I moved down the hill to see more, but Detective Skolnik motioned for me to stop. He spoke into his walkie-talkie, and a second later, a police officer was at my side, inching me away from the scene.
“Lady, you gotta move back,” the officer said, pressing his hands against my shoulders.
I stopped in my tracks.
Stepping back actually improved my line of vision as the ground sloped upward. I was grateful for the distance placed between me and the body lying there dead in the woods. I needed the space to deal with my own revulsion.
At first glance, pieces of her face were missing, bitten out, it seemed to me. I turned away to hold myself together.
I looked again, this time longer, taking in details.
There were scratches all over her face and neck. Her mouth was bloody, and her eyes were black sunken sockets. Her torso was covered with patches of dry grass and leaves—and her bare legs, spattered in blood, looked shiny and wet in the reflection of the lights.
It was hard to piece it together, but a dull feeling of recognition grew.
I noticed the red hair.
Then the lip ring.
AJ?
I stifled my screaming with my hands.
It’s AJ!
And as I looked for a third time, the sting of tears filled my eyes.
Oh my god, AJ. Why? How?
I threw my hands over my face as the terror exploded.
I couldn’t think, speak, or move.
Slowly, my strength returned.
This is different. A sexual component.
How wrong I was to think Luke’s mother’s death reduced his cruelty.
I rubbed my eyes trying to understand how AJ and Luke crossed paths. But a ruckus heightened in the distance.
“Suspect in custody,” said a voice from the officer’s walkie-talkie.
I ran toward the circle of lights, surprising the officer watching over me. In a few strides, though, he was able to grab my shoulder and pulled me to a stop.
“Ma’am, you can’t go there.”
“I need to see him.”
“No way, Ma’am.” The officer led me off in another direction. “I’m taking the doctor to the parking lot,” he said into his shoulder, squeezing the buttons with his thick, strong hand.
“Copy,” a voice replied.
“I’m Officer Conrad. We’re going back to your car. You can sit there.”
I felt defeated. “All right,” I said.
Moving away from the sights, sounds, and brutality allowed me to slow my heart and catch my breath. Conrad said nothing and accepted my need to brace myself against him as we walked to the car.
As we passed the ice rink, several officers and park security milled about. Their chatter stopped as we approached. When my eyes met theirs, I saw disgust looking back at me.
And so it begins, I thought to myself. The doctor whose patient killed a woman. The doctor who failed.
I lowered my head and wiped my eyes. Conrad opened the passenger door to the Saab, and I slumped into the seat. Through the open window, I heard more jokes, their way of dealing with unspeakable trauma.
“The Mauler.”
“Golf Course Killer.”
There was more, but I didn’t hear it. I was lost in my own thoughts.
I rolled back against the padded headrest and thought about the shame I felt. Not from the awkward glares of the officers. Or the things they said.
It was the shame I felt after I got the call from Luke. How I lied and changed the timeline. I took the truth and turned it against Luke—and it was life altering.
I heard a commotion and looked out the back window. Skolnik and Lombardi were walking across the parking lot. Behind them, a wall of police escorted Luke. His hands were cuffed. His white shirt was blood-soaked, torn and ripped. His face was covered with dirt and mud.
Dirt again.
Luke’s eyes were blank and offered no resistance as the officers walked him to a waiting cruiser.
No resistance, until he saw me out of the corner of his eye.
Luke broke free and ran towards me. The officers charged after him, and within seconds tackled him to the ground. Detectives Lombardi and Skolnik joined the scuffle, picking him up from the pavement and throwing him hard against the trunk of the Saab. The jolt made me coil further back in my seat.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, Reese!”
I watched in shock as everyone restrained Luke, crushing their body weight on him until he couldn’t move.
“You fucking bitch,” Luke screamed through a bloodied mouth.
Skolnik and the officers shoved him away and then into the back seat of the cruiser. A second later, Lombardi rapped the top of the car with her hand, signaling the driver to leave.
The car sped off in a glare of red and white lights as Officer Conrad motioned for me to come out. “You okay, Ma’am?” he asked.
I nodded.
The detectives made their way back to me.
I knew I had to be strong and convincing.
I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
Notes
Luke killed AJ.
She was beaten, stabbed and possibly strangled. Left her naked in the woods. Did he rape her?
He called me after it happened. AFTER.
But I lied. Changing the timeline so I could invoke “Duty to Warn.”
Why the hell did I do that?
I can’t un-ring this bell.
I have to maintain the lie no matter what.
Transference: Negative. Furious. Outraged. Trust forever broken.
Counter-transference: No longer feel connected in any way to this patient. I’m Angry. Shocked. Disgusted with myself.
Relevant issues: Dirt again. All over his face and body. Left AJ in the dirt.
I need to ask myself so many questions –
Why did I betray Luke?
Was it my own need not to witness anymore death?
Was it the realization he couldn't be helped?
Was it a moment of weakness? A moment of strength?
Prognosis: Poor.
Friday Morning
I
barely slept and woke to the morning calls of the robins in the scrub oak trees.
Bleary eyed, I went into the kitchen to my briefcase, took out the file on Lucas Ferro, and walked over to the soapstone stove in the living room.
I opened the dual swinging doors and placed the file in between two logs that were in the hearth. Finding the matchsticks, I struck one against the bottom flint in one heavy-handed stroke. I directed the flame to the outside corners of the file and watched the heat consume the rest. I closed the metal doors, sat down on the sofa, and watched the ends curl and blacken.
Luke’s clinical notes were locked in my office, as were all my patient files. Clinical notes included date of birth, phone numbers, addresses—and clinical information like dates, session times, fee arrangements, diagnoses, and treatment approaches.
Other things I felt or thought went into personal notes. It's common practice for therapists to have shadow files. These notes were my way of keeping track of the many psychoanalytic elements I used in treatment. How I felt. What I thought. And other reveries I experienced with patients.
These shadow files don't fall under the umbrella of a subpoena, but that didn’t matter much to me right now. I wanted everything I felt about Luke to burn away into nothingness.
The breaching of confidentiality wasn’t a criminal act, but it had legal and ethical implications. In the legal context, the information gathered from a breach could be challenged and usable in court.
Legally, a patient could sue a psychologist in a civil court, collecting monetary damages for the breach.
And in the ethical context, any violation of the standards surrounding confidentiality would result in expulsion from the American Psychological Association—and the loss of your profe
ssional license to practice.
Luke would learn in the discovery process of his criminal proceedings that my clinical notes had no damaging data. No mention of the murders. Just the required notations. And I'd find a way to make sure Luke wouldn't risk filing a suit against me. I didn’t know how I’d do that, but I knew that some way, I would. Doing so, there’d be no worries about the local, state, and national psychology associations finding out about my misconduct.
Dr. Prader, though, would be disappointed when she discovered the truth. Her responsibility wouldn’t involve reporting me to anyone either though. Supervision is protected by confidentiality and privilege too. But I couldn’t wait till Tuesday to tell her.
I got up, grabbed the telephone, and dialed her number. It was early, and I knew her answering service would pick up the call.
“Dr. Susan Prader’s Office. How can I help you?”
“I need to leave a message.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Dr. Alicia Reese. Tell Dr. Prader I’m okay. She’ll know what that means. And I’ll see her Tuesday.”
After hanging up, I fell back onto the sofa and thought about AJ. I wondered how Mel, Chris, and Isaiah were holding up through it all.
And then I thought about AJ’s parents.
Pressing the speed-dial, I waited for someone to pick up the phone at the D’Amico’s. After six rings, the answering machine kicked in.
“Mel, Chris, this is Alicia. Please call me on my cell. Doesn’t matter what time.”
I closed my eyes as my mind raced to Luke, his rage and fury. What I did to him was worse than his mother—or more than any other person in his life.
His mother was a dismissive, rejecting, and insensitive person. But she was predictable. He knew her walk and talk. Being able to know that someone behaves in a constant way gives you a sense of structure. And an edge. You can protect yourself from people like that.
But when someone is unpredictable, the template for certainty is lost. There's no consistency. And if you trust someone like that—and then they betray you—the trauma is deeper.
I was now an unpredictable character to Luke, and in many ways, I surprised myself.
I turned on my side, curled my knees to my chest, and stroked my hair. I thought of AJ, and I ached for her. For her family. For Mel, Chris, and Isaiah. I cried long and hard.
And in between my sobs, I watched the fire glow.
Soon there’d be nothing but smoldering embers.
Brookville
Saturday, June 24
I
waited until noon to start making my phone calls to cancel sessions for the week. I was in bad shape—depressed. Anxious. Overwhelmed. There was no way I could work.
Luke’s crime could become a high profile case, and I needed to figure out how to talk about this with my patients. But for now, I’d tell them I needed to cancel for “personal reasons.” At the next appointment, I’d discuss the reasons why—that is, if I had to. This approach allowed time to judge whether the media took hold of the story or if it fell under the radar.
Just about a half an hour into my calls, the doorbell rang several times in a row. Then there was a rapping on the front door. The suddenness filled me with anxiety.
I hung up the phone and remained still for a moment. From a space in between the blinds, I saw a dozen or so reporters and news cameras in the front yard.
“Damn.”
I retreated to the loft, grabbing Elvis as I made my way up the stairs. The doorbell rang again and again. Then the knocking continued.
I ignored everything and turned on the television to the local station. The newscast was reporting the weather. The lead stories had already been covered. While waiting for the next broadcast at the top of the hour, I grabbed my phone and Facetimed Nicole.
“Hey you,” Nicole signed.
“Hi. You see the news yet today?”
“No, why?”
“I need to tell you something,” I signed back. “Remember that difficult case I have?”
Through a flow of tears, I signed to Nicole everything that happened—just as I had told the detectives. I couldn’t tell Nicole the truth. That I'd lied about the timeline. It’s not that I didn’t trust my sister. I did. There was just so much at stake. And I didn’t want to burden her. Nicole was there with me through Ryan’s illness, and his death took a toll on all of us.
Just as I reached the point in the story where the police took Luke away, the top news stories were about to air again.
“Channel 12, now,” I signed.
Together, Nicole and I watched the lead story, which featured AJ’s murder. Videos of the park, the golf course, and Luke exiting the police cruiser at the precinct aired throughout the report. The story aired comments from the Nassau County District Attorney and reactions from Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, AJ’s parents. Also covered was the Ferro family legacy and their prominence in society in New York City—and then my name and a picture of my office building appeared.
“SHIT,” Nicole signed and narrowed her eyes as she looked at me through the phone.
Next on the screen was Dr. Maxwell Marcus, the current president of the Nassau County Psychological Association. He explained the Tarasoff Case for viewers, saying how important its edicts are to uphold—that it's mandatory for a therapist to call the police if a patient plans to harm another person.
Seeing Dr. Marcus deepened my guilt about what I'd done. He wouldn't have agreed about the path I took.
Just before the coverage ended, the camera moved back to the news anchor who said a plea of not guilty was entered at Luke’s arraignment and he was remanded without bail.
I stared at the phone, waiting for a response from Nicole. She was out of the frame, but I heard background noises of her moving around. After a few moments, she moved into view again and finger spelled “n-e-w-s-d-a-y.”
Nicole held up the cover page of the paper for me to see.
“Holy Christ,” I said aloud, seeing the bold headline and the photo of Luke.
Nicole turned the phone towards her television. “Channel 4,” she said.
I pushed the remote to channel four. Then channel seven, and the rest of the New York stations. They all led with the murder.
“I need to get out of here,” I signed to Nicole.
“Yes. Hurry,” she signed.
I shut down Facetime and turned the television off. I ran down the stairs and encouraged Elvis to follow alongside.
Desperate to run away from everything, I rushed into the bedroom and slid open the closet, found my duffle bag, and unzipped it on the bed. In the kitchen, I grabbed four cans of cat food, some emergency cash, my briefcase and pocketbook—and carried them back to the bedroom. I threw in everything the bag, as well as a few days of clothing and made my way to the hall closet. Once there, I took out the pet carrier and scooted Elvis in it.
Ready to go, I walked past the foyer towards the side of the house. I moved the blinds, ever so slightly, to see if anyone was near my car. From my vantage point, I saw that no one was at The D'Amico house across the street.
The media doesn’t know AJ was in foster care, I thought to myself.
As I looked further, vans were situated on the street, but one of them was blocking the driveway. There were shadows by the front door but no one by the side of the house. I’d get to the car with a good head start.
I slung the duffle bag over my right shoulder and picked up the pet carrier with my left. With the alarm set, I quietly opened and shut the side door. But then I bolted to the car and flung the duffle with a heavy swing. As I sat down, I put Elvis in the passenger seat.
The reporters by the front door heard the car start. From the rearview mirror, they ran in my direction. Their movement made those news crews in the street rush towards me. As quickly as I could, I put the car in drive and floored the gas pedal. I drove forward, past the garage, around the backyard and to the far side of the
house—hoping when I reached the street, there’d be no one there.
And there wasn’t.
And for a brief moment, a smile curled along my lips having outsmarted them.
The Saab bumped and jostled on the grass. Just before getting to the street, the back end carriage scraped against the curb.
“C’mon. C’mon,” I said, swerving a few times before getting control of the car.
I took the back roads to Nicole’s and thought about how weak I felt.
I had no appetite.
Barely slept.
I was beat up and broken inside.
Luke was likely feeling the same things, but I didn’t let myself think more about that. What haunted me most were the images of AJ, murdered in the woods.
A sharp pain hit me in my stomach as I turned toward Huntington. I leveled my hand on my belly, pressing down to ease the cramping spasms, but it was no use. Sadness, terror, and guilt wrangled within me—and it was rightly so that I was in pain.
Luke couldn’t have met AJ by coincidence.
My working with Luke allowed him to cross paths with her.
I was responsible for her death.
Goddammit. I should’ve just stopped working with Luke, I said to myself, looking in the rearview mirror. Prader tried to talk me out of working with him.
“Oh, AJ,” I cried out. “I’m so sorry.”
Supervision
Tuesday, June 27
D
r. Prader knew what happened with AJ’s murder because it was all over the news. What she didn't know was how the truth really played out. And I was unsure how she'd take my transgression.
“Alicia, this is so terrible. You said everything was good with this patient.”
“Everything was good, then.”
“What happened?”
I took my eyes away from hers and lowered my head. I didn’t know where to begin, how to tell her what I’d done. I was at a loss for words.
Prader reached out her hand across the desk and touched my arm. “I know how hard you wanted to make this one work, but it’s apparent he wasn't treatable,” she said.
The Ninth Session Page 12
