“What the hell is VFC?” Scorse asked. “I don't know VFC. You've lost me.”
“It's a common enough psych term,” I told him. “All of us shrinks talk about VFC when we get together. Very @cking crazy, Gerry.”
Everybody around the table laughed except Scorse. Sampson had nicknamed him the Funeral DirectorDigger Scorse. He was dedicated and professional, but usually not a lot of laughs.
“Very fucking funny, Alex,” Scorse finally said. “That's VFF.”
“Can you get in to see him again?” Jezzie asked me. She was as professional as Scorse, but a lot nicer to be around.
“Yeah, I can. fie wants to see me. Maybe I'll even find out why in hell he asked for me down in Florida. Why I'm the chosen one in his nightmare.”
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 47
WO DAYS LATER, I wangled, another hour with Gary Soneji/Murphy. I'd been up the previous two nights rereading multiple-personality cases. My dining room looked like a carrel at a psych library. There are tomes written about multiples, but few of us really agree on the material. There is even serious disagreement about whether there are any real multiplepersonality cases at all.
Gary was sitting on his hospital cot, staring into space, when I arrived. His shoulder sling was gone. It was hard to come and talk to this kidnapper, child-killer, serial killer. I remembered something the philosopher Spinoza once wrote: “I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them. ” So far, I didn't understand.
“Hello Gary,” I said softly, not wanting to startle him. “Are you ready to talk?”
He turned around and seemed glad to see me. He pulled a chair over for me by his cot.
“I was afraid they wouldn't let you come,” he said. “I'm glad they did.” “What made you think they wouldn't let me come?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, I don't know. It's just... I felt you were someone I might be able to talk to. The way my luck's been going, I thought they would shut you right off.”
There was a n;divet6 about him that was troubling to me. He was almost charming. He was the man his neighbors in Wilmington had described.
“What were you just thinking about? A minute ago?” I asked. “Before I interrupted.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I don't even know. What was I thinking about? Oh, I know what it was. I was remembering it's my birthday this month. I keep thinking that I'm suddenly going to wake up out of this. That's one recurring thought, a leitmotif through all my thinking. ”
“Go back a little for me. Tell me how you were arrested again,” I said, changing the subject. “I woke up, I came to in a police car outside a McDonald's. ” He was consistent on that point. He'd told me the same thing two days before. “My arms were handcuffed behind my back. Later on, they used leg-irons, too.”
“You don't know how you got into the police car?” I asked. Boy, was he good at this. Soft-spoken, very nice, believable.
"No, and I don't know how I got to a McDonald's in Wilkinsburg, either. That is the most freakish thing that's ever happened to me.
“I can see how it would be.”
A theory had occurred to me on the ride down from ashington. It was a long shot, but it might explain a few things that didn't make any sense so far.
“Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” I asked. “Anything vaguely like it, Gary?”
“No. I've never been in any trouble. Never been arrested. You can check that, can't you? Of course you can.”
“I mean have you ever woken up in a strange place before? No idea how you got there?”
Gary gave me a strange look, his head cocked sli htly. “Why would you ask that?”
9 “Did you, Gary?”
"Well... yes.
“Tell me about it. Tell me about those times when you woke up in a strange place.”
He had a habit of pulling on his shirt, between the second and third buttons. He would pull the fabric away from his chest. I wondered if he had a fear of not being able to breathe, and where it might have come from if he did.
Maybe he'd been sick as a child. Or trapped with a limited air supply. Or locked up somewhere-the way Maggie Rose and Michael Goldberg had been locked away.
“For the past year or so, maybe more than that, I've suffered from insomnia. I told that to one of the doctors who came to see n-w,” he said.
There was nothing about insomnia in any of the prison workups. I wondered if he'd told any of the doctors, or simply imagined that he had. There was stuff about an uneven Wechsler profile, indicative of impulsivity. There was a verbal I.Q. and a performance I.Q., both through the roof. There was a Rorschach profile that reflected severe emotional stress. There was a positive response to T. A.T. card # 14, the so-called suicide card. But not a word about insomnia.
“Tell me about it, please. It could help me to understand. ” We'd already talked about the fact that I was a psychologist, besides being A really crackerjack detective. He was comfortable with my credentials. So far, anyway. Did that have anything to do with his asking for me down in Florida? He looked into my eyes. “Will you really try to help me? Not trap me, Doctor, help me?”
I told him that I'd try. I'd listen to what he had to say. I'd keep an open mind. He said that was all he could ask for.
“I haven't been able to sleep for a while. This goes back for as long as I can remember,” he went on. “It was becoming a jumble. Being awake, dreams. I had trouble sorting one out from the other. I woke up in that police car in Pennsylvania. I have no idea how I got there. That's really how it happened. Do you believe me? Somebody has to believe me.”
“I'm listening to you, Gary. When you've finished, I'll tell you what I think. I promise. For the moment, I have to hear everything you remember.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
"You asked if it's happened to me before. It has. A few times. Waking in strange places. Sometimes in my car, pulled over along some road. Sometimes a road
I've never seen, or even heard of before. A couple of times it's happened in motels. Or wandering the streets. Philadelphia, New York, Atlantic City one time. I had casino chips and a complimentary parking ticket in my pocket. No idea how they got there."
“Did it ever happen to you in Washington?” I asked.
“No. Not in, Washington. I haven't been in Washington since I was a kid, actually. Lately, I've found I can ficome to' in a conscious state. Completely conscious. I might be eating a meal, for example. But I have no idea how I got in the restaurant.”
“Did you see anybody about this? Did you try to get help? A doctor?”
He shut his eyes, which were clear chestnut brownhis most striking feature. A smile came across his face as he opened his eyes again.
"We don't have money to spend on psychiatrists. We're barely scraping by. That's why I've been so depressed. We're in the hole over thirty grand. My family is thirty thousand in debt, and I'm here in prison.
He stopped talking, and looked at me again. He wasn't embarrassed about staring, trying to read my face. I was finding him cooperative, stable, and genet ally lucid. I also knew that anybody who worked with him might be the victim of manipulation by an extremely clever and gifted sociopath. He'd fooled a lot of people before me; he was obviously good at it.
“So far, I believe you,” I finally said to him. “What you 9re saying makes sense to me, Gary. I'd like to help you if I can.”
Tears suddenly welled in his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. He put his hands out to me.
I reached out, and I held Gary Soneji/Murphy's hands. They were very cold. He seemed to be aft-aid.
“I'm innocent,” he said to me. “I know it sounds crazy, but I'm innocent.”
I didn't get home until late that night. A motorcycle eased up alongside the car as I was about to pull into my driveway. What the hell was this?
“Please follow me, sir,” said the person atop the bike. The line was delivered in n
early perfect highwayatrol style. “Just fall in behind.” p
It was Jezzie. She started to laugh and so did 1. I knew she was trying to lure me back to the land of the living again. She'd told me I was working too hard on the case. She reminded me that it was solved. I continued into the driveway and got out of the old Porsche. I went around to where she had curbed her motorcycle.
“Quitting time, Alex,” Jezzie said. “Can you do it? Is it okay for you to quit work at eleven o'clock?”
I went inside to check on the kids. They were sleeping, so I had no reason to resist Jezzie's offer. I came back out and climbed on the bike.
“This is either the worst or the best thing I've done in recent memory,” I told her.
“Don't worry, it's the best. You're in good hands. Nothing to fear except instant death.”
Within seconds, 9th Street was being eaten up under the glare of the single motorcycle headiamp. The bike sped down Independence, then onto the Parkway, which be ridiculously curvy in spots. Jezzie leaned into every curve, buzzing by passenger cars as if they were standing still.
She definitely knew how to drive the bike. She wasn't a dilettante. As the landscape slashed past us, the electric wires overhead, and the roadway's dotted line just to the left of the bike's front wheel, I thought that she was doing at least a hundred, but I felt extraordinarily calm on the bike.
I didn't know where we were going, and I didn't care. The kids were asleep. Nana was there. This was all part of the night's therapy. I could feel the cold air forcing itself back through every socket and aperture in my body. It cleared my head nicely, and my head sure needed clearing.
N Street was empty of traffic. It was a long, naffo w straightaway with hundred-year-old town houses on either side. It was pretty, especially in winter. Gabled roofs crusted with snow. Winking porch lights. Jezzie opened the bike up again on the deserted street. Seventy, ninety, a hundred. I couldn't tell how fast for sure, only that we were really flying. The trees and houses were a blur. The pavement below was a blur. It was kind of nice, actually. If we lived to tell about it.
Jezzie braked the BMW smoothly. She wasn't showing off, just knew how it's done.
“We're home. I just got the place. I'm getting my home act together,” she said as she dismounted. “You were pretty good. You only yelped that one time on the George Washington.”
“I keep my yelps to myself.”
Exhilarated by the ride, we went inside. The apart ment wasn't at all what I had expected. Jezzie said she hadn't found time to fix the place up, but it was beautiful and tasteful. The overall style was sleek and modern, but not at all stark. There were lots of striking art photographs, mostly black and white. Jezzie said she'd taken them all. Fresh flowers were in the living room and kitchen. Books with bookmarks sticking out-The Prince of Tides, Burn Marks, Women in Power, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. A wine rackBeringer, Rutherford. A hook on the wall for her cycle helmet. “So you're a homebody after all.”
“I am like hell. Take it back, Alex. I'm a tough-asthey-come Secret Service woman.”
I took Jezzie in my arms and we kissed very gently in her living room. I was finding tenderness where I hadn't expected it; I was discovering sensuality that surprised me. It was the whole package I'd been searching for, only with one little catch.
“I'm glad you brought me to your house,” I said. “I mean that, Jezzie. I really am touched.”
“Even if I practically had to kidnap you to get you over here?”
“Fast motorcycle rides in the night. Beautiful, homey apartment. Annie Leibovitz-quality photographs. What other secrets do you have?”
Jezzie moved a finger gently down and around my jawline, exploring my face. “I don't want to have any secrets. That's what I'd like. Okay?” I said yes. That was exactly the way I wanted it, too. It was time to open up to someone again. It was way past time, probably for both of us. Maybe we hadn't it to the outside world, but we'd been lonely and ner-driven for too long. That was the simple truth we were helping each other to get in touch with.
Early the next morning, we rode the bike back to my house in Washington. The wind was cold and rough on our faces. I held on to her chest as we floated through the dim, gray light of early dawn. The few people who were up, driving or walking to work, stared at us. I probably would have stared, too. What a damn fine and handsome couple we were.
Jezzie dropped me exactly where she'd picked me up. I leaned close against her and the warm, vibrating bike. I kissed her again. Her cheeks, her throat, finally her lips. I thought I could stay there all morning. Just like that, on the mean streets of Southeast. I had the passing thought that it should always be like this. Why not?
“I have to get inside,” I finally said.
“ Yep. I know you do. Go home, Alex,” Jezzie said. “Give your babies a kiss for me.” She looked a little sad as I turned away and headed in, though.
Don't start something you can'tfinish, I remembered.
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 48
HE REST OF THAT DAY, I burned the candle at the other end. It felt a little irresponsible, but that was good for me. It's all fight to put the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes, if you know how to take it off.
As I drove out to Lorton Prison, the temperature was below freezing, but the sun was out. The sky was bright, almost blinding blue. Beautiful and hopeful. The pathetic fallacy lives in the nineties.
I thought about Maggie Rose Dunne that morning on my drive. I had to conclude that she was dead by now. Her father was raising all kinds of hell through the media. I couldn't blame him very much. I'd spoken to Kathefine Rose a couple of times on the phone. She hadn't given up hope. She told me she could “feel” that her little girl was still alive. It was the saddest thing to hear.
I tried to prepare myself for Soneji/Murphy, but I was distracted. Images from the night before kept flashing
T by my eyes. I had to remind myself that I was drivin I
I 9 a car in midday Metro D.C. traffic, and I was working. That was when a bright idea hit me: a testable theory about Gary Soneji/Murphy that seemed to make some i sense in psych terms. Having an interesting theory du jour helped my concentration at the prison. I was taken up to the sixth floor to see Soneji. He was waiting for me. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night, either. It was my turn to make i something happen. I went at him for a full hour that afternoon, maybe even a little longer. I pushed hard. Probably harder than with any of my patients. “Gary, have you ever found receipts in your pockets-hotels, restaurants, store purchases-but you have no memory of spending-the money?” “How did you know that?” His eyes lit up at m y question. Something like relief washed over his face. I told them I wanted you to be my doctor. I don't want to see Dr. Walsh anymore. All he's good for is scrip for chloral hydrate.“ ”I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm a psychologist, not a psychiatrist like- Dr. Walsh. I'm also part of the team that helped arrest you.“ He shook his head. ”I know all that. You're also the only one who's listened before making final judgments. I know you hate me-the idea that I took those two children, the other things I'm supposed to have done. But you listen, at least. Walsh only pretends to listen. “ ”You need to continue seeing Dr. Walsh," I told him.
"That's fine. I guess I understand the politics here by now. Just please, don't leave me in this hellhole by myself.
“I won't. I'm with you all the way from here on. We'll continue to talk just like this.”
I asked Soneji/Murphy to tell me about his childhood.
“I don't remember a whole lot about growing up. Is that very strange?” He wanted to talk. It was in my hands, my judgment, to determine whether I was hearing the truth, or a set of elaborately constructed lies.
“That's normal for some people. Not remembering. Sometimes, things come back when you talk about them, when you verbalize.”
"I know the facts and statistics. Okay. Birthdate, February twenty-fourth, nineteen fifty-seven. Birth
place, Princeton, New Jersey. Things like that. Sometimes I feel like I learned all that while I was growing though. I've had experiences where I can't separate UP, dreams from reality. I'm not sure which is which. I'm really not sure.
“Try to give me your first impressions,” I told him.
“Not a lot of fun and laughs,” he said. "I've always had insomnia. I could never sleep more than an hour or two at a time. I can't remember not being tired. And, depressed-like I've been trying to dig myself out of a hole my entire life. Not to try to do your job, but I don't think very highly of myself.
Everything we knew about Gary Soneji depicted the opposite persona: high energy, positive attitude, an extremely high opinion of himself.
Gary went on to sketch a terrifying childhood, which included physical abuse from his stepmother as a small child; sexual abuse from his father as he got older.
Over and over, he described how he was forced to split himself off from the anxiety and conflict that surrounded him. His stepmother had come with her two children in 1961. Gary was four years old, and already moody. It got worse from that point on. How much worse, he wasn't willing to tell me yet.
As part of his workup under Dr. Walsh, Soneji/Murphy had taken Wechsler Adult, Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, and Rorschach tests. Where he sailed completely off the scales was in the area of creativity. This was measured by single-sentence completion. He scored equally high in both verbal and written responses.
“What else, Gary? Try to go as far back as you can. I can only help if I understand you better.”
“There were always these 'lost hours.' Time I couldn't account for,” he said. His face had been drawing tighter and tighter as he spoke. The veins in his neck protruded. Light sweat rolled over his face.
"They punished me because I couldn't remember
. , " he said.
“Who did? Who punished you?”
“My stepmother mostly.”
That probably meant most of the damage had happened when he was very young, while his stepmother did the disciplining. “A dark room,” he said.
Alex Cross 1 - Along Came A Spider Page 16
