In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  “You seem angry at me, in particular.”

  “I’m furious at the whole situation, Mom. And I’m not really sure why you are here.” I sigh.

  “Charlotte, I’m sorry I couldn’t post bail for you.” Her defensive discomfort is undeniable.

  “I didn’t realize that you hadn’t. But good to know.” The aching disappointment of her admision surprises me. I guess I’m not as immune to my feelings in here as I thought.

  “It’s a lot of money, sweetie. And I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for a few weeks now. I’m actually having some money problems at the moment—”

  “Mom. I am not going to talk about your money problems while I’m in jail.”

  I see something cross her face that I haven’t seen in a very long time. Real emotion. Rage. She leans in and grits her teeth.

  “Charlotte. I don’t know exactly what has you so pissed off at me, but you need to snap out of it, and quick. You’ve made it no secret that you think I’m a bad mother, but you seem to selectively omit that I’m the one who is there for you when things get real.”

  “I didn’t say I was angry, Mom—”

  “Aside from keeping you alive until you left for college, I am the one who picked you up from the mental hospital and took care of you until you could rejoin the living. And presumably, I’m going to be doing the same thing when I pick you up from prison. Do you really think you are in a position to be judgmental of me, honey?”

  I’m speechless. She sits back and smooths the front of her jumpsuit and the sides of her hair with her hands. I see they are shaking.

  “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t realize you thought I was such a terrible person,” I say, petulantly.

  “Grow up. You don’t know how I view you because you have taken it upon yourself to do the thinking for me.”

  “Oh Jesus, Mom. I’ve already seen a shrink this week. Do you really think this is the best time to tear me down? I’m already on the ground.” I give her a withering look.

  “Yes, I do, actually. You are a captive audience, for once.”

  “Fine. Give me your best shot,” I say snidely.

  “How on earth can you heal someone if you have such negative energy running through you? How can you bolster people when you clearly have such low self-worth? I didn’t teach you that.”

  “Mom, I tell you what I want you to know and show you very little about who I actually am,” I reply icily.

  She scoffs. “Darling. I made you, raised you, and know exactly who you are.”

  “And what? You brought me into this world, and you can take me out of it?” I counter.

  “No, but you can. And it certainly seems like you are trying hard to do that.” We stare at each other.

  “Becoming a surgeon was your dream, not mine,” I say quietly.

  “If that were true, why would you be angry about that? Until the tragedy with Michelle Harmon, you were on track to be a superstar,” she says evenly.

  “If you hadn’t pushed me into becoming a doctor, I wouldn’t be living with the death of another human being on my conscience now. I wouldn’t have been betrayed and abandoned by my industry and people closest to me. I wouldn’t have had a breakdown.”

  Her expression softens.

  “Alex Myer,” she states.

  “Who?”

  “He was the reason you wanted to become a brain surgeon?” She watches my face closely.

  I draw on the name but don’t have a face or memory attached. “No idea. Who is he?”

  “He was a little boy in your kindergarten class. The two of you were playing with a kickball at recess one day and he kicked the ball into the creek across the street from school.”

  Images are coming back to me. There was a car.

  “He chased after the ball and got hit. You witnessed the whole thing and stayed with him there in the middle of the street while the ambulance came.”

  “Oh my God. I completely forgot.” I search my memories for that day. I remember there being a lot of blood and his eyes being shut. But I can’t recall anything else.

  “He lived. Got something like two hundred stitches in his head and body, but he survived, miraculously. You were at his side at the hospital every day after school until he got out.”

  “I was? I completely blocked that out.”

  She nods. “But he wasn’t the same. He became erratic and really badly behaved. He tried to hurt you and some of the other kids in your class a few times. You didn’t understand. I had to explain to you that the accident had damaged his brain so badly, he wasn’t himself any longer.”

  “What happened to him?” I ask, riveted by this past life I’d completely lost track of.

  “His family moved away. I lost touch with his mother. I’m not sure what happened to him. But I know what happened to you.” She looks at me tenderly.

  “What?” I ask her, anticipating her response.

  “You became fascinated by the brain and with healing people. It was, and still is, an amazing quality in you.” She beams.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say to her. It is all I can muster.

  “Charlotte. Forgive yourself. For all of it. Let it go.” She presses her hands on the table.

  A terrible thought blooms. “Mom. Do you think I’m guilty?”

  I brace myself by digging my hands into the fabric on my thighs, the metal of the handcuffs digging into the delicate skin on the insides of my wrists.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and her hesitation is the most painful thing so far today.

  She blows air out of her mouth so hard her lips make a fluttering sound. “Char. Of course I know that you did not murder your friend.” She moves closer to me. “But I know that as long as you carry around what happened to Michelle Harmon, you might as well be guilty of every death you are in proximity to, with the way you blame yourself.”

  “This is completely different. What happened to Michelle Harmon was my fault!” The guard shoots me a warning look and I check my volume. “And Rachel’s death may have been my fault, too.” I say this much more softly to my lap.

  “I’m sorry that you believe that and that you are putting yourself through this.” She holds my eyes for a moment and I actually feel her empathy, which levels me. “The situation is tragic enough without your self-torture, but I need you to listen to me right now.” I can see her jaw muscles are clenched as she winds up.

  “Underneath all the bad feelings, you are strong and resilient and resourceful. That is what you need to be taking hold of. Not the sadness. The despair is just going to pull you under, and I can’t do anything to help you if you are in here and giving up.” She leans back

  I blink a few times and tilt my head closer in her direction to try to enable understanding, but my confusion remains. I hear her voice, but the words themselves are perplexing. It almost sounds like she is on my side.

  “You think that I’m strong?” I ask her, praying that she’ll fall on the side of sincerity.

  She nods. “I do. And I believe that you can and will pull yourself out of this self-pity hole you are in right now and defend yourself. You’ve done it before.”

  “I’m grieving, Mom,” I counter.

  “No, you are wallowing. Grief comes when you have the space for it. You are in jail right now for a crime you didn’t commit, and you are fighting me harder than you are resisting what is happening to you. If you think that your innocence is going to conquer all and that this will just sort itself in some natural order of the universe, you are being extremely naive.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” The defense sounds flimsy as I say it.

  “Well then, the other alternative is that you are surrendering to this wrongful imprisonment as some self-inflicted punishment for Michelle Harmon.” My body tenses into one giant fist.

  “If
that is the case, honey,” she continues, “I shouldn’t have to tell you, no matter whether you are in here punishing yourself for something that can’t be undone, or doing it out there, what’s done is done. And in both scenarios you are in a jail cell. You need to start forgiving yourself or you might as well give up completely, plead guilty, and let New York State own your life.”

  “Or maybe you are just projecting a lot of shit on me that has no truth. You don’t know everything, Mom,” I retort weakly.

  “You have always been brilliant, with a particular genius for brattiness. You must have gotten that from your father’s side of the family.”

  I start laughing. And she does too. My laughter turns into loud tears, and I’m crying hard. Shockingly, so is she.

  “I need you to fight,” she says. “Figure this out, defend yourself, and then you can start grieving everything.” When the guard’s back is turned, she reaches across the space between us and wipes away my tears with the heels of her hands. The gesture is small, but also enormous.

  “And I can be there for you, if you want me to.” She pauses. “Or I can go away. But we’ll fight about that later, if we are lucky.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  WOLCOTT

  “We just want to speak with the detectives in charge,” a voice bellows from the direction of the front desk. I pick up my pace and round the corner to find Greene seated at his station, extending his hands palms in an effort to placate a fellow who slams a meaty paw repeatedly against the lacquered surface. A petite woman stands beside the irate man, one hand on his broad shoulder, the other balled tightly at her waist.

  I slip in beside her and extend mine for a shake. “Hello, folks,” I say, smiling. “Detective Terrence Wolcott.”

  He looks me up and down, then frowns at her. He returns his eyes to me and thrusts a mitt in my direction. “Bob Harmon,” he says sourly. “This is my wife, Kathy.”

  Oh boy. “Mr. and Mrs. Harmon. Of course. We spoke on the phone. Please, follow me. We’ll find a place to sit and talk.” I resist the inclination to place a comforting hand on Kathy’s shoulder, as I suspect it might incite Bob to tear the attached arm out of the socket and beat me with the limb.

  We pass the desks on the way to the interrogation room. Silvestri leans back in his chair, legs kicked up on his desk, flipping through a stack of papers. I shoot him a look, and he immediately swings his legs to the floor, stands, and smooths his shirt with an open palm.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harmon,” I say. “This is my partner, Detective Silvestri.”

  Silvestri clears his throat and displays a solemn look. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” he says, extending a hand to the couple.

  “Thank you,” says Bob distractedly. He looks around the cluster of desks and shakes his head. “Is there anywhere we can go and talk with a little more . . . privacy?”

  “Of course,” I answer. “Follow us.”

  * * *

  “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  We’re sitting in the interrogation room. Kathy folds her hands in her lap, while Bob leans forward, elbows perched on the edge of the table. “We’re fine,” he says, answering for both of them.

  “Our apologies for the setting,” Silvestri pipes up. “I’m afraid it’s the only room in the building that affords us the chance to have a quiet conversation.”

  “It’ll be fine,” says Kathy, forcing a polite smile. “So, you’ve arrested Charlotte Knopfler?”

  I’m grateful for the prompting. “That is correct, Mrs. Harmon. We have Ms. Knopfler in custody, awaiting a court hearing.” I need to handle this situation very gingerly. Bob’s just lost his second child—at the hands of the same suspect, no less—and is quite understandably on the edge of sanity. “Over the course of our investigation,” I begin, “we learned of the devastating loss of your daughter, Michelle. I can’t imagine what this experience must be like for you both. Our team is working around the clock to put together the strongest case possible, to make sure that the person responsible is brought to justice.”

  “So, I guess three’s the charm, then?” Bob’s hand quakes as he speaks. His face is a shade of crimson, and his voice cracks with a mixture of rage and grief. “Let this bitch get good and warmed up before you finally bring her in?”

  “Bob.” Kathy speaks with a bit more force and volume this time. “Please.”

  I shift in my seat in an attempt to ground myself. I open my mouth to begin a sentence but think better of it. The words “your daughter” nearly tumble out, but I catch myself. “Brooke was the first victim.” I make deliberate eye contact with both of the Harmons as I continue. “We began an aggressive investigation immediately, but evidence was scant, and we unfortunately found ourselves at the mercy of some forensic findings that took longer to sift through. We assure you that we—”

  “Bullshit!” he spits. “First Michelle. Now Brooke. Should my wife and I be fearing for our lives too? Jesus! Can’t any of you ever be bothered to do your fucking jobs?!”

  “Enough.” Kathy Harmon’s hands shoot out of her lap and up in front of her. The volume of her voice doesn’t climb, but the tone is steady and forceful. She slowly lowers her hands to the top of the table. It has the effect of a conductor leading an orchestra. The room around her falls silent. She gently places a hand on her husband’s forearm, which seems to have a tranquilizing effect on him. She looks at him, raises a hand to his cheek and strokes it gently. The rage and anger in his face give way to something softer, more gentle and vulnerable. His eyes well up, and he takes a deep breath.

  She returns her hand to his forearm and her attention to me. “Charlotte Knopfler. She’s a sick woman, Detective Wolcott?”

  I maintain steady eye contact. “We’re waiting on the results of a psychiatric evaluation. But, yes, we believe that Ms. Knopfler is unwell.”

  She breathes in the information, sits with it for a moment, and exhales. “And you’ve got strong evidence against her?”

  My partner slips in. “We’re building a very strong case against Ms. Knopfler, thanks in no small part to our findings in Brooke’s email exchanges.”

  “Detective,” says Kathy, “I’d like to have access to her email account.”

  “We can certainly arrange that,” I assure her.

  “Okay.” She looks to Silvestri, then back to her husband. She squeezes his arm gently as she stares off toward the far wall of the interrogation room. Then, in an eerily calm tone, she speaks, more statement than question, with utter resolve. “So Charlotte Knopfler’s not going anywhere.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  CHARLOTTE

  When Silvestri walks into the room I can barely look him in the eye. But I force myself. I asked him here, and thankfully he agreed.

  “Charlotte.” He seems to be struggling with maintaining eye contact as much as I am.

  “Dennis. Thank you for meeting with me alone.”

  “Charlotte, for the sake of clear boundaries, I’d prefer it if you called me Detective Silvestri from here on out.”

  “Of course.” I barely have the energy to conceal the sting of his request.

  “Great.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “I need to let you know that anything we say in this room will be recorded, and potentially used in a court of law, should your case go to trial.”

  “I understand.” There is no room for our friendly connection here any longer.

  “Well, then.” He sits back and appears to relax. “Now that the housekeeping is out of the way, let’s talk.”

  I try to emulate his relaxed pose, but it is a challenge given my heightened sense of anxiety.

  “I was sorry to hear that your mother wasn’t able to post bail for you.” A noble, if not inflammatory, attempt at small talk.

  “She was able to; she just chose not to.” I consider that maybe I’m wrong about this but move on. “But she ca
me to visit. So that is something.”

  “Does she believe that you’re guilty?” Seems like Silvestri can read my mind. I don’t know if that is a good or terrible thing at this point.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.” I reconsider. “No, actually, she doesn’t. She supports and believes in me.” I need to work on losing the “I hate my mother” routine, I realize. I’ll add it to my growing list of self-improvement to-dos.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Charlotte, what’s on your mind? I don’t imagine you asked me here to talk about your mother.”

  “Certainly not.” I laugh drily. “I wanted to talk to you alone because I feel like you understand me, and possibly, hopefully, don’t really believe that I had anything to do with Brooke and Rachel’s deaths. I’m not sure that I ever had Detective Wolcott’s faith, but I definitely don’t now.” This likely sounds rehearsed because I’ve rolled it over in my head so many times in the last hour.

  He leans forward and places his elbows on the table and his right palm on his cheek. I realize it is probably strategic body language to disarm me.

  “I want to believe you, Charlotte. I really do. But my job is predicated on finding common denominators, determining motive and opportunity, and piecing together compelling evidence. And, as much as I hate to say it, I’m afraid that you are the apex of everything.” His eyes travel to my chest, where I realize I’ve been absently tapping at my heart acupoint. He averts his gaze quickly.

  “Sorry. It helps to calm me. I’m feeling a little anxious.” I migrate my active hand into a medium grip around my wrist and use my thumb to tap into the point between the tendons to calm myself.

  “Charlotte, I appreciate the seriousness of your situation and the obvious stress that it brings. I also know you have lost someone incredibly important to you. What I’m struggling most to understand is what your motive in killing Rachel would be. Can you help me comprehend this?”