I stared at her in astonishment. “The bookmark? You know what page she’s on?”
She shook her head, obviously delighted with her prowess. Her eyes, however, remained serious. She didn’t want me to miss her point. “This room is almost my entire world. The first things I noticed were obvious—the bookmark came after I started paying close attention.”
She reached out and touched my cheek, her fingertips warm and smooth. “She needs you just like you need her. Helping you to get better has let her focus on someone besides herself—it’s given her breathing room—but it’s also helped her to hide from her own demons.”
My eyes strayed to the screen. A beautiful man in beautiful clothes mouthed something to a beautiful woman and then stalked out the door. The woman stared at the camera with tear-stained eyes, her trembling mouth parted, before everything went blank for a station break.
“One last piece of motherly advice,” the soothing voice said next to me.
I looked into those old, familiar gray eyes. “Don’t stop now.”
“Just be supportive. Don’t confront her on her sleeping habits—or anything else. Time will help you out.”
· · ·
I didn’t confront Gail on her nocturnal habits that night. I joined her instead, albeit without her knowledge. A half hour after we’d turned off the light—and about five minutes after she’d slipped out of bed for her nightly vigil in the living room—I propped myself up against the pillows in the darkness and began wrestling with my own doubts. Gail’s mental health was certainly part of them—and I now knew for myself that my mother’s concerns had been well founded. But there was something else, something that had first stirred inside me the day I’d talked with Tony Brandt in the hospital gym, and which the conversation I’d had with Gail tonight—before we’d both pretended to go to sleep—had put into sharp focus.
I had taken my mother’s advice. Upon getting into bed earlier, I’d asked Gail if caring for me wasn’t merely a way for her to avoid her own problems.
She frowned at the question but didn’t get angry. “Maybe, but that’s probably not all bad. Before you were hurt, the rape was all I thought about—it took over my life.”
“And now that I’m on the mend?”
She hesitated and then sighed heavily, as if forcing herself to be polite. “I’ve been in touch with Susan. Women for Women have started a vigil to help keep Dunn honest, and they’ve held Katz’s feet to the fire so the paper doesn’t drop the issue now that Vogel is in jail. Next week WBRT is holding a half-day call-in show I’m going to be on with other women, so the whole subject of rape can be discussed in the open—”
I reached out and took her hand. Her voice had dropped to a virtual monotone—a recitation of events in somebody else’s life. “I don’t care about that, Gail. I want to know how you’re doing.”
She pulled her hand away, the anger finally surfacing. “That’s the point, Joe. You should care. Focusing on me doesn’t address the issue. It just reduces the rape to the level of a mugging, or a car accident—something to be swept under the rug after all the right words have been said.”
I thought ruefully of my mother’s advice not to set up any confrontations. “You don’t need to convert me—I’m a believer. But I also think the messenger should be as well taken care of as the message.”
Gail didn’t comment for a while. “Maybe you’re right,” she finally murmured. “I’m not doing all that well. I can’t sleep at night, and sudden noises set me off like an alarm clock. I lock the door and jam a chair under the handle every time I take a shower. And I think I’m driving Susan and the others crazy with phone calls, trying to see if there’s anything I can do.”
She let out a shuddering sigh and stared at her hands. “I thought I could beat this, Joe. I know the routine; I’ve seen others go through it. But it’s just not working.”
“Are you seeing someone who can help?”
“I was, until you got hurt. I’ve called her a couple of times since I’ve been up here, when things got really bad, but I guess I thought I could cheat there, too.”
“How bad do things get?” I asked, feeling guilty for not knowing.
“They pile up, bit by bit. When I go out, I think every man in sight is looking at me, and when I’m here alone, I’m afraid someone will come crashing through the door. I’ve felt so sorry for myself at times, I’ve started resenting you—thinking you got stabbed on purpose to grab attention away from me.”
I shook my head, overwhelmed by what she’d been dealing with. “What did your therapist say?”
“She wanted me to come back to Brattleboro, or at least find somebody up here. She said I had to talk it out so I could deal with it up front—relive the rape in detail, admit my life has been permanently changed and then move on. I had to ‘commit to heal,’ in her words.”
She lightly punched her own leg, her face tight. “It pisses me off. I know my life’s been changed, but I can’t shake what that bastard did to me—. That’s another thing,” she added vehemently, as if I were arguing with her, “I have these fits of pure rage. I get so mad I start crying, and I can’t stop.” She caught her breath. “I just can’t believe I can’t beat this.”
“Would you like to use me to talk it out?” I asked softly, referring back to her therapist’s advice.
Her reaction was tentative. “It’s supposed to help—make it something that doesn’t eat me up from inside.”
“Let’s try it, then.”
“I don’t know, Joe… ”
“It helped to talk about it the day after, didn’t it?”
She thought about it for a few moments. “You’re not too tired?”
“Nope. And it would make me feel better, after all you’ve done for me.”
She finally agreed. Sitting back with her head against the pillows, my hand in hers, she went over in detail what Bob Vogel had done to her.
I listened carefully—asking a question now and then—slipping on my professional demeanor to keep my emotions in check. By the end, she seemed a bit more peaceful, her cheeks reddened by tears. She blew her nose, gave me a hug, and pretended to go to sleep, although she left again for the living room as soon as she thought I’d nodded off.
Sleep for me, however, was out of the question.
For now I understood what had been troubling me. It wasn’t my physical wound, or her emotional one. It stemmed instead from a phenomenon I should have recognized much sooner.
As she’d recounted her purgative tale, my mind had begun catching on stray details of the account, like fine fabric snagging on rough skin. Questions had started to form, discrepancies to loom, and I’d been forced to face the strong probability that something—I didn’t know what—had been missed earlier.
What I realized in my gut was that the case in Dunn’s hands was perhaps fatally flawed.
17
TONY BRANDT'S VOICE ON the phone was both hesitant and slightly defiant. “I hope you’ve gotten used to the idea of getting a medal.”
It was midway through the second week of my convalescence, and all four of us had been playing cards in the living room following dinner. The group behind me laughed suddenly at something Leo said, and I stretched the telephone cord until I was just inside the front hallway. “Why?” was all I asked.
“’Cause the ceremony’s tomorrow morning, up where you are. Dunn’s invited the press and a few flunkies—yours truly included—we’ll do it in your front yard if the weather’s good.”
“Whether I like it or not.”
“Whether you like it or not. ’Course, you could make us look like jerks and skip town for a while.”
I waited for more and then asked, “Is that a recommendation?”
He chuckled briefly. “I guess not. Wishful thinking. For a second, I could picture Dunn trying to explain where you were… ”
“Is he going to graciously give me a call in an hour and ask my permission, or is that what you’re doing now?”
/> The answering silence had no mirth in it. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, “James is tied up till late tonight—asked me to do the honors. Apologies and all that.”
“Right. What time?”
“Ten in the morning.”
I digested the news, slowly accepting that there was little I could do about it without involving the department in publicity it didn’t deserve. Brandt saying he was going to be there confirmed that, regardless of whatever furor might have preceded this decision, he’d lost, and now it was time for a proper stiff upper lip. “Tell him I’ll be here.”
Tony was more resigned than pleased. “Okay.”
“Do me a favor, though, will you? Could you bring a synopsis of Vogel’s case up with you tomorrow?”
There was a long pause. He knew I hadn’t merely run out of reading material. “You working on something?”
“I just want to refresh my mind on a few points.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “Nothing up your sleeve?”
He didn’t want to know—not really. I wasn’t sure I did myself.
“Nope. See you tomorrow.”
· · ·
Unfortunately, the next day was beautiful. The sky was a startling shade of electric blue, making a picture-perfect backdrop for the miles of gaudily dressed trees that swept down the valley from the farmhouse’s front door. Even the giant maple in the yard was at its best—a wild craze of red and orange impressionist daubings, looming high overhead in a dazzling canopy. I shook my head with disgust at the whole display and slammed the door on it, returning to the kitchen.
It was not the happy gathering one might have expected on such an occasion, despite Leo’s best efforts to make it cheerful. Reinforcing my gloom, Gail had barely said a word since I’d mentioned the ceremony the night before, and my mother kept looking nervously from one of us to the other, as if anxious to find out whose fuse was going to prove shorter.
I was troubled by Gail myself. There was no great love between her and Dunn, and the blatant opportunism of his little maneuver hadn’t been lost on any of us. But there was something beyond that, and I was fearful it stemmed from my having asked her to recount the rape. I wondered if reliving the trauma had been exactly the wrong thing for her to have done. But despite several gentle attempts to get her to talk, she kept to herself. Perhaps Dunn’s contrived ceremony was the last straw for her. She had, after all, come up not only to help me out, but also to get away from the turmoil and pressure that Brattleboro had come to represent.
So we ate breakfast largely in silence and ended up retreating to our separate corners of the house to await the circus’s arrival.
Our worst fears were well founded. The string of cars that eventually crested the driveway reminded me of the funeral cortege of some latter-day martyr. Not only were all the Brattleboro luminaries there in force, but the town’s familiar media corps had been reinforced by a dozen more from around the region, including two TV trucks.
As I stood in the doorway, pointing out the cast of characters to Leo as they milled around like a bunch of actors on break, he shook his head and asked, “Who the hell did they leave behind?”
Brandt was the first to come over to shake hands, complimenting Leo as he gave me an appraising eye. “Nice work—he almost looks better than before he was run through.”
“Jesus, Tony,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the throng.
He gave me a hopeless shrug. “It was out of my hands, Joe. I told Dunn we were tabling the Medal of Honor at your request, and he just said, ‘Then I’ll do it my way.’”
“What crap,” I muttered.
“You know, what all of us admit except you is that you deserve this citation. Besides, we don’t do this job for the money, Joe, and people like you give other cops something to be proud of.”
I was too frustrated to answer, feeling I was being celebrated simply for surviving.
“Well,” Tony filled the silence impatiently. “Let’s get it over with.”
From that point on, it was difficult identifying who was in control, as we were unsuccessfully posed in front of one photogenic location after another. I, my mother—included because she was deemed picturesque—Brandt, Dunn, and a sullen Gail, were shuffled from the front steps, to the base of the maple, to the bottom of the yard. Finally, at the outer limits of his patience, Dunn ended it abruptly by giving a short, clenched-teeth speech about what a wonderful fellow I was and thrust his precious plaque at me as if he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough—all before a semicircle of clicking cameras, tape recorders, and bulky TV camcorders.
When it was over, after Dunn had left and we’d returned to the house, fending off the crowd of reporters with a barrage of “no comments,” Tony Brandt handed over a cardboard box filled with documents.
“This isn’t everything, of course. I left out all the chain-of-evidence data, most of the legal mumbo-jumbo, and a lot of stuff I didn’t think you’d be interested in—including the physical evidence, which stays under lock and key. That basically leaves the narrative documents—who did what when—the relevant technical paperwork, and a lot of photographs. That what you were after?”
I nodded at the box. “I really appreciate it, Tony.”
We were still standing in the front hallway, Brandt having declined an invitation by my mother to stay for lunch. He looked at me long enough to force me to finally meet his eyes. “You going to tell me why you want all this?”
“I would if I could.”
“Something must have got you thinking.”
I shook my head. “It’s not like I’ve got a problem. Gail and I were just talking the other night, and I started asking myself questions—niggly little ones. The answers are all probably in there.” I pointed my chin at the box.
“And if they aren’t?”
I raised both palms toward the ceiling. “I’ll call you.”
Tony Brandt mulled that over for a while, absentmindedly chewing his lower lip. “You realize this thing could go to court anytime. Dunn’s only hoping it won’t before the election.”
“You think it might?” I asked, surprised. Dunn wasn’t the only one expecting a drawn-out process. Virtually none of us had ever seen a felony case go in front of a judge in anything under twelve months—and that was considered fast.
“No,” he admitted. “But you never know. Tom Kelly’s still playing coy—no depositions, no continuances, no delaying tactics whatsoever. I just want to be sure that, regardless of when they go in, we’ve made damned sure Dunn’s got everything he needs. If you’ve got doubts, I want to hear them now. If Dunn ends up screwing up on his own, that’s his problem, but I don’t want him dropping the ball because of something we did or didn’t do.”
“I understand,” I said neutrally, sensitive to the hackles I’d raised in his mind. “But I’ve got to do my job regardless of the timing.”
He seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and then let out a long sigh. “Just do it soon, okay?”
He moved toward the front door. I followed him out. “Things a little wild back home?” I asked, stimulated by his pessimistic tone.
“You been watching the news? Between the vigils, the public meetings, the media, and Dunn and Derby chewing on each other every day, this case is about the only topic in town. That crazy bastard Jason Ryan has anointed himself the Joan of Arc of the feminist movement, if you can believe that, and he’s started passing out pepper Mace to damn near every woman he meets. So now the usual domestic disputes and parking-lot squabbles are starting to involve chemical warfare, with a few of our guys getting zapped in the process. The town’s a zoo, and if you want my opinion, all it would take is for some loony to do something really crazy, to put us on the map big time.”
Over the many years I’d worked with him, I’d rarely seen Tony Brandt so worked up. I patted his shoulder as we reached his car. “Look, I’ve probably just had too much time on my hands, and nothing else to think about. I’ll read through what you brought me, r
e-familiarize myself with the case, and then drop it, okay? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
He turned and looked at me then and echoed what was going on in my own brain. “I know you too well, Joe, and that scares the shit out of me.”
· · ·
I moved the box upstairs and spread its contents in orderly piles around my old bedroom, feeling an odd twinge of pleasure as I did so. I realized how much I’d been missing the job. Beyond any questions I might have harbored concerning this particular investigation, I found myself happy merely manipulating the tools of my craft. The eye-witness accounts, case reports, forensic sheets, and crime-scene photos passed before my eyes with a comforting familiarity and were as welcome and rewarding as the exercises I’d been doing to retrain my muscles. I even kidded myself that perhaps my reason for asking for these documents had been subconsciously therapeutic, with no bearing on the actual integrity of the case.
I was lost in this reacquaintance ritual when a knock at the door made me look up. Gail was standing quietly on the threshold, her expression guarded. “What are you doing, Joe?”
I felt suddenly and inexplicably guilty, as if caught in an act of lapsed faith. “Oh. Tony brought up a synopsis of your case—basically what he’s handing over to Dunn. I thought I’d look it over again—it’s been a long time.”
She watched me in silence, her face impassive, her eyes taking in the carefully stacked piles. “Leo’s looking for you.”
I checked my watch in surprise. I’d lost track of time and had completely forgotten our afternoon training. Gail was already walking back down the dark hallway toward the stairs. I quickly got to my feet and went after her. “Gail…”
She turned in the gloomy light and faced me silently, her arms by her sides, her body tired and defeated. I reached out and held her shoulders, to no response. “Something’s wrong. Was it our talk last night? Or Dunn and his stupid plaque?”
Fruits of the Poisonous Tree Page 23
