"He loved me," she whispered. "A true love. When I was little, he loved me. If I hadn't…matured, he still would have, I know. Not my…boobs. That was all right. Little girls sometimes have them early. I did. When I was only ten, I already…But the…other stuff: hair and all…As soon as I did, he stopped. Just stopped. That's when he left."
"Your father?"
She found my hand in the moonlight, squeezed it into numbness while she cried for a long time.
The clock read almost three in the morning, before she got to the part I didn't know. "I would never have sex with him," she said. "He doesn't do that. He's not like other men. He's like a…god. It was hard, at first. I thought it was just me he didn't want. I did everything I could to…but he never paid any attention."
"Maybe he's gay," I said, voice neutral.
"He's not," she snapped. "He's just…higher, that's all. Higher than other men. I'm with him all the time. For years. I even told him, if there was something…special he wanted, I would do it. Whatever it was. But that's not the way he is. He doesn't have those feelings. He's pure."
"But he likes it when you…dress up, right?"
"No! I mean, it doesn't matter. He sees the way men look at me. Women too, some of them. He knows I like that. He knows I'm…weak, I guess. People are weak—he always says that. It's the truth, what he says. But that doesn't make it bad."
"No."
"No, it doesn't. You thought him and me, we—"
"Sure. Why not?"
"It would be like having sex with a priest or something," she said. "I didn't use to see that, but I do now. I would never…"
I looked into her orange eyes and I got it then.
"When do you do the brain stuff?" I asked Perry two mornings later. It was almost eleven, the time he said he'd have free for me.
"Well…actually, all of this has been 'brain stuff.' We reviewed every available record, her self–report forms for past recollections and current symptoms, the cognitive and projective test results…and Jennifer has had a series of nonstressed, unstructured clinical contacts during which we monitored her heart rate. We videotaped all those interviews and time–sequenced the tapes with the continuous heart rate data. So, up to now, it's all been relatively unintrusive. She has been exposed to a variety of our team members. I don't do any of the initial work—I just kind of float around the perimeter so they grow accustomed to my presence. When I sit down to do the actual forensic interview, I want to be richly informed, but I don't want to be the gatherer of the information."
"Because…?" I promoted him.
"The nonstructured interview is a critical component," he explained. "But before we use that technique, we need to know some evocative cues: what will set them off. When it comes to memories, some of the most reliable and powerful cues are olfactory—smells. These tend to be very deeply ingrained…so that if a particular smell is associated with a buried trauma, one whiff and the patient can be right back there. A classic example is the smell of bleach; for many children, it is reminiscent of the smell of semen. Or ask a Vietnam vet about the smell of flesh and napalm—it doesn't go away. We see this with kids in here all the time, even when they're way too young to speak."
I still remember smells. From that foul war in Biafra. Dead flesh, ripe–to–bursting from the relentless jungle sun. And the terror stench from those packed–earth tunnels they called bomb shelters. That was just a stink—I've smelled it since, and I stay in control.
But I remember the smell of chains too. The chains they put on me in that basement of the foster home. To hold me against that post while they…
Maybe that's why the first time the cops tried to put handcuffs on me I fought them so hard they had to knock me unconscious. I came to, blood fogging my eyes, trapped, hate and fear struggling for supremacy in my soul, wishing for a gun with all my tiny heart. I was nine then. I shoved the memory away, reached down and grabbed my center, calmed my voice. Asked him: "So you just…watch them to see if they react?"
If he noticed anything, it didn't show on his face. "No," he said. "As a matter of fact, external observation is bound to give you inaccurate results. One of our most remarkable findings is that the heart monitor is often inconsistent with affect. A child can be telling us about his home, nothing intense, just describing a regular day. His heart rate is predictable, varying according to his narrative. But then we introduce an innocuous word, like 'bedtime,' and although the narrative doesn't change, the needles bounce to the sky."
"Like a polygraph?"
"No," he said, a hint of sharpness in his voice. "There's no real connection. The child isn't being tested for truth. It's an internal probe—it has to be tightly focused to really work. At different points during the interviews—while we're monitoring heart rate and videotaping—we collect samples of stress–response hormones: melatonin and cortisol. We ask the kids to chew some Trident, and at different points they spit into a little tube. Then we measure these hormones—"
"Which is where the brain…?" I asked, starting to struggle a little bit.
"Again, all these things give us different parts of the whole picture of how the individual's brain is organized. How it functions; how it is regulated. And after all of this, we look more directly at brain processing by putting EEG leads on the child's head and have her read a series of vignettes from her life, which we put together when we gathered her history. One would be an account of a neutral event; another, say, a sad event. And then an event which should elicit a 'trauma' response," he said, making the quote–marks sign. "We can examine how different parts of the brain are activated and which parts shut down…"
"So you don't actually ask them questions?"
"Not at this point. Not about the actual…allegations. Later, during the final forensic interview, which I conduct, I will. We want to match those responses against not only her individual patterns of brain reactivity, but against those of other individuals who experienced similar events at similar times in their development."
"Okay," I said, thinking it through. "But what if someone did a lot of reading? You know, on child sexual abuse. They'd already know what people who'd been abused were supposed to feel, right?"
Perry's face tightened, but his voice went on smoothly, as though he hadn't caught what I was really asking him. "One of the most useful procedures we will use this next couple of days is during the sleep study. In some people, we can see changes in their brain activity when they're exposed to sounds or smells associated with the original trauma. 'Lying' under those conditions, clearly, is not possible."
"But how do you know—"
"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Burke. Look, the brain develops over time. It doesn't just come as this minibrain that grows into a big brain, like a pumpkin from a seed—it grows sequentially and almost all in the first three years of life. First the brain stem, then the midbrain, then the limbic system, and finally the cortex—that part that allows us to 'think.' When we look at the data from all these comprehensive evaluations, we can literally place in what part of the brain the dysfunction resides. This allows us to fix the time, to some degree, when the disrupting event—the trauma—took place.
"See, when adults are traumatized, they will have event–specific changes in brain functioning. But when a child is traumatized—while the brain is still in development, still organizing—the trauma acts like a fault line, impacting everything that grows around and over it. The neurobiology of the traumatized adult will be different from that of the traumatized child. The alterations will be more pervasive. And those vulnerabilities may not show up until later in life."
"Like a scar? A scar you can't see unless you know…?"
"More like a substance that fluoresces under a special light, or turns color when exposed to a specific reagent. Like the field test for cocaine…?"
"Yeah, I get it," I told him, meaning it.
A young woman with the face of an Indian princess and braided black hair to match rapped against the jamb of t
he open door to Perry's office. She was wearing blue surgical scrubs, face set in severe lines. When he looked up, the nurse said: "She got a court order. She's coming to visit him. This afternoon. At three o'clock. What should we…?"
"Set up the Munchausen camera," he answered her. "You know, the fiber–optic one? Tell Ronnie to monitor. If she makes a move on the kid, you stop her, right then and there, understand?"
"Yes!" The woman flashed a smile, like someone just gave her a present.
Perry turned back to me like he'd never left the track. "The key to understanding the brain is to understand its role in mediating every signal that the organism receives. The brain processes information, and some early–childhood damage changes the way the brain works. If you wave at a little baby," he said, waggling his hand to show me what he meant, "the baby coos and giggles, right? But for some babies, when they see an adult's hand raised, you get a startle reaction instead. That's not because the baby has learned a raised hand means a blow; it's because, to that baby, the brain translates that raised hand so it becomes a blow, you see? It's not learning; it's processing."
"And once that's locked in…"
"Yeah, that's right," he said sadly. "It takes an enormous amount of work, highly skilled work, over a long time, to even have a chance of modifying it. Trauma generalizes—that's its nature. So instead of the child being afraid of the man who hurt her, she becomes afraid of all men, understand? The brain takes the baby to a safe place in response to chronic pain and terror. After a while, the baby does whatever it takes to get to that place. Sometimes that means dissociation. Sometimes it means hair pulling."
"Or homicide?"
"Yes. The mystery of life isn't why a tortured child becomes a serial killer—it's why so many children don't. If we could only understand how the brain learns new accommodations…But we do know this: it's some form of interference later on."
"Interference?"
"Some other input. A friend, a counselor—hell, a puppy…the brain develops over time, and even if it's set in motion one way, it doesn't have to continue on that path. Child abuse connects to crime, no question. Abused children are more likely to be arrested than nonabused children. But the overwhelming majority of abused children never get in trouble with the law," Perry said, fury suppressed in his voice. "There's nothing 'inevitable' about it. Anyone who says that abused children are doomed to carry on that same behavior is a hopeless idiot."
"But until they learn new ways, you can see how they react to stuff, right? So the younger the kid, the easier to prove abuse?" I asked him, trying to move him away from the social philosophy to the reason I was there.
"To prove trauma, certainly," he said. "Then comes the investigative component. We have to rule out all other possible causes of the trauma as well. But when we have a history…or physical damage…or a sexually transmitted disease…"
"Or pictures?"
"Photographs?"
"Kiddie porn."
"Yes. But that's relatively rare. We have to rely on other evidence. And that means accumulating a large enough sample from the heart rate monitoring and evoked potential—sorry: the brain wave—studies. Then we apply multivariate computer analysis to crunch all the data—the tests, the interview, the history, everything. There's the ultimate forensic value of our work. We eliminate the impossible, then the improbable, and finally…"
"You nail it."
"Sure. Once you've proved the existence of the trauma, the question becomes, What else could cause this totality of data? When we cross–compare to other, documented cases, the task simplifies radically."
"So when they say kids make lousy witnesses, that they have different memories…?"
"Kids may not be articulate, Mr. Burke. But they are great communicators. Their internals speak volumes—it's just a matter of gathering the data, developing the protocols, training the personnel….It can be done. And we're doing it, right here."
"How much does all this cost?" I asked him.
"In real money?" he shot back.
"What does that mean?"
"The work we're doing on your…client, that's the gold standard. Best of everything. When you include the full week's stay, all the personnel involved, the tests themselves…it's costing your Mr. Kite around fifteen thousand dollars."
"Damn! So there's no chance of all kids—"
"All kids don't need this extensive a workup," he said. "And our children's program is about ninety per cent subsidized. As we treat children, we also gather data for our research. Most of the kids don't have insurance anyway. In fact, you're our first true paying customer. Once this is standardized, once the computer programs are set up, the costs will drop precipitously."
"You can't set up field hospitals in every city," I said. Thinking of politicians closing AIDS wards to save money.
"No, and we don't have to. Once local personnel are trained to do the initial screening, our methods will be called upon only in the most difficult cases."
"So what you really need is…?"
"That's right, Mr. Burke. Money. We need about fifteen to twenty million dollars to finish the research, publish it, defend it…and make it exportable. But we're already doing the work…and the money will come," he said, hope and faith tangling in his voice.
"Girl call," Mama said.
It was around ten o'clock at night, and I'd invested over an hour walking around trying to find a pay phone that looked safe. I wasn't in the mood for mystery. "What girl?" I asked her.
"Say Pepper. You call her, okay? Very important."
"Yeah, okay. Anything else?"
"No."
"I'll call you—"
"You want Max?" Mama interrupted.
"Not down here," I told her. "I'll be back soon."
"Is Pepper around?"
"That's me, Chief," the Pied Piper girl's voice bounced over the long–distance line.
"I got a message to—"
"Delta flight six eighty–two to Atlanta tomorrow morning at six–twenty a.m. Can you be on it?"
"Maybe. Why should—?"
"When you arrive, stay in the Delta terminal. Meet flight six oh three from La Guardia, okay? You can catch a return at three in the afternoon."
"There's isn't much time to—"
"You already have reservations, round trip, Mr. Haines," Pepper said, mocking the voice of a super–efficient secretary. "You had enough frequent flyer mileage on Delta for an upgrade too, so you'll be going first class. Will there be anything else?"
"No. Thanks a lot," I told her. Especially for the message that the Arnold Haines ID was all shot to hell.
I came out of the deplaning chute carrying the black aluminum attaché case in one hand. In a medium–blue two–button suit, clean–shaven with my hair combed, I was an anonymous fish in the entrepreneur stream that clogs the hub airports every weekday.
My flight had been almost a half hour late. I was thinking of where to meet Wolfe when I spotted her standing behind the barrier. Hard to miss in that sunburst–yellow silk dress with the long strand of black pearls the only decoration down the front. Her hair was in a French braid, the white wings prominent against her high forehead. She raised her hand and waved, a smile sparking across her lovely face.
For just a piece of a minute, I felt like a man coming home to his wife. Or what I thought that would feel like, anyway. I shrugged it off, not grieving for what I'd never lost.
Wolfe gave me a kiss on the cheek, took my arm and steered me away from the gate. If you were watching, you'd never guess it was business. She was a pro, all the way.
"It's probably better if we find somewhere to sit," she said. "You have breakfast?"
"Not really. Airplane food…"
"Me too," she said. "I know a good place. Come on."
We ordered Atlanta breakfast sandwiches—sausage wrapped in French toast. Wolfe poured maple syrup over her sausage like it was mustard on a hot dog, but I didn't have the heart for that. She had black coffee; I had apple ju
ice.
"I heard something," she finally said. "I don't know if it's true. But I didn't want to wait to tell you. And I didn't want to use the phone."
"About the—"
"Yes. Brother Jacob is on the Internet. At least, Chiara thinks it's him—she's the one who works the computers for us. There's a room on the Web. The server's somewhere in Europe, near as we can tell. When you go in, it looks like it's all about bringing Asian women to America. For marriage. You know, stuff about immigration laws."
"So?"
"There's a whole line of chat about 'dowries.' It sounds like they're trafficking."
"He wants to buy a girl to bring here and marry?"
"No. Chiara says there's a subtext. Not straight–up encryption, but some kind of code. She's still working on it, but where she is now, she thinks he has some kind of merchandise he's offering."
"Not a one–time sale?"
"No. A regular line of it. Whatever it is."
"Can you…?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "It's a delicate probe, going in like this. If I was still on the job…"
"I may know someone," I told her. "A cop."
"Do I know him?"
"Morales."
"Oh yes, I know him," she smiled. "The only difference between him and a dinosaur is he's not stupid."
"He likes you too," I said.
We killed an hour or so just walking around the airport, Wolfe's hand on my arm. I told her I had to make a phone call. Went and bought her a white rose at the florist shop. She gave me a kiss and boarded her flight, not looking back.
I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. I got a shoeshine, prowled through a bookstore, just walked around. Then I worked the pay phones.
Every line I'd thrown out was reeling in the same kind of fish. Every tile dropped onto the mosaic was different, but I already knew what picture was going to appear when it was done. So when I met with Perry for the last time the next morning, I wanted it without the frills.
False Allegations Page 21
