“Let’s see. My cousin Tony owned a pizza shop. Both grandmothers dressed only in black. And that was long before it was considered voguish. We ate pasta every Sunday. I had four brothers and three sisters. And if that wasn’t atypical enough, my father…”
Fahey was watching a woman desperately try to distance herself from her inner demons. It was not uncommon for a patient to use levity, in this case tinged with sarcasm, to avoid dancing with the devil.
“You were about to tell me about your father. What was he like?”
She had a delicate way of probing. “I like you, Elizabeth. I was told you were kindhearted. I’m finding that to be true.”
Margaret had sidestepped the question. Fahey found self-preservation to be a curious mechanism. For many it was in-born. For others it was clutched after.
“That Lieutenant Driscoll! You’ve got to love the man. How do you and he get along?” the therapist asked.
There’s no stopping this one. Margaret felt like she was being led through a minefield, but was comforted in knowing she wasn’t making the trek alone. She also knew the course was skillfully plotted and designed to help, but an inner voice yelled caution.
“The Lieutenant is a gem. We get along famously,” she said.
“A minute ago you called him John. He’s your boss, right?”
Zapped again! Margaret searched Fahey’s eyes for escape. Outmaneuvered, she succumbed to the inevitable. “He’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m guessing this is way out of bounds, but has he discussed me with you?”
“Out of bounds? Hmm…what say we keep it in bounds by you discussing him with me. With emphasis on the part about him being part of the reason you’re here.”
Yup. She earned her title. Psychotherapist extraordinaire fit. “You know what’s funny. I’ve got this sudden urge for a cigarette and I haven’t smoked a day in my life.”
“Some crave nicotine. Others, scotch. But it’s a good sign. It means you’re seriously considering the exploration of your inner self. The mind goes to great lengths to protect the journeyer. It’s suggesting a sedative.”
“Not a bad idea. You wouldn’t happen to have a jumbo-sized Prozac on hand, would you?”
“I wish it were that easy.”
Margaret felt dizzy. Trepidation was on the rise.
“At your pace, Margaret.”
“I was hoping our hour was up.”
“My Timex has a slow second hand.”
Margaret exhaled sharply and stared at the therapist. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
“Okay. Here goes,” she said, slapping the tops of her legs. “Since I’ve confided to you that my boss is one of the reasons I’m here, I’ll begin with him. John and I have this thing going on. I’m not sure what else to call it. When we worked our last case, we realized we had feelings for each other and eventually let it be known. He was married. To Colette, who I’m betting you know was in an irreversible coma and was being cared for at home. He loved his wife. Adored her. And this man’s moral fiber is forged in steel. The investigation called for us to work side by side for hours on end. One night, after a grueling day, we ended up at my apartment. It was supposed to be for a bite to eat. But I think we both knew we were flirting with trouble. After actually sharing a meal, one thing led to another and before we knew it, we were in each other’s arms sharing a kiss. And then another. We knew what came next. At two in the morning, just as we were about to give in to passion, his cell phone rang. For a homicide honcho a call in the middle of the night is not unusual. But the call was from his wife’s nurse. Colette had stopped breathing. Care to take a stab at what happened next?”
“He headed for the door?”
“Like the place was on fire.” Margaret sighed and grew silent.
“Still jones’n for that cigarette?” Fahey asked.
“The scotch too!” She gave Fahey a crooked smile. “As it turned out, his wife had resumed breathing by the time he’d gotten home, still comatose, but breathing. But that put the kibosh on things. The next day, he told me he was filled with guilt and asked if we could slow things down. I got the sense he was hoping for a complete stop. The days that followed… Who am I kidding? The weeks that followed were awkward. We weren’t making any headway on the case, so that only added to the frustration. But the investigation gave us something to focus on, aside from our feelings.”
“What feelings did you experience throughout this ‘thing,’ as you call it? He was married, no?”
“If you’re wondering about my guilt, yes, I endured the shame of being the other woman, but what was really nagging me was something else. Something far more dreadful.”
Margaret prided herself on being able to detect and decipher body movements, an attribute in her profession. Fahey had leaned forward in her chair. An inch. No more. Was she spreading a net for the freefall Margaret was about to take? She certainly hoped so.
“My father repeatedly raped me when I was a child.”
Margaret expected the walls to reverberate. Instead, silence settled. But only for a moment.
“I’m very sorry,” Fahey said. “Would it be all right if we talked about it?”
“I believed it was my fault, Elizabeth. Isn’t that the damnedest thing? For years. My fault.” Tears welled. “He was my father! A man who could do no wrong. He was even a cop, for Chrissake!” Margaret stared down at the floor as memories swirled. “He’d come into my room. Three or four times a week. Some nights he would straddle me; cover my mouth with his hand.” Margaret looked up. Her cheeks were red, stained with tears. Her chin was trembling. She cast doelike eyes at Fahey. “Sometimes he would lay back and have me get him off. Said my hands were sent by God. Lambskin wonders, he called them. Other nights he was more adventurous. Adventurous. I was eleven years old and my father is teaching me how to su-” Margaret choked; her face falling into cupped hands. She sobbed uncontrollably, while gasping for air.
Fahey had witnessed many a meltdown. She was always moved with pity. But her feelings of empathy were stronger this time. Undoubtedly because of the relationship she had with a central character in this woman’s life: John Driscoll, a man whose life was likewise riddled by trauma, albeit of a different sort. She was proud to have helped Driscoll cope with his feelings of abandonment brought on by his mother’s suicide, the untimely death of his daughter, and the prolonged demise of his wife. She had also been privy to the Lieutenant’s struggle with his feelings for this woman and knew it was no stroke of happenstance that Driscoll had referred her. Strokes of happenstance were not accidental. They were, like everything other impulse, driven by the unconscious. Life may rock. But the id rules.
“Some cop I turned out to be, huh?” said Margaret, a handle on composure.
“A damn good one, I’d bet. Your abuse was the likely force behind your decision to become part of law enforcement. Someone to right the wrong was who you needed back then. And now, here you are. Like the song title suggests, everyone needs someone to watch over them. But more often than not, it takes time for that someone to materialize.”
“I believe you’re that someone to John.”
Fahey was touched by the remark. “In his mind, that may be the case. But if he were to look closely, he’d realize he is his own protector. My role as a therapist is to help people discover their omnipresent power and provide them with tools to tap into it to effect and maintain good health.”
“It must be a rewarding job.”
“At times. Therapy is a process. Each individual goes through it at his or her own pace. So…”
“So sometimes you wait forever.”
“Precise and succinct.”
Margaret’s expression soured. “I’ve got a feeling my pace is going to be like that of a snail.”
“That remains to be seen. But you’re off to a good start. We’ve established your relationship with your father for what it was. We may need to dredge up some stuff about that relat
ionship you’ll wish we didn’t, but that’s part of the healing process, I’m afraid. For now, though, I’d like to touch on your relationship with men in general.”
Boy, she’s good at keeping the nerve exposed.
“Judging from the look on your face, it would help if we talked about it.”
Perceptive too. “Just how slow is that second hand on your watch?”
“Well, we’re not going to resolve all of your issues in one session, but I’d like to spend some time putting them out.”
“It’ll be more like pulling them out.”
“That speaks volumes,” said Fahey with a smile.
“Thank you, Daddy!” Margaret growled, waving a fist in the air. “Does it always lead back to horrendous parenting?”
“In some cases back to the womb! It’s only recently that expectant mothers have been made aware of the risks involved in picking up a drink or smoking a cigarette. And let’s not overlook the mothers-to-be with emotional baggage of their own who seek relief from a variety of substances. Mother’s little helper may becomes baby’s little toxin.”
Jesus! Margaret thought, deciding quickly to save the exploration of the back-to-the-womb part for another time. “You asked me about my relationship with men. Hello-o! Venus to Mars, come in please. I’ll sum up my relationship in three words. Men petrify me!”
“That apply to John Driscoll as well?” Her boss, the perfect father figure.
“Especially to him! On the job, there’re mostly men. Despite the efforts of Betty Friedan and Anna Quindlen, the wall of blue is still predominantly male. Focusing strictly on matters of law enforcement, I get along well with those I’m assigned to work with. Pair me up with one? It’d better be inside a police cruiser. Otherwise, Panic City. When it comes to relating to a guy outside of Platonicville, I’m an emotional idiot. I feel as adept as an eighth grader. I’d rather be thrown from a plane!”
“I’ve known some eighth graders…”
“Well, they didn’t go to my school!”
Fahey was pleased. She had elicited some anger from Margaret. That was a good sign. Margaret would be visiting that emotion, often, in the months to come.
“I said men were part of the reason I’m here. I get a sense that we’ll be talking about them for quite a while. But the other reason I’m here is more urgent.”
“How so?”
“The case we’re working on involves a pair of twin adolescent killers.”
“Ah, the twins with the million-dollar bounty on their heads.”
“They’re the ones. I’m having a problem putting aside strong feelings of sympathy for the pair. We believe they’re killing their adult victims to avenge years of sexual abuse. There’s more to their motive, but the likelihood of them being sexually abused has stirred up not what I’d call a treasure trove. I’m rocketed right back to my bedroom as a child. Where I was abused! Where I was raped by my father! Their father apparently forced them into prostitution. I know I took an oath that calls for me to stop them. Arrest them. Shoot them, if it comes to that. The struggle I’m having is because I want to save them. I try to be objective. To focus on their crimes and not their dreadful life. But, if they walked in here right now and confessed, I’m more likely to take them home, secretly harbor them, and get them help, instead of slapping on the cuffs. I know my issue with men stems from my being abused. I’ve lived with that for a long time and I know it may take equally as long to resolve. But this is immediate. These twins are out there killing people and it’s my job to arrest them as soon as possible. You sure you don’t have a super-sized pill for a quick fix so I can to do that? The way things are going inside my head, I’m liable to put my job-hell, my life-in jeopardy by aiding and abetting this pair. The entire city sees them as demons. I see them as victims. I live with that every waking hour. John offered to discreetly arrange for a transfer. I got to tell you. I’m getting closer and closer to accepting one.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I’d feel like I’d be running away from responsibility.”
“What would your best friend suggest?”
“My best friend? I’m not sure I have a best friend.”
“Then you’ll need to become your own.”
“Okay. And what would I tell myself?”
“Think about it. Suppose for a minute that your brother or your sister, or anyone who might fit the bill as a best friend, was driving a car, quickly approaching a T-intersection where they had to decide to turn one way or the other to avoid colliding into a house and injuring themselves. They can’t stop. They must go one way or the other. Which way would you tell them to turn for their absolute safety?”
“I don’t know if I could.”
“Why not? Remember, they can’t stop. If they don’t turn, they’re very likely to injure themselves. Perhaps fatally.”
“I wouldn’t be able to guarantee their safety because I don’t know what’s around each corner.”
“Sort of like life.”
“Right.”
“And, although you’re not sure what’s around each corner, you would suggest that they turn, correct? Remember, there’s that big house. And it’s getting closer and closer.”
“I’m not sure I’m getting this. Or how it relates.”
“You’re not necessarily supposed to. Therapy is a process. That’s why we don’t recommend the big pill. You see, you would tell them to turn. Turning right could present new challenges. Likewise, turning left is likely to present new, but different, challenges.”
Margaret looked and felt befuddled.
“I’m afraid we need to stop now.”
“Now?”
“It’d be a good time. Trust me.” Fahey cast her a huge smile. “I would like to set up future appointments. Would you be open to that?”
“I think I’d better.”
“Good. Check your upcoming tour schedule and call me. I’m here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until six. I’d like to meet once a week. Would that work for you?”
Margaret nodded and stood.
“We’re going to work at both issues together, Margaret. In the meantime, since you said you’re not sure if you have a best friend, I’d like to apply for the job.”
“That’d be nice.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
Margaret headed for the door.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. Between now and the next time we meet, think about the advice you’d give the driver. Don’t focus too much on which way you’d tell them to turn, but concentrate on why you’d instruct them to make the turn.”
“I will.” I think.
“Great! With today’s session we’re off to a good start.”
Following an exchange of smiles, Margaret disappeared out the door.
Chapter 58
Driscoll was at his desk speaking on the phone with Susan Lenihan from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“There’re some details of the case I want to run by you. As a behavior analyst, you’re in a position to help.”
“Be happy to.”
“When I spoke to a young lady who claimed to be at one time our teen suspect’s girlfriend, she told me a couple of things, one of which I didn’t think fit.”
“What was that?”
“She claimed he was sleeping with his sister. I’m no analyst, but I can’t see a guy forced to prostitute himself for six years wanting to have sex.”
“That would seem logical, but I’m afraid trauma victims don’t always follow the dictates of what might be considered predictable behavior.”
Driscoll was startled. “You mean he might be having sex with her?”
“It’s possible.”
“Please, make me a believer.”
“Without having him on a couch, this is pure conjecture. Children forced to prostitute themselves sometimes feel excessively guilty. They forget who the victim is. If they lean on themselves heavily enough, it could lead to raucous p
romiscuity and extreme hypersexuality, which may include incest.”
“So, she may have it right. Interesting. She also said he had exhibited intense mood swings. One minute he’d be flying high as a kite, the next minute he’s talking suicide.”
“Mood swings that concurrent could point to a number of things. Bipolar affective and interictal dysphoric disorders immediately come to mind. With his forced lifestyle, he’d be at a higher risk for either than, say, your average high school student furtively exploring sex under the bleachers. Not only are you chasing after a pair of homicidal maniacs. They could also be two very sick puppies, both physically and emotionally.”
“Thank you, Susan. This crash course in Behavior 101 was enlightening.”
“We only covered two paragraphs of the first chapter. But you’re welcome, just the same. If you want to fast-forward to chapter six, all you need to do is call.”
Driscoll thanked her again and hung up. He thought he detected flirtation in her last remark. Not in what she said, but in how she said it. Or was he imagining things? He was newly single, out of the game for years.
Aligante entered his office and sat.
“Uh-oh. That look on your face says you’d like to sit down with the twins and smoke their pipe,” Driscoll said. “I’m praying the gold shield in your pocket says otherwise.”
“These kids have been traumatized, John. Far worse than me. They probably killed their father believing it was the only way out of their nightmare. Hell! I thought of killing my father. Often.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, but a voice inside me cheered at his funeral and suggested I set off fireworks.”
“You call Elizabeth yet?”
“She sends her best.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Tap Cedric on the shoulder and ask him to join us. I’ll let him tell you firsthand about the nugget of gold he and his contacts in LA found in a closet.”
“One Detective Thomlinson coming up.”
When Margaret reappeared, Thomlinson was at her side. After they took their seats, Driscoll spoke. “From the top, Cedric.”
“My pleasure!” Thomlinson leaned back in his chair. Having an eager audience encouraged the man. He smiled at Driscoll, gestured to Margaret as though he were tipping his hat, and began. “The tracking of sex offenders in California falls to the responsibility of the state’s Department of Justice.”
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