The Ninth Session

by Deborah Serani

  “Photos? Of what?”

  “He was in your house, Doc,” Lombardi said. “Several times.”

  I watched her pull out a pile of pictures from Ferro’s file. Each was enclosed in a plastic bag and sealed with a bright red evidence label. She placed one photo after another in front of me.

  “He was obviously stalking you,” she said.

  I couldn’t take it in the first time. My eyes darted from one image to another. The insides of my stomach railed up hard against my spine. Soon, foamy white blotches of light swirled in circles, but no matter how hard I tried, they clouded my vision. I fought the choking panic but lost the battle. I stumbled to a nearby trashcan and vomited.

  As the episode passed, I realized the squad room was utterly silent. I skimmed the back of my hand across my mouth and fought the heaving that rippled upwards again.

  “Let’s go.” Detective Lombardi pulled me out of the room.

  “Oh, god,” I said, trying to walk.

  Lombardi turned the doorknob to the women’s bathroom and held the door open for me with her strong body. She caught my eye. “Take your time.”

  As the door clicked shut, I moved to the sink and twisted the faucet. I swirled several handfuls of water in my mouth, spitting away the wretched bits that remained.

  Though I was pale and sweaty, I did my best to collect myself. I patted my face dry with a paper towel and smoothed my clothing back in place—and the messy pieces of my hair, combing them with my fingers.

  A horror crept into the hollow of my stomach as I thought of him in my home, in my room, in my space. I shut my eyes to stop the stirring visions.

  I turned away from the mirror and paced the floor. My clinical skills were emerging, which gave me the momentum I needed.

  Was the stalking predatory?

  Was it intimacy seeking?

  I realized I’d never have the opportunity to explore any of these things with Luke. Looking at the photos again, though, would give me some insight.

  “I’m ready,” I said to Lombardi as I exited the bathroom.

  “We can do this another time, Doc,” she said.

  “No. Let’s finish it.”

  It was business as usual when we returned to the squad room, as if what happened moments ago was a daily humdrum occurrence. People were re-engaged in their activities, the floor was cleaned, and a new trashcan rested next to Skolnik’s desk.

  “Here,” Skolnik said, flexing his arm out as I sat down. The peppermint candy looked so small resting in his broad hand. “Show’s over, right?”

  “Tank’s empty,” Lombardi said with a smile.

  I unwrapped the plastic casing and popped it in my mouth. “Thanks,” I said, grateful to taste something sweet.

  “We found these in Ferro’s house—under the floorboards in his bedroom,” Lombardi said, returning to the photos. “We think he was in your house a few times.”

  “While I was sleeping,” I said, holding several of the pictures in my hands.

  Skolnik and Lombardi remained quiet and watched my every move.

  “He was standing right over me,” I continued, stunned and bewildered.

  “I know this must be hard,” Lombardi said.

  Luke was there at least three times, given the different clothes in the pictures. He took photos of each room in the house, and there were several images of Elvis sleeping. I felt a cold numbness sink in my body as I looked at them again.

  “Your house alarmed?” Skolnik asked.

  “Yes. Every window and every door,” I said. For a moment, I looked upward toward the ceiling and remembered the few times Elvis got out from the loft window. “Shit, I think he came in through the one window I have on the second floor.”

  “It ain’t wired?” Skolnik asked.

  “It’s such a high window, we never bothered rigging it.”

  “Gotta get crime scene there,” Skolnik said to Lombardi.

  “There’s more, Doc,” Lombardi said. “We need to know where these were taken?”

  I clutched my stomach as a dozen more pictures came out. “I don't know what this is. It's not my house.” I said.

  “You don't recognize anything here?” Skolnik asked.

  “No.”

  “What about these?” Lombardi asked, setting down more photographs as Skolnik gathered the others.

  “This is my sister, Nicole. Her husband, Keith. My niece and nephew.” I clenched my teeth. “God dammit, he was there—at their house too?” It took a second, but I grabbed Skolnik by the arm. “Let me see those other pictures again.”

  Detective Skolnik fanned them out again in front of me.

  “These are from the break-in next door to my sister. This happened a few weeks ago. Call Detective Randy Scott in the second precinct.”

  “Why would Ferro break-in to the neighbor's?” Skolnik asked Lombardi.

  “Because he thought it was Nicole's house. The numbers in the court aren't sequential. Even the mail gets mixed up there,” I said. “Soraya Rahm is 4, my sister is 4A. Easy to get it wrong.”

  “We got more, Doc. What about these?” Lombardo asked.

  “This one’s the hospital. I go to supervision there once a week with Dr. Susan Prader,” I said, shifting through the pictures. “Christ, he took a photo of his case file that she keeps.”

  “And this one?” Skolnik asked.

  “Oh my god. Seth. My nephew.” I swallowed hard, recalling that moment. The clothes on the floor, the Mets jacket on the bed. I could see Seth in the picture and a reflection of Luke holding a camera up in the mirror by the closet. “This is the loft in my house.”

  “Did your nephew mention meeting Ferro?” Lombardi asked.

  “He said Ryan, my husband, was talking to him in the loft. My sister and I thought it was just a grief reaction.”

  “Ferro kinda resembles your late husband, doesn’t he?” Lombardi asked.

  I widened my eyes. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Dark hair, blue eyes, muscular build. And with that Mets shirt on, I can see how your nephew could mistake him for your husband. Especially, if the kid’s in a messed up state of mind,” Lombardi continued.

  I studied the photo. And there was a likeness—slight enough to see now.

  Is this the real reason I wanted to work with Luke? That he reminded me of Ryan? I asked myself. “Am I that out of touch with my subconscious?

  Lombardi took the photo from my hand, halting my inner thoughts.

  “How do you know what my husband looks like?” I asked, feeling embarrassed and exposed.

  “We know everything there is to know about you, Dr. Reese. It’s what we do here,” Skolnik said.

  “Listen, I know this is a lot to take in,” Lombardi cut in, wrapping things up. “If you think of anything else, let us know.”

  “So, that’s it?” I asked.

  “For now, yeah,” Skolnik said.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Lombardi said, collecting the rest of the photos. She made a quick exit away from the desk and out of the room.

  Skolnik was slower and slid his chair out from under him with a pokey thrust. “You’re lucky,” he said. “He was after you too.”

  “Yes, lucky,” I said as I got up and left.

  East Meadow

  Wednesday, July 19

  T

  he Nassau County Correctional Center in East Meadow was a maximum-security facility, where nearly two thousand inmates awaited trial, sentencing, or served time. I drove through the security gate, and I wondered if Luke would even come out to see me.

  “Who you here to see?” a correction officer asked.

  “Lucas Ferro.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Gonna take a while. Sign in here and go to the visitor’s lounge. We’ll call you.”

  I walked up to the metal detector, placed my keys and my handbag on the conveyor belt, and watched
them roll to the other side. I passed through the detector’s frame without any problems.

  As I walked to the lounge, I pulled out a piece of gum from my pocket, chewing hard until it was soft in my mouth. I took a seat facing the inmate doorway at an empty table that was small and circular. It reminded me of the tables in my elementary school, where students worked together doing group projects.

  While I waited, I thought about the pictures Skolnik and Lombardi showed me. After the shock of it all, I was able to see something in the images that was profoundly symbolic.

  I recalled how Luke said he never truly liked being alone. How he wished for comfort as a child and spoke about never having it. There was no denying the disturbing aspects of Luke’s behavior. I was enraged and felt violated, but I also realized how his pathology pushed him to such limits.

  I imagined the pictures again through a clinical lens—subtracting terror from the equation. The first images I saw were peaceful and even pleasant. Elvis was tucked in his bed or was resting beside his cat toys. Me sleeping. Even the ones of the house—a tea kettle in the kitchen. The velvet blanket draped on the sofa. The basket of soaps in the bathroom. The teddy bear on the rocking chair in the loft.

  But the ones of Nicole, Keith, and the kids seemed less about comfort and more about family. The twins playing on the swings. Keith and Nicole embracing in the pool.

  The one of Seth in the loft with Luke was hardest to for me to think about clinically. I was furious how Luke’s lack of boundaries upset Seth. And then I wondered if Dr. Prader was in danger knowing about all Luke did. Would he have hurt her too?

  A loud clanging of metal doors brought me back to the present. I saw Luke come into the visitor’s lounge with a corrections officer beside him. I watched as he looked in from the doorway—scanning each table, then moving to the next one to find who was waiting for him.

  I waited for his eyes to catch mine. He hesitated a moment, and for a second, I thought he’d turn back. But he walked to where I was sitting with the corrections officer following behind.

  Luke was dressed in a loose fitting orange jumpsuit and a pair of white colored sneakers, the kind that slide on. His face was thin, and several days of stubble budded into a patchy beard. When he lifted his hands and placed them on the table, I noticed that his knuckles were scabbed over.

  “You got some fucking nerve,” he began, talking tightly through a forced smile. “I should fucking kill you right here.”

  “You were supposed to call me. That was the plan. And don’t tell me how fast the urge came because that’s bullshit.”

  He glared at me and then took his gaze to the floor. As he did, I looked over to the corrections officer who was now leaning against the wall.

  “So you just hang me out to dry? Could’ve just walked away. Not treat me anymore.”

  He was right and I had no response. Instead, I leaned closer to him. “I want some answers, Luke.”

  “You wanna play 21 questions?”

  “Look around. This isn’t a game,” I said.

  “Well, this ain’t therapy either.”

  “Certainly is not,” I replied.

  Ferro pulled his face tight, scowling right at me and fell silent.

  “Cops said you crossed paths with AJ in the mall. But really, how’d you meet?” I asked him.

  “Found her smoking a cigarette on the curb one night when I was passing by your house.”

  “Passing by?” I snapped back. “You broke into my house.”

  “Cops showed you those pictures, huh?” Luke said, surprised.

  “Why? Why my family? My supervisor? Why the hell were you in my home? Touching my things . . . there when I was asleep?”

  “You were learning everything about me.” Luke paused. “Thought it was only fair I did the same.”

  I narrowed my eyes and reflected on his answer. There’s more to this, I thought to myself.

  Before I could press further, Luke changed the subject.

  “AJ liked my car. Red like my hair, she said to me. We flirted. Made plans to hook up,” he said. “Was having a good time for a few weeks till you came along—busting up her ankle.”

  “And you were there, flashing the high beams. Hauling ass so I wouldn’t recognize your car,” I said.

  Luke raised his brows. “You knew?”

  “Not that night,” I said as my eyes brimmed. “I wish I did. She’d be alive now because I would’ve stopped working with you right then.”

  “She wasn’t long for this world anyway,” Luke said. “She wasn’t a nice girl, Dr. Reese.”

  Clenching my jaw and blinking back tears, I shoved my face right up to his.

  “I bet you’re right. I bet AJ wasn’t a nice girl. She saw through you. Quick and fast. She got bored or worse—wanted to ditch you. And when you couldn’t get what you wanted from her anymore, you got violent. And she fought back. Not like some naïve, nice girl. I bet she was fierce. And arrogant. And that pissed you off. Poor little boy.”

  “Very unprofessional, Doc. But nice try,” Luke replied.

  I leaned back, trying to gain my composure. But I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. I was so raw and hurt.

  “Did you rape her and then kill her? Or kill her first? I understand that’s a big deal when you’re in here. The timeline and all.”

  I widened my eyes and looked around towards the other inmates sitting nearby.

  Luke didn’t flinch.

  “Sounds like you may be a little jealous, Doc. We did have a good thing going, you and me. You’re the one who fucked all that up. But listen, you don’t have to worry about me. Really, Doc, you should be worrying about yourself,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because when we go to trial, I’m gonna ruin you.”

  “This case isn’t going to trial, and you’re not going to ruin me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And here’s why.” I sat back, catching my breath. “You’ve seen me violate privilege. And I won’t hesitate to violate it again. To protect myself—or anyone—from you. And next time, the police won’t know where the information came from. So if you want to keep yourself from the execution chamber in Florida…you remember Florida, right? Then you’ll plead this case out.”

  “You fucking bitch,” he yelled, finally boiling over with rage.

  Luke jumped the table and sliced my lip open with a rock-hard punch to the mouth. He grabbed me as I fell to the floor and readied his fist for another swing. In seconds, the corrections officer stopped Luke, yanking back his arm—while another officer rushed forward with his baton, pressing it hard against Luke’s chest.

  “You okay, Ma’am?” another officer asked, helping me up from the floor.

  “Yeah.”

  “This isn’t finished,” Luke said, pitching his weight against the guards.

  As the officer moved me away from the commotion, a dull realization swelled, followed by a flashback of the photos Skolnik and Lombardi showed me. My mind raced and then suddenly seized on the pictures of Nicole, Keith, and the twins.

  And Shasta.

  “You drugged the dog!” I shouted as they dragged Luke out an emergency exit.

  His eyes narrowed. Then his mouth curled into a tight-lipped, self-satisfied grin just as the doors locked shut.

  My heart, pounding with fury and terror, slowed as the officer took me out of the visiting area.

  “He drugged Shasta,” I muttered to him.

  “I heard,” he replied, guiding me to a nearby chair.

  The officer waited by my side as I leaned back and slowed my breathing. While I calmed down, I remembered how I came here to find answers. And to draw a line in the sand. I realized what a fearless move it was as I grabbed a tissue from my pocket and wiped away the blood from my chin.

  “Thanks. I’m good now,” I said after a few moments.

  Just before he walked away, he pointed to my mouth. “Bette
r ice that.”

  I nodded, feeling the swollen parts of my face with my fingertips.

  When I made my way out of the prison, I couldn't decide which way to drive home. I could go East on Hempstead Turnpike and then up Jerusalem Avenue back home. Or take the Seaford Oyster Bay Expressway northbound.

  Or drive the side streets, winding my way back the long way to Brookville.

  I went west.

  Boulder

  Saturday, August 19th

  “

  These are all the original hardwood floors, but the kitchen and baths were remodeled about two years ago,” Toni from Millennium Homes told me.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “You can see all the appliances are top line. Look at these French doors. Gorgeous, right? And upstairs you have two bedrooms and plenty of closet space.”

  “What did you say about the garage?” I asked.

  “It’s heated. Great feature to have here in winter. And did I tell you there’s a flagstone patio and a hot tub?”

  “Yes, and the mountain views are just as beautiful as you described.”

  “It’s less than three miles from the university,” she said, looking at my application form. “And the local shopping is great here.”

  The house was contemporary in architecture, with angled walls, vaulted gables, and large modern windows. I liked what I saw, but the need to satisfy my guilt was never too far away. I bit the cuticle of my thumb, causing it to bleed again.

  When Ryan died, I mourned for him. Like many people who lose someone they love, I had to learn how to grieve but also how to take care of my own needs. And like so many people, I often felt a sense of survivor’s guilt—why was he the one who got ill? Why was I spared? Over time, I was able to navigate my way through the rough waters and moved through the stages of bereavement as expected. I was able to invite moments of happiness in without the need to quickly push them away.

  But the experience with Luke distorted my world. The choices I made re-activated my levels of guilt and grief—and added self-blame to the mix.

  “This is the first floor bedroom. The current owners used it as an office,” Toni continued.