by Carla Norton
Vanderholt sits up on the bed, rolls his shoulders and stretches. “Where’s the other guy?” he asks. “I mean, I already talked to one lawyer, right?”
“Bradley? He was just getting the basic info, filling in while I was on vacation. I’ll be your public defender from here on.” Pierson seats himself on a plastic chair and sets his large briefcase on the floor beside him. He clicks it open, saying, “So, how are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“I’ll take that as a good sign. Eat and get strong. We don’t want you trying to off yourself again, okay?”
Vanderholt starts to say something, but just makes a face.
Pierson extracts a folder from his briefcase and spreads it open on his lap. Without looking up, he says, “So, Mr. Vanderholt, you’ve been in prison before.”
“Yeah, but that was just car theft, was all.”
“Lighter charge, sure.” The lawyer flips through a few more papers and grunts. “Listen, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. The prosecution has your confession, plus a helluva crime scene, and a highly sympathetic young girl as a witness. Even your own photographs, man.”
“But I took good care of her. You gotta understand that. You gotta give me some credit for that.”
Pierson says nothing.
“So? What can you do to save me?” Vanderholt’s tone is halfway between a complaint and a whine.
Pierson gives him a weary look. “Diminished capacity?”
“Hey, I’m not crazy.”
Pierson shakes his head. “You tried to kill yourself, Randy. I’ll have an expert come and talk with you, okay? That’s standard.”
“You don’t really believe I’m crazy, do you?”
“I’m just saying that it’s worth considering, seeing how it might pan out. It could be an option, okay?”
Vanderholt scowls at him.
“I’ve got to do my best to represent you.” Pierson shifts in his chair. “But listen, you’ve got to work with me. They’re going to scrape every last bit of evidence off the walls of both of those basements, you know.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, this is hot and they’re going full-bore. They’re planning your arraignment for early next week.”
Vanderholt winces. “But we’ll plead not guilty, right?”
“Sure. We’ll make them sweat as long as possible. We’ll look for mistakes. We’ll work the angles. But I want you to think seriously about cutting a deal.”
Vanderholt closes his eyes and mumbles.
“I think there could be an offer. That could be your best chance.”
“But they’ll crucify me.”
“You don’t really want to risk a jury trial, do you? Put Tilly Cavanaugh on the stand?”
“But she won’t, ah, I mean—”
“And she’s just your first problem. We’re talking DNA, here. They’re working damn hard to link you with those other girls.”
“What other girls?”
Pierson squints at him.
“What other girls?” he asks again.
“Hannah and Abby.”
“I don’t know about any other girls. Only mine.”
“You sure about that? Because if they find the least scrap of evidence linking you to Hannah Creighton or Abby Hill, we could be looking at a long list of very heavy, very serious, very ugly charges. Even the death penalty.”
Vanderholt feels stung. “No, no, hand to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Think hard about this, man. They’re bringing in dogs. They’re looking for graves.”
“I’m telling you, I do not know any other girls. I only took one. Just Tilly. Just mine.”
Pierson sits very still, watching him.
“I’m sorry I took her, okay? I know it was wrong, okay? But I never hurt her. I mean, not really. Not like you think.”
Pierson sighs. “Well then,” he says finally. “So a plea is our best bet.”
“But if a trial could—”
“A trial will just give them an opportunity to grandstand. Think about it. Tilly Cavanaugh is a prosecutor’s dream.”
“But I told you, I took good care of her. I did. Good food, lots of water, a toothbrush. And vitamins. Really, no kidding, I did. I even gave her vitamins.”
“Right,” Pierson scoffs, studying the papers in his lap. “This is some sweet confession you handed them. You admitted that you kidnapped her. You described how you kept her locked up in your basement. Unless they screw up on a monumental scale, they’ve got you tied up and served cold. We’re talking child abduction, false imprisonment, and multiple counts of forcible rape, at minimum.”
“But you don’t understand. When I, when she…” His eyes tear up. “She was my precious little girl.”
Pierson grunts. “Listen, the DA is lining up a list of charges that will put you away for at least a hundred years. How sympathetic do you think a jury is going to be? A trial just gives the DA’s office a chance to grab headlines. They’ll make you out to be the Monster of Jefferson County.”
The lawyer keeps on talking, but his words have sparked an idea, and now Randy Vanderholt is thinking hard. He’s thinking about Duke, the man that his girl Tilly secretly called “Mister Monster.” He’s wondering if Duke had something to do with those other missing girls.
Because Duke sure seemed to know exactly what he was doing. So easy. So relaxed. Like he’d practiced everything before. And it was weird that Duke had pegged Randy for what he really was, first thing, when no one else ever did. “Takes one to know one,” Duke had said.
Pierson is still talking, but Vanderholt is barely listening. He rubs his jaw, worrying about how much danger he might be in, trying to work how much he might suffer later. He’s weighing his fear of Duke against his fear of spending the rest of his life in prison. It’s a lot to try to figure out, and he’s not good at this sort of thing, and the harder he tries, the blurrier his thinking gets.
“Um, I’m under suicide watch, right?” he blurts.
Pierson frowns, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. “You are, of course.”
“So, um, no one can get to me now, right? I mean, I’m safe here, right?”
Pierson leans forward. “What are you saying, man?”
Randy licks his lips. “This is, um, confidential, right? Attorney-client privilege, all that?”
“Of course. Why?”
He checks the door, clears his throat, and lowers his voice. “There’s another guy, okay?”
Pierson’s eyebrows shoot up. “An accomplice?”
Randy sees the eagerness in the attorney’s face and senses leverage. He sits forward. “But the guy’s tricky, okay? He’s smart.” His eyes check the door again. “And dangerous.”
“Yeah, okay, so what’s his name?”
Randy rolls his tongue around his mouth. “A deal, right? I can get a deal?”
“If you’re telling the truth, yes.”
“So, uh, how does that work, exactly?”
“I’ll set it up with the prosecutor just as soon as we know the charges.” Pierson puts his hands on his knees and leans forward, intent. “So tell me about this guy. What’s his name?”
Randy sucks his teeth, thinking. “Here’s the thing … His name, uh, I’m not for sure about that.”
“You’ve got an accomplice but you don’t know his name?” Pierson snorts. “Don’t jerk me around.”
“His name is, you know, like a street name.”
Pierson shoots him a skeptical look. “You’ve got to give me more than that.”
“I’ll give it all to you, I can ID him,” Randy adds quickly. “I got his license plate number, too.”
Pierson’s face lights up. “Now you’re talking.” He balances a notepad on his knee, pulls a pen from his pocket and clicks it open. “Okay, shoot.”
Randy rocks back. “Not so fast. How do I know I’ll get a deal if I tell you?”
“I’m your lawyer. That’s my job.”
“But hold on just a minute here.” Randy says, trying to line things up in his mind. “How can I be sure?”
“You’ve got to trust me on this.”
“Trust you?” Randy’s expression sours. People who ask for trust always mean trouble. And once he tells what he knows, his hand is played. Meanwhile, he’s still a target and Duke is still a threat. He crosses his arms across his chest, suddenly clear on what to do. “That’s it. I ain’t saying another word until there’s a deal on the table.”
THIRTEEN
Jefferson City
Reeve carries a large hot chocolate over to a table far from the other customers. She sits facing the door, sips carefully, then fishes her cell phone out of her purse and taps in Dr. Lerner’s number.
He answers after two rings. “Reeve, I’m so glad you called. How are you?”
She skips the pleasantries and says abruptly, “I thought about what you said, and I’m ready to help.”
There’s a pause, then Dr. Lerner says, “Good. That will be very much appreciated, I’m sure. I’ll tell the Cavanaughs. Would you like their phone number so you can call them directly?”
“No, I’d like to see them. And I’d like to talk to Tilly. Can you come get me?”
“Oh, well I’m not sure when I can get back to San Francisco.”
“But I’m here in town.”
“What?”
“I’m here in Jefferson City.”
“You’re here?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How did you get here?”
“I drove. I borrowed Dad’s Jeep.”
“You drove?”
“Yes. I drove.” Reeve had expected Dr. Lerner to be surprised, since he knows she has only driven a car perhaps a dozen times in her life, but now she’s getting annoyed. “I got gas. I parked. And I’m now downtown, sitting here at Starbucks, but I don’t know my way around and I don’t know where you are, so I’d like you to please come and get me.”
“I see. Well, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The truth is, she’s exhausted. She didn’t sleep well, and the drive from San Francisco was just one more nightmare, with fog and traffic and white knuckles all the way. She purposely did not tell Dr. Lerner she was coming so that she could back out at any time without having to make excuses. But as much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t let herself. Because years of therapy have given her enough self-awareness to see that she’s not exactly the poster child for mental health. And because she’s sick of having Daryl Wayne Flint’s claws in her imagination, sick of being stuck on the same worn path of blocked responses.
And because Tilly Cavanaugh deserves at least as much help as she had.
She’s finishing the last of her hot chocolate when Dr. Lerner comes in the door, trailed by a lanky young man in a uniform. She looks up and says, “Hi,” trying to keep the confusion from showing on her face.
“Reeve, this is Deputy Nick Hudson,” Dr. Lerner says. “He’s our liaison with the district attorney’s office and the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Which is a fancy way of saying that I’m the doctor’s official guide and gopher while he’s in town,” Hudson says, stepping forward to shake her hand.
Reeve studies the tall young man, wondering—as she often does when meeting someone new—whether he knows who she is and what happened to her.
“We were just heading to lunch,” Dr. Lerner says. “Care to join us?”
Several minutes later, at a nearby diner with a lumberjack theme, they consult the menu and make small talk until the food arrives on oversized plates, smelling delicious. Reeve tastes her soup and nibbles at half a sandwich. She is used to having Dr. Lerner’s full attention and feels a bit irked at having to share him.
While she eats, she dodges questions and studies the exchanges between Dr. Lerner and this young deputy. Hudson makes casual conversation seem effortless. He volunteers that he grew up here, went to college in Los Angeles, hated the congestion, and returned. He says he plays “a little guitar, you know, in my spare time.” And he gets animated when talking about the many pleasures of living in Jefferson County—skiing, kayaking, fly fishing—a litany of outdoor sports that seem as odd to her as space exploration.
“What drew you to law enforcement?” Dr. Lerner asks, forking up another mouthful of trout.
“Runs in the family, I guess. My dad was a highway patrolman. And I have a whole slew of uncles and cousins who work in law enforcement in some way or other.”
“Seems like an unusual family.”
“I used to think so, but a lot of my coworkers have similar backgrounds. Badges are contagious, I guess.”
“You like what you do, don’t you?”
“It’s interesting work, and it pays a lot better than strumming guitar, I’ll tell you.” Hudson grins. “But eventually, I’d like to go to law school. Or at least, that’s the plan. So I nosed around, and I caught a break, and I’ve been learning a lot in this position with the district attorney’s office.”
Nick Hudson’s relaxed manner mirrors Dr. Lerner’s, and while their desserts are served, Reeve studies his even features, his healthy skin, his nice teeth, and decides that he is handsome.
Dr. Lerner turns toward Reeve, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I’m glad that you took the initiative to come up. The Cavanaughs are looking forward to meeting with you later this afternoon, okay?”
“It’s great that you could come up and help,” Hudson adds, confirming for Reeve that he knows exactly who she is.
She lowers her eyes and spoons into her chocolate ice cream, listening while Dr. Lerner fills her in on the situation.
“They’re being gentle with their daughter, and they’re not pressing for details about what she endured. Which is wise.”
She nods, remembering.
“Right, but this is not the way the prosecution would normally want to proceed in building a case,” Hudson says.
She stops eating and looks up.
“Understood,” Dr. Lerner says, “but first we’ll let her reveal things in her own time, as she feels more comfortable, more secure.”
“What was that about building a case?” Reeve asks the deputy.
“I work with Jackie Burke, the prosecutor. She’d like to meet with you, too.”
“Why me?”
“Because she needs to hear how things go with the Cavanaughs. Because she’s hoping to accelerate the charges against Vanderholt.”
“The kidnapper.”
“The suspect, right.”
She shifts in her chair. “So you’re expecting that, as Tilly shares more specifics, the prosecutor will have what she needs for going to trial?”
“But understand that this will be a gradual process,” Dr. Lerner says to the deputy. “We have to assure Tilly of some degree of confidentiality, help her feel safe, so she can start coming to terms with what has happened to her.”
“And stop blaming herself,” Reeve adds.
“Wait.” Hudson gives her a quizzical look. “What do you mean? Why on earth would she blame herself?”
Reeve sighs. “It’s common, with victims of abduction and captivity, to feel that you are somehow complicit, or that you have contributed to your own victimization.” She shoots a look at Dr. Lerner, realizing that she sounds like her therapist.
“Really?”
She gives a shrug. “The media makes it worse by asking things like, ‘Why did she stay?’ As if it’s a choice.”
Hudson cocks his head. “You mean, like Beth Goodwin, when she was walking around in public with her kidnappers?”
“Like that.”
“That’s what they call Stockholm Syndrome, right?”
“That’s the common term,” Dr. Lerner says to him. “But it has become kind of a pop phrase, used to cover all kinds of hostage and captive situations, and it’s imprecise.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it’s just one aspect of what is broadly call
ed post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Sure. PTSD,” Hudson says. “So, they’re the same thing, more or less?”
“Not really. Stockholm Syndrome isn’t actually in the diagnostic manuals, and post-traumatic stress disorder is such a broad term that it ceases to be useful at some point.”
“I can tell you’re a college professor,” Hudson says with a grin.
“Forgive me for lecturing.”
“No, listen, I’m not the smartest guy around, but I like to understand. So, why do we even hear about Stockholm Syndrome if it isn’t in the—what?—diagnostic manual?”
“Good question. The term was coined years ago by a Swedish criminologist who was trying to understand the sympathy a group of hostages expressed for their captors at a Stockholm bank robbery.”
“But they were held for just five days,” Reeve interjects.
“Yes, and since then, a similar response has been seen in many individuals held under duress. Plane hijackings, prison riots, POWs—”
“But I thought Stockholm Syndrome was about captives falling in love with their captors,” Hudson says.
Reeve groans. “It’s a survival mechanism.”
Dr. Lerner nods. “And it only scratches the surface, really, in trying to explain the psychological effects of prolonged captivity and profound coercion.”
“Coercion?” Hudson asks, a forkful of pie stopping in midair.
“That’s right,” Reeve snaps. “Coercion.”
“Or brainwashing, as it’s often called,” Dr. Lerner says, waving a hand, “though that’s not a clinical term. Anyway, consider the different circumstances. Some hostages are held only a short time. Many are aware of ongoing negotiations, so they know that they’re essentially bargaining chips, that their abductors want something in exchange, usually money.”
“But sexual predators don’t ask for ransom,” Reeve says, gripping the sides of her chair. “There are no negotiations. The person taken is their prize.”
“I’m sorry, but could we back up? Terror, I get. Rape and sexual abuse, I understand.” He is addressing Dr. Lerner, but glances over at Reeve, who meets his eye. “But what I don’t get is, unless it’s a military situation, where does coercion come in?”
