quiet, hoping he’d go further with his thoughts.
“I also feel worried telling you. A part of me thinks you’ll turn me in.”
“That wouldn’t happen,” I said.
“You sure?”
“What’s in the past is in the past, Luke. I told you, I’m barred from reporting it. It’s part of the confidentiality pact.”
“Doctor-patient privilege.”
“Are you thinking of hurting yourself? Or feel an urge to hurt someone else, Luke?”
“No.”
The Ninth Session Page 6
