by John Case
Another grunt. “What kinda memories?” Bonilla asked.
Adrienne wasn’t sure how to put it. “Crazy stuff.”
“Like what?”
She took a deep breath. “Nikki thought she’d been abused.”
Adrienne could hear Bonilla thinking about it. Finally, he said, “So? It happens. Even in the best of families.”
“By Satanists.”
“Oh.” When she didn’t say anything, he asked, “You mean, with hoods and stuff?”
“Yeah. Hoods and candles and I don’t know what—goats’ heads.”
“Jeez…”
“It was supposed to have happened to me, too, but—believe me, you’d remember this stuff.”
“And you don’t.”
“No,” Adrienne replied. “I don’t.”
“And you think her therapist—”
“—invented it all.”
“Hunh! And why do you suppose he’d do that?”
“I don’t know. But it happens.”
“Yeah. That’s what I hear,” Bonilla said. And then: “I could see how maybe you wouldn’t want to tell, I mean if it was your old man or something—you’d probably get pretty bent out of shape, on account of the perversion and all. But not remembering—I got trouble with that. The way I see it, something like that happens, you got trouble forgetting it, not the other way around.”
“Exactly, and—”
“The thing is: what’s in it for this guy?” Bonilla asked. “The therapist, I mean. What’s he get out of it?”
“Two things. First, Nikki left him money in her will. For helping her, right? Second, I did some searches on the Web. There’s actually a false memory group—parents, mostly, and family members—who say the accusations against them are nonsense, that therapists want clients to believe this kind of junk—”
“Why?”
“Because—it means more therapy. I want to take this guy to court—make an example of him.”
“And I’m gonna help you… how?”
“I want you to investigate him, find out if there are any complaints on file—that kinda thing.”
“So, we’re talkin’… what? Basic stuff. Credentials, credit rating? Like that?”
“Exactly.”
Bonilla was silent for a moment, and then said. “I can do that. But—”
“Nikki left me a little money. I can tap into it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But it is! Of course I’ll pay!”
“Yeah, but—”
“Really, Eddie, I insist!”
He waited a few seconds, and then he said, “What I was gonna ask was: do you have a budget?”
“Oh.” She thought about it, suddenly embarrassed. “Would a thousand dollars—”
Bonilla laughed. “I’m pullin’ your leg! I’ll do it for expenses.” Once again, Adrienne began to protest, but he cut her off. “So whatta you have on the guy?”
She told him. Name and address. Telephone number.
“You got a Social?”
“No,” she replied, “but—I saw his diplomas.”
“You what?”
“I saw his diplomas.”
“You went there?”
“… uh-huh.”
A sad sigh on the other end of the line. “What’d you do that for? So you could scream at him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay,” Bonilla replied. “So where’d this turkey go to school?”
“Brown. And then a doctorate from Wisconsin. Clinical psychology.”
“What years?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The line was quiet for a while. Finally, Bonilla said, “Gimme a coupla days.”
And then he hung up.
Chapter 12
Duran felt the air flex just before the phone rang, and thought, The phone. Then it rang—and he jumped, despite himself. Pushing the mute button on the remote control (Oprah was on), he lifted the receiver.
“Mr. Duran?”
The voice was a woman’s, polite and removed. A telemarketer, perhaps, but restrained—not gooey.
“Yes?”
“It’s Adrienne Cope.”
Oh. His shoulders sagged, and he thought, The woman’s unstable. Don’t take it personally. “Oh, hello.” And then, after a short silence, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” she said. “I’d like to come and see you—if you’d do me the courtesy.”
The courtesy? He recalled her voice as she raged through the door—with de Groot in the other room: You son of a bitch! You killed her! “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“It would only take a few minutes,” she promised. “I thought we could talk about Nikki.”
Duran winced inside himself. “It’s just that… I’m not sure there’s anything to be gained.”
“Please. It wouldn’t take long, and—it would really help me.”
Duran thought about it, the silence thickening. Maybe she wanted to apologize for her behavior. Maybe she wanted to ask him about her sister’s problems. Talking to him might bring her to closure. It was never easy, he thought, for the people who were left behind. They often blamed themselves, and needed reassurance.
“It would only take a couple of minutes,” she suggested.
Duran heaved a sigh. “Fine.”
“Great. When would be good for you?” she asked, her voice suddenly crisp and efficient.
“Let me take a look,” Duran replied, and opened his appointments book. Finally, he said, “I could see you tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock?”
That evening, he timed the arrival of his dinner (a four cheese pizza with artichoke hearts from Pizzeria Luna), so that he could eat it during a PBS documentary about the America’s Cup.
Watching the program, Duran felt an almost physical connection to the crew, lowering his head as the boat crested a buoy and came about. The crew’s movements seemed spectacularly fast and fluid on a vessel that was heeling over so sharply that water was pouring over the combings.
His pizza sat on the plate untouched as the sight of the boats held him. The spume of spray kicked up by the jutting prow, the way the sails slapped, slack, and then bellied full as the boat took hold of the wind—this sent an arrow of longing through him so sharp that he could not have spoken if he had to. It was very peculiar. Without intending to, he found himself mimicking the motions of the sailors, tensing in synch with the on-screen crew, anticipating its motions with small, shadow actions. Like a dog, he thought, moving its paws in a dream.
But where does it come from? he wondered. It was all so familiar: the gurgle and slosh of the water, the flash and movement of the crew, the lines, the sails, the salt tang and sparkling sky. He was a sailor. He could feel it. He knew exactly what the crew was doing, and what they were going to do, even before they did it. He was able to anticipate every shift in tack, the precise moment when the hull’s momentum changed, when the wind filled the sails and the ship surged ahead. And yet…
He had not a single memory of sailing a boat—or of being in a boat under sail. Still, he could feel that he was a sailor: it was hardwired into him, and there was no mistaking it. And no remembering, either. When he tried to recall even a single moment at sea, his mind went “into irons” as surely as a ship turning into the wind. The sails went slack, and the boat came to rest, dead in the water, luffing, still.
That’s me, Duran thought. My head’s in irons. And for a moment, he wondered, half seriously, if perhaps he hadn’t been reincarnated. For how else could he have gained such knowledge, if not from a previous life? Reincarnation would explain a lot of things, Duran thought, but… not this. If true, it might explain life after death, but it could never answer the simpler and even more devastating question that Duran was askin
g himself:
How is it that I’ve become so alone in the world, so utterly disconnected from myself, that I can’t even recall if I know how to sail, or what it was like to be held by my mother. It’s as if I’ve become a sort of rough sketch of myself…
Frustrated by the Jacob’s Ladder of his own identity and feelings, he changed channels. There was a “Real World Marathon” on MTV, and he didn’t have a client for a couple of hours.
When Nico’s sister appeared in his doorway the next afternoon, Duran was surprised to see that she was not alone.
A retro little man was at her side, bouncing on his heels. He seemed to be just this side or that of 50, with laser-trim sideburns and beady eyes. Even without looking, Duran could tell that his fingers were yellowed by nicotine.
“Hi,” Duran said, as he opened the door and stepped aside to let them in.
Adrienne tossed him a glance, and entered with her friend right behind her. It was amazing how much she looked like Nico, and yet… It was a Snow-White/Rose-Red kind of thing, with Adrienne definitely playing Snow-White. The last time Duran had seen Nico, she’d been wearing a tiny skirt and a skintight top. But her sister was having none of that. She wore a demure green dress that came to midcalf, with a rolled collar that crowded her chin. It was like looking at Nico playing dress-up, pretending to be her kindergarten teacher.
Duran closed the door, and turned to his guests. The man handed him an envelope. Duran looked puzzled. “What’s this?”
“You’ve been served,” the man told him.
“I’ve been what?”
“Served.”
“With what?”
A chuckle from Sideburns, who cast a sidelong glance at Adrienne. “Whattaya think?” he asked.
Duran turned to Adrienne, whose cheeks were bright red, though he couldn’t tell if embarrassment or venom had put the color there.
“I’m suing you,” Adrienne said.
“For what?” Duran replied.
“For the intentional infliction of emotional distress—and fraud.” She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “That’s the complaint,” she explained, and a summons to appear in court. You have twenty days to respond.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Duran exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“There’s more,” Adrienne went on. “We’ve been to the police. They want to talk with you.”
Duran shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I know what grief can do to people, but… your sister was a very troubled woman.”
“And you’re a very troubled man,” Sideburns said. “Or you will be—because you’re going to the joint, ‘Doc.’”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Duran said.
“There’s nothing ‘ridiculous’ about it. You’re a fraud,” Adrienne told him.
“And we can prove it,” Sideburns said.
Duran closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he opened his eyes, and looked directly into Adrienne’s. “I did everything I could for your sister.”
“Actually,” Sideburns said, “that might be true—but it’s not the point. The issue is: you’re a quack. You broke the law.”
“What law?”
“You got a pencil? Write this down: Chapter 33, Section 2, 3310 dot 1. Check it out.”
“Check what out?” Duran asked.
“D.C. Criminal Code. You’re ‘practicing a health occupation without a license.’ Not good.”
Duran turned to Sideburns, and focused on him for the first time. He looked as if he was made of bone and gristle, one of those wiry guys who got into a lot of fights as a kid—and kept on going. “Not to make too much of a point of it,” Duran said, “but who the fuck are you?”
The man smiled, delighted to have gotten Duran’s attention. Reaching into his coat, he came up with a business-card and handed it to his adversary.
Edward Bonilla
Bonilla & Associates
Private Investigations
There were a lot of numbers for such a small card: telephone, fax, mobile, and pager. In the upper right-hand corner, in what Duran guessed was an attempt at humor, was the detective’s logo—a corny fingerprint under a corny magnifying glass.
“Mr. Bonilla is a private investigator,” Adrienne explained. “And I’m a lawyer and… well, you can see where this is going. We’re going to put you away.”
Duran shook his head in disbelief. Put me away!? “Look,” he said. “I understand how you feel about… what happened… but, you’re wrong about me, and you’re wrong about my not being licensed. It’s in my office—on the wall, next to my diplomas.”
Bonilla scoffed. “Lemme show you something,” he said, waggling a leather portfolio. “You mind if we sit down for a minute?”
Duran shook his head, and gestured toward the couch in the living room. Once seated, Bonilla made a production of opening his portfolio, then laying it down on the coffee table. “The first thing I did,” he said, extracting several sheets of paper, “was check with the District’s Medical Board.” He donned a pair of reading glasses and peered at the documents in his hand. “And when I ask them about you, what they want to know is, are you a psychotherapist or a psychologist? Because there’s a big difference! Turns out, any wacko can hang out a shingle as a ‘therapist.’ But a clinical psychologist, which is what you’re supposed to be—that’s another story. Because, one: you got to have a doctoral degree. And two: you gotta complete an internship. After that, you have to do supervised, post-doctoral work. And, finally, you gotta pass a licensing exam. And you, Doc—you ain’t done any of this stuff.”
Duran was silent for a moment. Then he leaned forward in his chair. “You must not be very good at what you do,” he suggested.
“No?”
“No. Because, if you were, you’d know I was magna cum laude—”
“You were magna cum bullshit!” Bonilla interjected. “When the board said it never heard of you, I figured, what the hell—it’s probably an oversight. Maybe you’re registered somewhere else—Virginia, Maryland—Alaska, for all I know. Or you forgot to renew. So I check with the A.P.A. And guess what? They never heard of you, either. So that’s when I thought, Hmmmnn. Better check out the diplomas, the ones our friend here saw. Brown, right? And Wisconsin.”
“That’s right.”
“No, Jim—that ain’t right. For openers, you didn’t graduate from Brown. In fact, you never even went there.” Bonilla removed a page from his portfolio, and pushed it across the coffee table.
Duran picked it up, and began to read. The letter seemed to be authentic, but… it couldn’t be. According to the registrar, no one named Jeffrey Duran had attended Brown between 1979 and 1993. A check with academic advisers for the class of 1990 produced not a single transcript, nor did the office of residential life have any records associated with a student by that name. The letter thanked Mr. Bonilla for bringing to the university’s attention the inaccurate inclusion of Mr. Duran’s name on its “base list” of 1990 graduates.
While we cannot be certain how this error occurred, we have taken steps to improve computer security at the school in general, and at the Registrar’s office in particular.
Duran couldn’t believe it. “They think—”
“You hacked your way in,” Adrienne told him.
“But… they’re wrong. It’s a mistake.”
Bonilla’s grin revealed small yellow teeth. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s gotta be a mistake. You went to Brown, only you never took out a library book, registered for a class, or signed up for a food plan. Like I said, ‘magna cum bullshit.’“ The detective raised his eyebrows, withdrew a second sheet of paper from the portfolio, and slapped it down on the table.
“Wisconsin never heard of you either,” he said.
Duran picked up the paper, which bore the school’s letterhead with its familiar logo: an eye, surrounded by the words, Numen Lumen.
Dear Mr. Bonilla:
Re: Duran, Jeffrey A.
Although the name
Jeffrey Duran appears on our list of 1994 graduates, a further search of relevant files and databases confirms your doubt about the integrity of that list. Mr. Duran did not earn an advanced degree from the University of Wisconsin. Our search found the records of six individuals named Jeffrey Duran who attended the University during the 1980-95 period. None of these individuals, however, was enrolled in a doctoral program at the University.
“This is impossible,” Duran insisted, wagging his head, as if it were a pendulum. “What is this? I mean—” he held up the papers. “Did you write these yourself? Why would you do that?”
Bonilla made a little clicking noise with his mouth and shook his head, beaming at Duran with an expression of faked admiration. “You gotta hand it to him, Adrienne. This guy’s good. I mean, you don’t know better, you’d have to say he’s affronted!”
“I think you ought to leave,” Duran told them, getting wearily to his feet.
“Hear me out,” Bonilla insisted, “because I saved the best for last.” There was nothing amused in the man’s face now and he looked at Duran with the sharp, malevolent focus of a bird of prey. “All these institutions that never heard of you got me worrying (well, I’m the anxious type, as Miz Cope here will tell you). I had a feeling, y’know? So, knowing your alleged name and your actual address, I ran a credit check with Experian. Cost me thirty-five bucks. All I was lookin’ for was a header—just the top line.” He placed another document on the table, and watched as Duran picked it up. “Name, address, and D-O-B. Where you were born. And your Social.”
Duran frowned. “My what?”
“Your social security number,” Adrienne explained.
“Like I said: it’s the top line.” Bonilla grinned in a bright, unfriendly way. “And the next thing I do, I get on the Web, and—bim bam boom—I’m at the site for the Social Security Death Index. Takes about thirty seconds. And guess what?”
Duran didn’t want to play anymore. “I think you ought to go,” he said. “Not yet, Jeff, I’m just getting to the punch line.” Bonilla stood up, crouched like a batter and raised his hands to shoulder height. “You didn’t attend Brown.” His arms came round in an arc, as if he were swinging a bat—and missing. “Whoosh! Turns out, you ain’t no Badger!” Another swing, and: “Whoof! And last, but definitely not least, you ain’t ever Jeffrey Duran.” The detective reached into his portfolio, and extracted a piece of paper. “Check it out,” he said, and handed it to Duran.
