How did I miss these connections while reading through the files? Then I remember . . . I’d planned to go back and look at the girls’ photos but got sidetracked when Donny Ray’s juvenile record was missing. Then his attorney was missing, and after that, so too was Dr. Ammon.
I never saw these images.
My thoughts fly into reverse and land on an earlier session with Donny Ray. How he seemed lost in thought, staring at that picture on the wall. A picture that happened to feature a little girl wearing a blue dress. He wasn’t just lost in thought—he was lost inside his own mind.
A clear pattern: relentless and consistent layers of abuse, followed by behavior that mirrors it in a most striking and disturbing way.
A causal relationship.
Dr. Ammon discounted Donny Ray’s inability to recall murdering Jamey Winslow because his head injury proved inconsequential. And while Dr. Philips was definitely on to something, any progress went flying out the window along with her credibility after the hospital sex scandal broke. But the bottom line is that Donny Ray Smith may be telling the truth about having no ability to recall killing Jamey.
Possible diagnosis: dissociative amnesia, brought on not by a head injury, but instead by acute and repetitive psychological trauma.
50
Don’t tell Adam.
“What are you talking about? We’re working this case together. Of course I’m going to tell him.”
You cannot. He’s part of the Big Plan, him and his bootlicking disciples—they’re all working to destroy you.
“What?” I pull open the door.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Adam says, frowning at me from his desk. “I just heard you called a security incident down on Alpha Twelve about an hour ago? For no apparent reason?”
“What do you mean, no reason? Of course there was a reason.”
Motioning for me to close the door, he says, “We need to talk.”
I grab a seat across from him. “When I got there, all the patients were wandering in and out of their rooms and through the hallways. Not one locked door, not a single security officer in sight. It was the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. So of course I called an incident.”
Adam’s eyes are hazy with doubt as they search mine.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Chris, the rooms in Alpha Twelve are never locked, unless a patient is under special order.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I laugh but there’s no amusement in it. “Of course they are!”
He shakes his head. “That would be illegal.”
“But it’s a safety precaution. They’re not supposed to . . . Wait. You think I just made up this policy?”
“I’m not saying that.” But his expression states otherwise.
I stare at him for about five seconds. He stares back at me, and sticky tension stretches between us.
“Anyway, I’m sure security has the whole mess under control by now, so we’re good there.”
But judging by the crease in Adam’s brow, my assurance offers little relief.
“I’ve got something much more important to tell you,” I quickly move on, “something huge that could blow Donny Ray’s case right out of the water. We just had a breakthrough. I’ve found the trauma trigger that Philips missed. Donny Ray has a pathological need to repeatedly murder his sister, then make her disappear. I strongly believe that’s what caused his dissociative amnesia when Jamey went missing.”
Adam’s eyes flutter.
I start telling him the history of Donny Ray’s abuse, along with an explanation about the picture on the wall of a girl wearing a blue dress. How every victim resembles Miranda. He shakes his head as I continue, but it’s hard to tell whether he’s following me.
“So here’s how the events might have played out.” I lean in toward him. “He sees a girl who looks like his sister, who also happens to be wearing a blue dress, probably the same color dress his father made him wear.”
“You say probably.”
“Well, we weren’t at that level of detail in the interview. He was racked with deep emotional pain, and I wasn’t able to ask him about it.”
“Okay, go on . . . ,” Adam says and starts twisting the ring on his finger.
“The blue dress strongly relates to his psychological trauma. He experiences the humiliation and shame all over again, and that activates the rage he’s unable to express. And in that state, since he can’t take out the rage on his father anymore, Donny Ray instead transfers it to Miranda, possibly because, through his subconscious and distorted reasoning, he blames her for leaving him alone to shoulder all the abuse.”
“Possibly . . .”
“Well, yeah. I don’t know that for sure yet. I’m just hypothesizing.”
Adam concedes with a tentative nod.
“So anyway, he kills the girls instead. And here’s something else. Donny Ray said his head injury happened after falling onto the family tractor’s bucket loader, but he can’t recall the exact date, only that it happened the summer his sister went missing. Tractors can be used to bury bodies, right? Maybe Donny Ray saw his sister being murdered. Maybe he was even forced to help dispose of Miranda and doesn’t remember hitting his head after blocking it out. That would create three layers of trauma. And it could explain why he hides the girls’ bodies.”
Adam flinches, then blinks a few times. “Chris, I feel like you’re overreaching into a lot of places with no firm foundation.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“First of all, the bucket loader thing. Don’t you think the detectives considered that possibility?”
I tell him I already thought about that, how there’s nothing in the report to indicate Texas cops followed up with the local hospital to get the exact date of Donny Ray’s head injury, which means they probably missed the connection and never looked further.
“The detectives couldn’t find enough evidence to charge the father,” I explain. “So what if they were unable to complete the chain of events? I mean, the dad was clearly disturbed, and he could have been clever enough to cover his tracks.”
“But you’re still assuming a lot of things.” Adam is smiling, but there’s no twinkle in his eyes. He looks frustrated, also a little concerned. “And you’re playing cop again.”
“How am I playing cop?”
“Speculating that Donny Ray’s head injury happened while he was helping his father bury the body? Other than a bucket loader, there’s nothing to support the theory. You have to admit, that’s a fantastical leap. It feels more like you’re trying to help solve Miranda’s murd—”
“Fantastical?”
“And you’re using some picture on the wall as a springboard into dissociation, when you don’t even know if Donny Ray’s father made him wear a blue dress. Besides, I never saw anything in the police report indicating the other victims were wearing blue dresses when they disappeared. So how are you reaching that conclusion?”
“I missed it the first time myself, but go look again, and you’ll see. The information’s all there in the police report.”
“Okay, but weren’t you the one who reminded me we’re not even supposed to factor in the other cases?”
“Adam”—I feel my throat tighten around his name—“they gave the information to us for background purposes. I’m just throwing around ideas. I’m brainstorming, thinking of possible scenarios. And you’re completely missing the entire point. Philips couldn’t get Donny Ray to open up about his abuse. That’s what she was trying to do, and that’s a really big deal, because it explains a lot of things.”
“But what I’m trying to tell you is, without solid footing on that reasoning, you still can’t prove whether his need to kill the girls is driven by disassociation or psychopathy, which brings us back to the original question of
whether or not Donny Ray is malingering—and on that note, how can you be so sure he’s even telling you the truth with this sexual abuse story? How do you know this isn’t just an attempt to step up his game plan with you after things fell apart at Miller?”
He thinks you’re unloading a pile of horseshit.
“Why do you keep throwing doubt at me? I’m a psychologist. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not saying you don’t.” Adam stops, tries to speak, then starts again. “And I’m not throwing doubt at you.”
“Then what are you doing? What exactly are you trying to tell me here?”
“That you’re hopping all over the place with a theory that doesn’t hold water. It’s not like you, Chris. You’re usually so—”
“That’s not true! It all relates. It’s all extremely relevant. I just need to figure out how.”
“Okay . . . okay.” Adam raises both hands, aims his palms at me. “Fine. But you still need to connect a lot of missing pieces, and your evaluation is due tomorrow.”
“I’ll find them,” I sharply say, “before I jump to any rash decisions.”
“Chris, stop that.”
With arms locked tightly against my chest, I look away from him.
“Listen,” he says, “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that you came in here sounding so hellfire sure about all this, then after you explained it, the inconsistencies confused me. That’s all. We’re friends, remember? This is what we do for each other. We watch each other’s backs.”
I study Adam’s face for a few beats to determine whether he means what he says.
He’s patronizing you.
I don’t like it.
He’s judging you.
Things get very quiet. Then Adam asks, “So how did things go with Rob yesterday?”
“Wow, that came out of nowhere fast.”
“Not really. You never called back to let me know how it went. I was just following up. I’m concerned.”
But it feels like his concern is more about my mental and professional competence.
“He got me in for the MRI,” I say.
“Hey, that’s great. Did it go okay?”
“It’s over with.” I shrug. “That’s the best thing I can say about it.”
“Do you know when you’ll have the results?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Will you let me know as soon as he calls?”
I hesitate. Again, it’s not what he’s asking, more what seems to be trolling just beneath the surface. A little too much urgency. Like he’s getting leery of me.
He knows you’re losing it.
I try to relax my posture, but it seems as though Adam can tell the action is forced.
“Hey.” He lets out a small laugh, obviously meant to disarm me. “Isn’t it okay for your best friend to be worried after you’ve had a head injury?”
He’s setting you up.
51
Driving home, those awkward moments with Adam wheel toward annoyance.
I fully realized my theory about Donny Ray wasn’t concrete yet; there was no need to point it out. He said he was just trying to help but instead came across as extremely overcritical.
The simple fact is that while Donny Ray’s previous psychologist had an inkling of what was going on, she obviously wasn’t skilled enough to ask the right questions, therefore she never got the right answers. I have far more practical experience in the field of forensic psychology than she. I’ve been doing this for years and doing it well. Talking to Adam, you’d think I was some kind of rookie fresh out of school, seeing a zebra where there was only a horse. I’m greatly bothered that, instead of acknowledging my discovery, Adam demonstrated a lack of respect for my abilities. He doubted me.
That’s because Adam despises you.
I can’t help but question whether his doubt came from a bad place, if beneath his voice of concern was a whisper of professional competitiveness. He’s already completed his assessment and concurred with Ammon that Donny Ray is malingering. If my theory is right—if Donny Ray dissociated during Jamey Winslow’s murder, and his amnesia was caused not by the head injury but instead his previous psychological trauma—that would make both of their opinions irrelevant. Mine would prevail.
Adam has always felt threatened by you.
This is very disappointing.
I have every intention of closing the missing links he mentioned, and when I do, Adam will realize he was wrong. He’ll feel embarrassed, and then I’ll flaunt my success in his face. I’ll be the one who gets to shame him. See how he likes it.
Don’t forget when he asked about the MRI. It was a vicious move.
As if he thinks the accident has in some way compromised my professional judgment. That simply isn’t true. The injury has compromised many things but not my ability to properly assess Donny Ray’s case, and I resent the implication.
I just don’t understand what’s gone wrong inside Adam’s head.
52
I walk into the house and find Jenna talking on the phone. She takes one look at me, and I can tell she senses the residual steam rolling off my back. I head for the refrigerator and try to play it down, but after looking inside, I can still feel the heat of her gaze on me.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” Jenna says, continuing her conversation. A minute or so later, she hangs up.
I look back at my wife, and now I see more than concern. She stares at the phone as if it might answer her confusion.
“It was Kayla,” she says.
“Kayla?” I repeat and feel a stab of discomfort. She never calls here. We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship with her, especially after my disturbing outburst at her home. “What did she want?”
“Something about a globe?”
Oh, shit. The globe.
I’d forgotten all about the damned thing. It’s still upstairs in the closet, inside a pants pocket.
You need to lose that thing, buddy.
I’m not your buddy.
Jenna waits for my reaction.
“A globe . . . ,” I repeat, knowing my statement to be a weak avoidance effort. Then I shake my head because there’s not really much more that I can say. Anything else could potentially cause a slipup.
“She noticed it went missing from her living room right after we left, then struggled for days over whether to mention it.” Jenna wrinkles her nose. “The whole conversation felt really awkward.”
“So she thinks we stole it?”
You did steal it.
“She didn’t say that, but I can’t see any other reason why she’d call to mention it.”
“She’s probably just still angry about the way I treated her. You know how Kayla loves her drama,” I reply, giving pause to the thought of secretly returning something that, in retrospect, I haven’t the slightest clue why I stole in the first place. Too risky, I decide. Its reappearance after another visit to the house would point the finger at me even more.
Jenna appears to be thinking about my comment, but I’m unable to determine whether she agrees with it.
“It’ll turn up,” I try again.
Her nod is speculative.
I shift my attention toward the floor, but there I only find more discomfort, because Jake’s food is only half eaten. By the time I get home, his bowl is typically licked clean. But not tonight.
“Honey,” I say, “have you noticed Jake acting different lately?”
“Different, like how?”
“He seems a little lethargic and withdrawn.”
Jenna shakes her head and shrugs. “He seems fine to me.”
“And there’s still food in his bowl.”
She looks down and examines the uneaten food.
“Strange,” I say, “right?”
Jenna slo
wly raises her gaze to meet mine. She doesn’t answer, but we’ve always been able to read each other, and the misgiving that streams across her face speaks volumes.
The bowl is empty.
53
“The dog knows.”
I wake up with a start.
That voice again, but this time, I could swear it didn’t come from inside my head. This time, it sounded as if someone were speaking from right beside me.
Beside me?
I survey my surroundings. I’m in the family room. I look at my watch. Dinner was close to an hour ago.
“Jake knows.”
I nearly fall out of my chair because now the voice comes from a far end of the room. I spring to my feet and inspect every inch of that corner.
“Not there,” the voice taunts as it zooms swiftly overhead and toward the other corner.
“Where the hell are you?” I pull furniture out of position, search under tables, and lift the rug, trying to find it. “Stop hiding!”
From the floorboards beneath my feet now: “I’m not hiding. You are.”
I leap from my spot as if it’s just caught fire. “Quit chasing me! Leave me alone, goddamnit!”
The voice laughs from the entryway.
I pivot in that direction. Jenna stands there, and from the distress washing across her face, I know she’s been there long enough to watch me frantically race around the room, shouting at no one. Her mouth hangs slightly open. Her arms are glued to her sides.
As for me, my feet feel anchored to the floor like lead. I can’t speak. I’m embarrassed and humiliated. I’m shaken, because in one fell swoop, all the comfort Jenna was able to restore after the MRI yesterday, all the hope she helped me rebuild, feels lost. Not just for me, but from what I’m seeing, for her as well.
“Mommy!” Devon calls out from his bedroom. “Where are all my baseball hats?”
“Probably wherever you left them, sweetheart,” Jenna yells back, but her eyes never waver from me.
“They were all on my dresser,” he says, “I just saw them there this morning!”
Jenna shifts her fretful attention to the staircase. “Ten baseball hats?”
Twisted Page 16
