by Alan Russell
He looked around the table with a proud expression, as if he expected applause.
“How does the fund work?” Cheever asked.
“Like you would expect: give us information that convicts, or helps us convict, and we give you money.”
“Why didn’t you go through Crime Stoppers?” Cheever asked.
Crime Stoppers was a San Diego organization that solicited information from the public for unsolved crimes. They often facilitated investigative efforts of both police and friends and family of victims by circulating brochures advertising rewards and airing film reenactments of the crimes on television.
“We had horses raring to jump, and if you know anything about riding, you don’t pull in your nag when it’s ready to jump. Strike while the iron’s hot, you see what I mean? We didn’t want to wait. We needed to channel our anger into something constructive. But that doesn’t mean we won’t be working with those Crime Stopper people. We just wanted to get the ball moving on our own.”
“Most reward systems ask that any information be directed to the police,” Cheever said. “Not yours.”
“That’s right. I already had staff in place, so I volunteered them for handling the phone lines.”
The sergeant interjected before Cheever could. “The problem with your setup,” Falconi said, “is that it potentially impedes our investigative efforts. The police can’t be the second or third to know. We need to be the first contact so that we can work on any new information immediately.”
Rollo looked slightly embarrassed, as if he suddenly saw a flaw in one of his blueprints. “The plan was to pass on everything to you, of course.”
“Unless you want to do the investigating for us,” Cheever said.
Cheever’s attention was on Rollo. He knew better than to be looking at Falconi, knew without seeing that the sergeant was giving him the evil eye, but the developer wasn’t an amateur in that department either. “Our intent was to help,” Rollo said, his voice rising in anger. “My daddy used to tell me that a diamond with a flaw is better than a common stone that’s perfect. It’s obvious we got a flaw or two in our operation, but that just means we’ll retrofit the original plans.”
“It would help,” Falconi said, “if your operators immediately referred callers to the police.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rollo said. “We assumed that since we were administering the reward we should also take the calls, but I can see now that doesn’t make sense. Like they say, takes a lot of things to prove you’re smart, but only one thing to show you’re a dummy.”
“How did you know Bonnie Gill?” Cheever asked.
“We go back a few years,” he said. “I worked on a couple committees with her, and I was on the board of the ReinCarnation Foundation.”
“So yours is a personal interest?”
“Yes,” Rollo said. “That is mostly.”
Cheever and Falconi waited for him to say more. “Bonnie’s death,” he said, “has made some investors wary. Chicken Little types, you see what I mean, who think the sky is falling unless you show ’em different. They need reassuring, especially now.
“There are always people who will give you reasons that you can’t do something. Remember those that said Horton Plaza couldn’t be developed, that it was a breeding ground for drunks and degenerates and could never be home to a world-class shopping center? Look at it now, one of the most successful malls in the country.
“Lot of the same people said that the Gaslamp Quarter was a pipe dream. They said that downtown San Diego was dead. I told ’em reports of that death were greatly exaggerated, and I was right.
“Bonnie Gill had a dream. She wasn’t alone. She wanted the downtown renaissance to continue east. I shared that dream with her. I’m not going to let her down.”
“You have ample holdings in that area, don’t you?” Cheever asked.
“Yes.” Rollo looked around. There were no cameras in the vicinity, no reporters he needed to grandstand in front of. He could afford to be honest. “And Bonnie’s death,” he said, “was not good for business.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
“What’s good for General Motors is good for the country.” Businesspeople were always saying things like that, but whenever Cheever heard them, he figured something was being whitewashed. It wasn’t altruism spurring on Rollo Adams, though he clearly didn’t mind wearing the good guy’s white hat. The murder of a prominent citizen made bankers shaky and made it that much harder for him to get financing for his downtown building projects.
The talk with Adams had taken less than an hour, but Cheever again found himself hurrying to make it to his last appointment of the day. He was tired, and the idea of more conversation made him feel more tired.
Cheever arrived at Rachel Stern’s office at exactly six thirty, but she kept him waiting in the anteroom for several minutes. Classic power play, he was sure. Cheever had come prepared, though, and didn’t have to resort to thumbing through the kind of magazines that are offered at doctors’ offices. He read from one of the books he had picked up at the library, and when Rachel came out to the outer office he held the book in front of him so that she couldn’t possibly miss seeing that it was a text on dissociative identity disorder. As they walked into her office she commented, “That book is over ten years out of date.”
“So you’re saying all psychiatrists are now in agreement about DID?”
“There is currently more agreement,” she said, “and less skepticism.”
“Gee, I imagine in another thousand years there might be some sort of consensus.”
She sat down behind her desk, didn’t respond unless you counted the two white patches on her cheeks. “When you called, Detective, you said you wanted to talk about Helen Troy.”
He nodded, but didn’t directly proceed to that subject. “From what I understand about therapy, and it’s not firsthand mind you, I’m told that when you talk with patients part of your job is to listen for what’s not being said.”
Rachel sensed a trap, but answered anyway. “That’s true,” she said. “Freud said that an analyst had to be in three places at once: listening to the patient, listening to yourself, and keeping track of what was going on between the patient and yourself.”
“Three places at once. I guess that makes you a multiple personality.”
She ignored his sarcasm, waited for what he had to say.
“If our positions were reversed,” he said, “you would probably tell me that my not mentioning Helen’s criminal record was a significant omission.”
“I might. But I certainly didn’t have time to spell out everything about Helen’s past.”
“You didn’t stop to think that in a murder investigation her criminal record might be an important matter?”
“Why should it?”
“Because Helen Troy has a history of breaking the law. Because you yourself alluded that some of her personalities were capable of violence.”
“You seem to have settled on those words, Detective. I would think that in your line of work, you, more than anyone, would know we are all capable of violence.”
“Including multiple personalities.”
“Is your implication that such a condition makes someone with a dissociative disorder, or anyone who has psychological problems, more of a suspect?”
“Only if yours is that it makes them less.”
“That hasn’t been one of my assertions. Historically we’ve seen that society has long assigned guilt to those who are different. I don’t want Helen caught up in some witch hunt just because she’s expedient.”
“I’m the one who’s trying to learn more about Helen,” he said, “and you seem to be the one who’s stonewalling me. How about letting me read her case file?”
Rachel looked incredulous, shaking her head and laughing without mirth. “No. I can’t see how that would be germane to your investigation. We’re talking about four years of confidential sessions, with paperwork longer than War
and Peace.”
“With more battles too?” Cheever asked.
The doctor didn’t appear to be amused.
“How did she come to be your patient?” Cheever asked.
“Helen was initially referred to me for treatment of her anorexia-bulimia and her drug abuse. Over time I found that those were wonderful masks for her even larger problems. I first worked on her potentially deadly symptoms, and after gaining her trust I moved on to her core problems.”
“I’ve been reading about people with DID,” Cheever said. “I’ve got one book here on Billy Milligan. He was a diagnosed multiple who raped and robbed.”
“He was also found not guilty of those crimes on the grounds of insanity,” she said. “Have you read enough of that book to know about Billy’s early life?”
“No. But I assume you have a box of tissues in your desk in case I need them.”
She opened a drawer, found that box of tissues, and pushed it across the desk toward Cheever. “Billy’s biological father committed suicide when he was three. By the time he was eight years old there had been three men in his life he was instructed to call ‘Daddy.’ His biological father was Jewish, and his second father was Catholic. His third father, an evangelical, thought he had to purge those religions out of Billy. According to Billy, his stepfather abused him in a number of ways, including raping him, beating him savagely, and locking him in cupboards for days at a time. One of his more frequent threats was that he was going to bury Billy alive.
“Not surprisingly, Billy withdrew from reality. He started slipping into trances both at home and at school. Other personalities started appearing, each apparently suited to some task. All of the personalities were male except for one, a lesbian.
“When Billy preyed on the women around Ohio State University he was not mentally competent. His personality that he identified as the ‘keeper of hate’ attacked the women, and then the lesbian personality took over while the rape was being committed.”
“Wait a second,” said Cheever, raising both hands up to protest. “You’re saying his raping brought the woman out in him? Isn’t it a little hard to explain the mental dynamics of that, let alone the physical ones?”
“Very hard,” she said, not backing down from his theatrics. “Laymen have an extremely difficult time understanding.”
“So, apparently, do the professionals. Does the name Kenneth Bianchi mean anything to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that as the Hillside Strangler he murdered at least nine people in the Los Angeles area. Since Bianchi couldn’t successfully challenge the evidence, and he couldn’t break out of prison, he tried using a new dodge: multiple personality disorder.
“The defense brought in one of the shining lights in your field, this psychiatrist who’s supposedly an expert on multiple personalities, and lo and behold, Kenneth Bianchi is diagnosed as being a multiple. What a sham. What a circus act. Later, Bianchi confessed he faked the whole thing.”
“I’m familiar with the story. Is there a point to it?”
“Just that your field isn’t all-knowing.”
“I hope I have not given you that impression, either personally or professionally. On the other hand, it would only be prudent to state that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
She looked pointedly to the book Cheever was holding. If anything, he made it more visible.
“You think,” he said, “the state of mind of Billy Milligan mattered to the women who were violated?”
“I wouldn’t think so, Detective.”
“When all was said and done, Billy Milligan was still a rapist.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means my job is to apprehend criminals. Cause and effect don’t enter my equation. I’m not going to argue that Helen Troy isn’t a multiple. She’s certainly strange enough to be just that. The question I have to ask is whether she murdered Bonnie Gill and is now trying to cover up that crime by using her so-called disorder as a smoke screen.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“It would be impossible.”
“Is that Dr. Stern talking or the caretaker of Helen?”
“Both.”
“Why would you rule her out as a suspect?”
“What would have been her motive?”
“Bonnie Gill was an authority figure. Judging by her arrest record, Helen’s had trouble with those. Bonnie was interfering in Helen’s art, undermining her with negative comments. Helen could have flipped out. Assuming Helen is a bona fide multiple, maybe Bonnie said something that brought Cronos out, or Nemesis. Helen could have murdered, and from what you say, not even know it. Pandora is the only one who might be aware of what happened, and she’s not talking. It’s possible she’s protecting herself or, to be more accurate, her selves.”
“You’re jumping to wild conclusions, Detective.”
“I’m examining possibilities, Doctor. It helps to have as much information as possible to do that.”
“You’re looking for a conspiracy.”
“Helen Troy seems to be a conspiracy all by herself.”
“Trauma,” Rachel said, “is what is preventing Pandora from speaking. Time will bring her voice back.”
“How much time? You don’t seem to have had much luck opening that clam, Doctor. Pandora’s still holding out part of Helen’s youth on you, her long fugue period. There are two years of question marks, if I remember correctly.”
He looked to her for corroboration. “Your memory is not the matter in question here, Detective.”
“You’re right. The matter in question is that I don’t have all the time in the world to wait for a breakthrough.”
“This is a profession that often heals by inches. Patience is necessary. Therapists know that waiting for a break is a part of the process. We live by a rule: When in doubt, do nothing. I have doubts.”
“So do I. But I don’t have your rule.”
She rubbed her eyes, let her erect figure hunch slightly. Rachel was tired, and hungry, and she hurt. She could understand the impetuousness of this man, could almost admire it. How many cops would go so far as to check out a book on a mental disorder to better understand it? But he was out of his league and a potential danger to her patient.
“If you only knew,” she said, “how far Helen has come. She arrived on my doorstep with a death wish. Now she wants to live. We are working toward integration, toward eliminating the Greek chorus and integrating all of the personalities into one, into Helen.”
“I don’t want to interfere with your treatment, Doctor, and I don’t want to set it back. But I do have questions. Some of them you can answer.”
His implicit threat was that if Rachel didn’t cooperate he would go to Helen and make matters that much tougher on her. Dr. Stern nodded to signal her, if not willingness, at least capitulation.
“From my limited reading on the subject,” Cheever said, “the common denominator for multiples seems to be that they were sexually abused as children.”
“In almost all cases that’s true.”
“Do you think Helen was sexually abused?”
“It is my strong belief that she was, even though that has not specifically come out in our sessions. She fits the classic profile of someone turning to drugs to chemically dissociate from the pain of hurtful memories. As for her anorexia-bulimia, I believe it was Helen’s way of asserting control over her body.”
“In what way?”
“For once, someone else wasn’t dictating to her body. She was. Helen could change how she looked. She could even punish herself, make her body reflect the unhealthy condition of her psyche.”
“Any guesses who abused her?”
“It could have been more than one person. Usually it’s a family member, be it the father, the mother, or both, but that’s not to say in Helen’s case it couldn’t have been a neighbor, or an uncle, or a friend of the family. There’s often collaboration goin
g on, with one of the parents pretending not to know what is occurring. In most instances the abuse has been frequent, which allows little chance for the child to recover between the incidences of molestation.”
“The book that I was reading said that most multiples were abused when they were very young.”
“That’s still all too true,” she said. “The abuse happens before the child’s defenses have formed. Personalities emerge as a form of protection. ‘I’ am not getting hurt—‘she’ is. It is one of the few ways a young child can escape the double bind being forced on them. The adult or adults who are supposed to nurture are usually the ones doing the hurting. A child learns from the parents. If one parent is abusing, and the other is ignoring that abuse, what kind of message is the child receiving? And what can a child do but dissociate? Helen certainly learned about dissociation from her mother, who was an alcoholic.”
“I know.”
Rachel questioned Cheever with her eyes.
“I met with her father this afternoon,” he said. “He was quick to point out his wife’s drinking problem.”
“Why did you meet with her father?”
“To get answers. Helen wasn’t around.”
“Helen shouldn’t be one of your suspects. And by going behind her back and talking with her father, you’re playing with her mind.”
“Seems to me she’s doing a good enough job of that by herself.”
Dr. Stern shook her head. The detective didn’t understand, or wouldn’t. She took a deep breath and tried to corral her anger. The sooner he finished with his interrogation, the sooner he would be gone. “Do you have any other questions, Detective?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Professor Troy and I discussed the myths behind Helen’s personalities. I was curious as to where all of her personalities live. Do they share her downtown loft?”
“No. They live in Olympus.”
“Nice digs.”
“Try paying the price.”
“Is that what she’d write down on an IRS form?” Cheever asked. “Under address she’d just note Mount Olympus?”
“Her personalities would let Helen answer those kinds of questions, and she would know to write down her conventional address.”
