False Allegations

by Andrew Vachss

  "Liars would have spaces in their memory too," I reminded him.

  "Not usually," he said. "In fact, skilled liars, malingerers—we would call them—often display a richness of detail that the average, honest person might not."

  I filed that one away—a professional never stops learning.

  "The brain stores traumatic experiences differently from others," Perry went on. "Because when the brain is in a state of alarm, it pays attention. So words are stored much less efficiently than the nonverbal signals that are important to survival—facial expressions, body movements, sounds, smells. We remember trauma at some level, but suppression is a factor in that equation too. Recall is scattered—the resulting narrative isn't always linear or precise. So we don't rely on it totally. We try to determine how an individual feels about specific traumatic events…and whether they can identify trauma–related cues. That's why we use self–report forms too."

  "You mean what patients say about themselves?"

  "Yes, and the usual standard psychological tests as well. We want to examine various aspects of the patient's personality—coping styles, IQ, the themes of the patient's inner world…hopes, fears, wishes…. But in this case, we have hypnotically refreshed memory, and that raises some other issues."

  "Like…?"

  "We use the Stanford Susceptibility Index—we want to know if the patient is easily hypnotized."

  "You can tell that from the way they answer questions on a test?"

  "No," he said. "Here, let me show you. Follow my finger with your eyes."

  He moved it left, right, up, down, finally looping his finger all the way up, way past my vision. "Okay, now, without following my finger, roll your eyes up as far as they can go.

  I did it.

  "So?" I asked him.

  "Generally, the more white exposed on the extreme eye–rolls, the more susceptible to hypnosis the patient is."

  "How'd I do?"

  "Fine," he said, something flitting quickly across his face. "We also need a sleep history," he said quickly. "If the patient has chronic difficulty falling asleep, or wakes up suddenly—especially about three hours after they fall asleep—we have some indication of dysregulation of the noradrenergic system."

  I wanted to ask him if he had an English–speaking translator on the grounds, but I settled for: "Nora–what?"

  "Norepinephrine is a chemical—like the other chemicals I talked about for the reward systems—only these noradrenergic systems are the main mediators of the fear response. And when someone is exposed to traumatic stress—especially in childhood when those systems are first organizing—those systems become hyperreactive."

  "Even when the kid's asleep?"

  "If the whole environment is stressful, sure. The key is the heart—it's only one synapse away from the brain. Trauma increases the heart rate. If the environment is heavily laced with trauma, you get an overreaction to even the most simple stressors…and that brings on a major change in functioning. You see it in all traumatized individuals: anxiety, impulsivity, depression, aggression…even dissociation."

  "So you put them on an EKG machine and wait for…?"

  "Pretty close. Actually, the instrument we use looks like a wristwatch; kids get used to it in seconds. When we—or they—bring up a traumatic topic, the heart rate increases. And when the internal anxiety gets high enough, the brain has to 'act,'" he said, making the quote–marks sign again, "and this can be a primary, external behavior—like agitation or aggression—or a primary internal response: freezing, going numb, dissociation. If the response to threat is external, the heart rate stays elevated. But if the response is dissociation, the heart rate plateaus…and ultimately decreases. We can actually track this, in association with specific cues. And with time–sequenced video, we get a very precise assessment of what topics and what cues and what stimuli are associated with a deeply ingrained memory…the memory of the state of fear present in the original trauma." He took a deep breath. "Is any of this making any sense to you?" he asked in an apologetic tone. Perry used language in exactly the opposite way lawyers did—he didn't want to hide behind it; he wanted you to get it. A fucking genius without being arrogant, explaining the meaning of life with that "aw, shucks" farmboy front—he must be a killer on the fund–raising circuit.

  "A normal person gets scared, their heartbeat goes up," I told him. "Eventually, that calms them. If they've been abused, the heart rate just keeps climbing until they go somewhere else in their heads. To a safe place. Then the heartbeat slows down. Like the tail wagging the dog," I said softly. Thinking how I learned to do it for myself: staring at a red dot on my mirror, going into that dot until I wasn't afraid anymore. I didn't get all his vocabulary, but if you translated it, every abused kid in the world would recognize it.

  He nodded, not saying anything.

  I stayed quiet too, listening for my own heartbeat.

  The hotel was set up right inside the hospital complex. For families who wanted to stay around while a patient was hospitalized, Perry told me. That way they could be close at hand, feel more a part of the process. I figured I'd stay there too, took a two–room suite for the duration.

  After I unpacked, I took a stroll until I found a pay phone and called Mama.

  "All quiet," she said. "You okay?"

  "Sure," I told her. I gave her the number of the hotel room, just in case.

  I went back, took a shower, and started reading over some of the material Perry had given me, wishing I'd brought my medical dictionary along. I started reading this stuff years ago, swiping books from Doc's library in the prison. Doc never admitted he knew what I was up to, but whenever he left a book lying around for too long, I knew he meant me to take it. Maybe if he knew I was running a nice little business writing phony psych reports another inmate clerk substituted for the real ones that went to the parole board, he wouldn't have been so eager to further my education.

  I always returned the books when I was done. Couple of things I learned in prison: nothing you stole was ever really safe in your cell, but once it went into your head, no goon–squad shakedown could take it back.

  When I was locked down, I used to read all the time—that's where I got my vocabulary. But I don't do it as much any more. Like the guys who stopped lifting iron soon as they hit the bricks. There's other ways to pass time once you're free.

  I'd forgotten how much I'd loved it, reading and studying. I'll bet if I'd been raised by humans instead of a collection of freaks and the fucking State, I'd have been…a scientist, maybe. I don't know.

  I know I wouldn't have been what I am now. You don't get born bad.

  I jumped when the phone rang next to the bed. None of the crew would call me here unless…

  "What?"

  "Burke? It's me. Heather. I'm in the hotel too. You got my note, right? They're keeping Jennifer overnight. To run some tests or something. Did you eat yet?"

  I glanced at my watch. Jesus! It was almost nine o'clock—I'd been lost in Perry's stuff for hours.

  "Ah, no. I was just gonna—"

  "Can we have dinner together? We don't have to go anyplace, okay? Just room service and—"

  "Where's Kite?" I asked her.

  "He's back…home. Working on the case."

  "Yeah, okay. Dinner. You want me to—?"

  "My room's really small. Could I come up there?"

  "Sure. Whenever you're ready."

  "I'll be right up," she said.

  I dug out the room service menu. Sounded pretty good, reading down the list. But they always do, I guess. It wasn't five minutes before I heard a tentative knock at the door. Heather. In a bone–colored business suit and matching pumps and stockings. The only traces of color were her black–cherry hair and a black lace bra she wore instead of a blouse under her jacket. And her orange eyes under long dark lashes.

  "You look very nice," I told her.

  "You too," she said politely, as though my white sweatshirt and chinos was an evening ensemble.<
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  She took a seat on the couch, knees touching decorously. I handed her the room service menu. She studied it carefully, tracing each item with a blunt white–lacquered fingernail. "You want a steak?" she finally asked.

  "Sure."

  "Salad?"

  "Whatever."

  "I'll take care of it," she said, getting to her feet. She walked over to the desk and sat down in the straight chair next to it. She picked up a ballpoint pen and one of those cheap little pads you find in hotels, crossed her legs like a steno getting ready to work. "How do you want your steak?" she asked, looking over at me, poised to write.

  I gave her the whole order, right down to a pineapple juice with plenty of ice. She called it in, speaking slowly and carefully like it was real important to her that they got it exactly right in the kitchen.

  "It'll be about forty minutes," she said when she hung up the phone. "Is that okay?"

  "Yeah, it's normal. Eight minutes to microwave it, half an hour to bring it here."

  "It's pretty late to be eating dinner, huh?"

  "It just feels later—we're an hour behind New York down here, remember?"

  "Oh. Yeah, I forgot. What do you…think of it? I mean, so far?"

  "No way to tell," I said. "Anyway, it's only a piece of the puzzle, right?"

  "Right. I mean…I guess so. But…this was your idea, wasn't it?"

  "You mean, not Kite's?"

  "Yes. He never even heard of this place," she said.

  "You sound surprised."

  "Well, I was a little. It's so…complete here. I mean, they have everything. I thought it would be…famous, like."

  "It might be, some day. But it's brand–new now. And I don't think they're much about publicity—I'm sure the last thing they need is more customers."

  "It's mostly kids, huh? I mean, when I was waiting. With Jennifer. It seemed like the place was full of kids."

  "Sure. That's why we're here with her, isn't it? Something that happened when she was a kid?"

  "I know. It's just that…you know what I was thinking? That maybe there should be a special place. Just for grown–ups who had it…happen when they were kids. Not a kids' place. You understand what I mean?"

  "They have places like that, Heather. Places full of grown–ups who got all fucked up when they were kids."

  "What…places?"

  "Prisons. Whorehouses. Psycho wards."

  Her face fell. "I don't mean that. There are plenty of…kids who didn't turn out like that. No matter what happened to them."

  "That's true. I'm not arguing with you. Being abused…it's no guarantee."

  "It's no excuse either," she said, looking at me with those orange eyes.

  A gentle knock at the door. Room service. Guy in a maroon uniform with black piping on the sleeves, OSCAR on an aluminum strip over his heart. He wheeled in a table of food, spent a few minutes showily setting it up: uncapping the dishes, laying out the silverware, working hard for the ten bucks I eventually put on top of the bill after I signed it.

  "Thank you, sir. Just call Room Service when you want the table cleared away."

  The food was okay. Nothing spectacular. But the steak was medium–well, the way I'd ordered it, the salad was crisp, with no brown on the lettuce, and they didn't stint on the ice. Heather tore into it with gusto, cleaning her plate and uncapping the goblet of vanilla ice cream like a gold miner unearthing a plump nugget.

  "I shouldn't eat so much," she said, smiling.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm fat," she said.

  "No you're not," I told her matter–of–factly.

  Her face flushed. She dropped her eyes, saying nothing.

  It was past eleven by the time Oscar had collected the food table. I sat back in the only easy chair the hotel put in the suite, lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.

  "You have a headache?" Heather asked softly. If the cigarette puzzled her, her voice didn't show it.

  "No big deal," I told her, wondering how she could have known. "They never last."

  "You want an aspirin or something?" she said, making a circuit of the room turning off the lights. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with moonlight, strong enough to see by.

  "No, I'm fine."

  She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her. I smoked slowly, letting the dark quiet comfort my headache. Just as I finished the cigarette, the bathroom door opened and Heather stepped into the moonlight. The only white left on her was her body. The black bra topped a matching garter belt, the hooks dangling loose against her round thighs. She was barefoot.

  "Still think I'm not fat?" she whispered across the room.

  The moonlight penetrated the bedroom too. Heather's pale body gleamed in the reflection. On her knees, hands clasped at the intersection of her thighs, she looked down at me lying on my back, hands behind my head, listening, eyes slitted so she was a soft blur.

  "I don't know a lot about…this part," she said, biting her lower lip. She reached behind her and unclasped the black bra. Her breasts spilled out in a lush tumble. She cupped them, pulling them toward her mouth, licked the top of each one. "I used to do this all the time," she said. "By myself. When I was alone. I wanted to know what it felt like."

  I didn't say anything, just made a sound to let her know I was paying attention, waiting for the rest of it, whatever it was.

  She dropped her breasts—they bounced hard against her rib cage. Her eyes narrowed and she unhooked the garter belt, tossing it aside. Then she put her hands on the inside of her thighs, pulling them apart. She was as hairless as a baby, not even a trace of a razor's shadow in the moonlight. A white–tipped fingernail disappeared inside her, orange eyes steady on mine. "I used to taste this too. So I'd know…"

  "Know what, Heather?"

  "Why he did it," she whispered. "It seemed so strange to me." She pulled her hand away, put the tip of her finger into her mouth.

  "Did you ever figure it out?" I asked her.

  "No. It even…hurt a little bit. It doesn't hurt now, though."

  "Did he want you to…shave everything too?" I asked gently. Getting close to it, but leaving her room to run if she wanted to.

  "It's not shaved," she said, spreading her thighs even further. "It's gone forever. Electrolysis. I had it everywhere."

  "Damn! That must have been painful. Why did—?"

  "I told you before," she said. "I don't mind pain. I know how to take it."

  "Do you—?"

  "I don't want you to talk about it. I want you to look, okay? Just look. How old do you think I am? To look at me, I mean."

  "Twenty–eight?"

  "I'm not, you know. I'm…older than that."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Yes it does. You know it does. To a man, I mean."

  "Different men are—"

  "Men are the same," she said in a harsh whisper. "All the same. Everyone I ever met. Except…one."

  "Look, girl, you don't have to—"

  "I don't have to do anything, do I? I know. That's true, now. I don't have to do anything. You don't have to either. But it looks like you want to. Do you?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you…do it like I want? I only…"

  "What?"

  "Could you…stand up? And not say anything?"

  I got to my feet, watching her face.

  "Come around. Behind me. Please."

  I walked around to the foot of the bed. Heather bent forward and pulled a pillowcase off the pillow. She carefully fitted it over her head, all the way down to her neck. Then she dropped her shoulders to the bed, her buttocks high and elevated. The way she'd been on the floor of Kite's apartment after I'd climbed off her and released my hold on her neck.

  I felt the baby oil girding my cock as I entered her. She was tight, but I couldn't feel even a trace of stubble—her sacrifice had gone deep. I felt the talcum powder on her wide hips, followed her deep–set spine with my eyes from the cleft of her rump until it disappea
red under the pillowcase, heard her stifled breathing, felt the spasms inside her as she let go.

  I was right behind her, locked in hard. She slowly slid forward on her belly, disengaging from me. Then she turned on her side and slowly pulled the pillowcase off her head. I lay down next to her. She burrowed her head in my right shoulder, whispered, "That was good, wasn't it?" a halo of anxiety around the soft words.

  "Perfect," I lied, patting her black–cherry hair.

  She drifted in and out of sleep after that. Every time she'd come around, she'd start talking. She never kissed or cuddled, but she'd always reach for my hand before she said anything.

  "You didn't say anything about the…pillowcase," she whispered.

  "I…"

  "I know what you think. I have low self–esteem, right? But that's a lie."

  "I don't—"

  "That's those stupid talk shows. I watch them all the time. Hundreds of them. Every night, when I get home. I tape them all. For him. For the research. The people in the audience, they're…cruel. Some poor woman is sitting on the stage. All alone, telling her story. And no matter what it is, no matter what horrible things happened to her, some nasty smug little person stands up, grabs the microphone and tells her: 'You have low self–esteem!' Like that's supposed to be so fucking brilliant. Like it's supposed to fix everything. Low self–esteem…those people, they don't know anything about it."

  I knew most of it by then. But I didn't push for the missing piece—I knew it would come.

  "How did you know, Heather?" I asked her later, still lying next to her.

  "Know what?"

  "How to do it."

  "I don't. Not really. I mean…"

  "Not…what we just did. I don't mean that. When you made the…false allegation. About that professor? You said you knew what to tell the cops. About what he supposedly did. If you hadn't actually…"