by Merry Jones
Her eyebrows lifted. “Okay. Maybe this isn’t the same drive that Derek was looking for. Maybe it’s something else entirely.”
I bit my lip. Folded my hands. Sat tall. Why was she asking so many questions, making this even harder than it already was? “Trust me. It’s the right drive. It’s just not what Derek said it was. Actually, I think it’s possible that Derek made up that whole client story to cover for Charlie and, indirectly, protect himself and the firm.”
She watched me. Mildly interested.
“Susan. Charlie might have been into something awful—”
“What is it, a snuff film?”
“No, but—”
“Let’s take a look, why don’t we?” She turned to the screen.
“Be prepared, Susan. It’s bad.”
And with that, I opened the first file.
I didn’t look at the pictures. I’d seen them. Instead, I watched Susan’s face, her reaction. As she advanced through the photos, her eyes changed, became grim. Her jaw became set. I expected outrage and shock. Revulsion. I’d even left the door open to the bathroom, in case she had to expel her ham and cheese.
But she didn’t need the bathroom. Didn’t express any of the emotions for which I’d been prepared. She simply viewed the photos, one at a time. When she’d viewed the entire file, she sat back. Pushed hair out of her eyes. Looked at me.
“How long have you had these, Elle?”
I shrugged. “A day or—”
“Because you realize these might change everything.”
I nodded. Yes.
“You never saw Charlie with any images like these before?”
“Of course not.”
“His sexual appetites never seemed—”
“Susan. No. I never had a clue. How can you even ask me that?”
She shrugged. “You never know what goes on in people’s bedrooms.”
I let that pass. Bristling.
She turned to face me. “So. Do you know any of the children?”
What? “Of course not.” Did she think I’d taken the pictures myself? Perhaps posed my students?
“Nor do I. You know what? I don’t think they’re local.” She started through the shots again. “The settings—look at the furniture. And that telephone? Its design? It looks foreign.”
Really? I wasn’t sure. There were all kinds of phones anymore.
“And look,” she pointed to a magazine on a nightstand, “that’s not English.”
The letters were too small to see. No way she could know that.
“I think it’s Greek. Maybe Russian.”
“So?” What difference did it make where the pictures were taken? “I don’t see—”
“Have you looked at the other files on the drive?”
“No. I couldn’t stand it.”
She clicked away, moving on to a new file. “Damn it, Elle, why didn’t you tell me about this right away? What’s the matter with you? These pictures might cast a whole new light on Charlie’s murder. It might take the heat off you.”
She opened another file. The images were poorly lit. Candid, not professional like those in the first file. The hands were adult, male, faceless. Touching a child.
I choked on my question. “So, Susan. You don’t think Charlie had these because he was—”
“Was what?”
I hesitated. She looked up at me from the screen.
“Are you asking me if I think Charlie was a pedophile?”
Adult male hands caressed a boy’s buttocks.
I just looked at her, couldn’t speak.
She looked back at the screen. Then at me again. “I learned a long time ago that people can surprise you, Elle. I’ve represented people whose spouses have had not the slightest idea that they’ve been robbing convenience stores or stealing cars. Even raping women. But this? Could Charlie have hidden a sexual aberration like this?” She paused, thinking.
Could he? Had he? Bed had been the one area where, even at the end, our marriage had been strong. Thinking of it made my throat feel thick.
“No. Sorry. I don’t buy it. You’d have had some indication.”
She clicked forward through the file. Opened the next one to find more of the same, this time with young girls, as well. And the next.
Finally, she opened last file on the flash drive. The first photo showed a young tow-headed boy in Moscow, outside the Kremlin. Holding Somerset Bradley’s hand.
That file didn’t show sex acts. The photos looked perfectly innocent, showed men, sometimes alone and sometimes with children, mostly candid, eating ice cream and walking like tourists in the Russian capital.
Susan recognized the children. “Remember the kid in the shower stall? This is him. And that’s the girl from the bondage thing.”
But in this file, they were dressed. Like children. Smiling. Skipping in a park. Kicking a soccer ball.
Altogether, there were pictures of four men. Somerset Bradley. Jonas Walters. One I didn’t know. And another that I did.
Charlie’s partner, Derek Morris.
Derek. With Somerset Bradley and Jonas Walters. In Russia.
My stomach twisted. I tasted a mixture of recycled roast beef and anger. Susan was talking, but I couldn’t listen. I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Were all four of these men pedophiles? Even Derek? Jonas Walters? And Somerset Bradley? Had they gone to Russia on some kind of pedophilia tour package? Were the candid shots in these files mementos of their trip?
Oh God. Now it made sense why Somerset Bradley had gone to Charlie’s condo—he’d been looking for these photos. They could have destroyed him. And Derek. And the other men.
And what about Charlie? What was he doing with these files? Planning to blackmail the others? Or to blow a whistle, exposing them? Was he threatening Derek, trying to force him out of the business? I had no idea.
Susan was talking, or rather, shouting. Angry. Escalating. “—think I can represent you if you don’t tell me everything? Now that Sherry McBride isn’t a suspect, don’t you realize that you are the only one the police are even looking at? You are this close,” she put her thumb and pointer a quarter inch apart, “from being arrested for Charlie’s murder. If I hadn’t begged and pleaded and used every ounce of pull I have in my friendship with Nick Stiles, you’d already have been arraigned. Probably be behind bars. Are you completely insane, Elle? Why—what possibly could have led you to keep this from me?” She looked at me, exasperated. Panting. Waiting for an answer.
I owed it to her. She was right. “I’m sorry, Susan. I thought the photos were Charlie’s.” I paused. “And if I showed them to you, you’d think he was sick. And by contagion, that I was. That you’d be disgusted.”
“You thought I’d be disgusted.” She shook her head, rolled her eyes.
Yes. I nodded.
“Disgusted with Charlie. Who was divorcing you. And who’s dead. And whose death might send you to prison for a long, long time.”
Yes, yes, yes, and yes. “See, I didn’t look at all the files. I didn’t know about the other men in the pictures.”
“Elle. Whether or not Charlie was a pedophile—whether or not the other men are—it makes no difference.”
“How can it make no difference, Susan? It’s unspeakably sick. How can you not be disgusted?”
“Because my personal disgust or lack thereof is not relevant—”
“Not relevant?”
“No matter what I think or feel, you are my client. And in this country, as you may remember, even the vilest suspect accused of the most heinous of crimes is entitled to zealous, impartial legal defense. So my reaction—”
“Wait. You’re saying I’m vile?”
“Good God, Elle. What I’m saying is that all that matters here is you and your legal situation. Are you daft? Don’t you get it? These files raise the possibility that someone else—in fact, four someone else’s—had motive and opportunity to kill Charlie. For example: Derek thinks Charlie is going to black
mail a client over these pictures; Derek kills Charlie to prevent it. Substitute the names of the other men in the photos if you want other theories. Bottom line: the files take the heat off you.”
I got that part. But not the part about her attitude. I wanted her friendship and respect and affection, not just her representation. “But Susan, the kids in those photos—they’re the age of the kids in my class. Seven or eight years old. They’re just a little older than your Emily. Can’t you see why I couldn’t stand it—”
“Oh, get over it, Elle. So you were shocked. Well, welcome to Earth. This is a planet where people do terrible things to each other. It’s part of reality.”
“How can you say that? You’re a mother—”
“Yes, I am. And, believe me, I’d jump in front of a tractor trailer to keep my kids safe. But ultimately, I know I can’t protect them from everything. The world has ugliness and cruelty. Crime galore. And you can’t just pretend it’s not there and hide it—especially from your attorney. It won’t go away.”
She asked if I had a blank flash drive. Busied herself downloading and copying the files. And I went to the bar and poured myself another Scotch, feeling chastised. Not offering her one.
I swallowed booze. The images of the children, of the men abusing them wouldn’t leave my head. Got confused among memories of Charlie. His kisses. His shoulders. Our steamy nights in bed. Despite what Susan said, I felt ill. Something primal boiled in my rib cage, threatened to erupt. From above, I watched myself swallow Scotch and turn to Susan. Heard myself speak.
“You know, Susan? If Charlie was involved in child porn and I found out? I don’t know what I’d have done. I might have—it’s possible that I’d have killed him.”
Susan didn’t even look up. “But he was nowhere in those photos. So, according to what’s on those files, he wasn’t involved.” Susan was finished copying the flash drive, popped it into her bag. Looked at me directly. “So you wouldn’t.”
Long after she’d gone, I stayed in the study, watching myself sip Scotch. Not entirely sure.
Over and over, I replayed my dream of stabbing Charlie. The feeling of steel slicing through fabric, skin, tissue.
And I replayed Dr. Schroeder’s explanation of localized dissociative amnesia. It was specific to a particular event so traumatic that the mind refused access to it. The way my mind refused access to the hours around Charlie’s murder.
I pictured what might have happened. I might have encountered Charlie in the house. Hell, I might have even let him in. Either way, I’d have demanded to know what he was doing there.
“You can’t just come over whenever you want. You don’t live here anymore. You need to call first.”
“What’s the matter, Elf? You afraid I’ll steal the silver?”
“No. You already took the silver. And everything else of value.”
We’d have argued. But that wasn’t new. We’d argued a million times. An argument didn’t explain his murder.
I started over, redesigned the confrontation. Maybe I’d found him at the desk in the study, on the computer.
“What the hell, Charlie? You scared me. You can’t just show up here any time you want. You need to call first.” I had a knife in my hand, would have grabbed it when I’d heard someone in the study. “Don’t tell me you came here to answer your e-mail?”
“No.” He wouldn’t have looked up from the screen, would have clicked through the photos. “I’ll be just a second.”
“What are you looking at?”
I’d have looked over his shoulder. Seen the naked kids. Discovered Charlie’s involvement in pedophilia.
“Oh my God—” I’d have backed away, repulsed and shocked.
“It’s not what you think, Elf.”
How often had he said those words to me?
“I swear, just let me explain.”
He’d have come after me, trying to convince me that I had misconstrued, misinterpreted, misunderstood what I’d seen. And in a fight filled with fresh revulsion and rage on top of festering betrayal and rejection, maybe I’d used the knife. Maybe I’d killed him.
That would explain the precise details in my dream. And the way I’d found the drive. Maybe I’d tossed it into the cork jar myself and subconsciously remembered doing it. Maybe part of my mind remembered what I’d done and was trying to surface, to tell me the truth.
Oh God. I could hear Charlie whining. “You didn’t have to kill me, Elle. Divorcing me was bad enough.”
But his voice wasn’t a memory. It was there, in the room. I looked around. Saw what looked like a man’s shadow in the corner, behind the desk.
“What the hell were those pictures, Charlie? How could you have pictures of naked children?” I asked these questions out loud, as if the shadow were Charlie’s. As if it would answer.
“Maybe I had a good reason.”
Wow. It did answer.
“Did you see me in any of those pictures, Elf? No, you didn’t. Because I wasn’t in them. Not a single one. Go ahead. Look. And also look at who was in them.”
I already knew who was: Somerset Bradley. Derek. Jonas Walters and another man. “So what were you going to do? Blackmail them? That’s almost as bad as being in the pictures.” Well, no. It wasn’t nearly as bad. But I was talking to the shadow of a dead man that wasn’t really there. I didn’t have to be accurate.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was going to blackmail them. But maybe I wasn’t.”
Wait, what?
“Maybe I was going to expose a ring of powerful businessmen who share an unfortunate appetite for sex with children. Who spend fortunes investing in child prostitution. Who have actually organized lists of places to go and people to see so they and those like them can satisfy their perverse desires.”
Charlie was going to expose the pedophiles?
“But no, you would never think of that—you have to think the worst of me.”
I had no defense. The fact was, he was right. I’d assumed that either he’d been involved in pedophilia or he’d been planning blackmail. Had only briefly considered that he’d been trying to be a hero. I tried to picture it: Charlie as a hero. The man who’d lied to me about our savings, who’d secretly pilfered my entire inheritance to invest on his own, who measured people solely by the size of their bank accounts, who’d scammed people into investing in semilegal, high-risk financial schemes. Could that same deceitful, ambitious, money-driven Charlie actually hand his business partner and several very rich clients over to authorities in order to save some poor, anonymous sexually abused and exploited children?
Hmmm. I tried to see it. Almost could. But not quite.
“Sorry. I don’t know what to think, Charlie.” I lifted my Scotch, emptied the glass.
“No? Well, think about this: why wasn’t I in those photos?”
“Maybe you were holding the camera.”
The shadow sighed. “You have so low an opinion of me. It hurts.”
Charlie was hurt by my opinion? Not likely. I was beginning to doubt that the voice was Charlie’s. Maybe some other dead guy was impersonating him. “Where did you get those files, Charlie?”
Silence.
Of course there was silence. I had been having a conversation with my imagination. Constructing the answers in my own mind. But now, my mind had no answer, and there was silence. Lord. I needed to talk to Dr. Schroeder. I wasn’t just depersonalizing any more, I was hallucinating. Actually seeing and hearing things. Probably having a breakdown. Odd expression, “breakdown.” Like a rusted car, abandoned along a deserted highway. Or a rotted barn, caving in. Was I like them? Breaking down?
“They were from a sex trip they took. I made copies of Derek’s files to use as evidence. The photos were Bradley’s.”
“Charlie, Somerset Bradley’s dead.” I didn’t know if he’d know that. Did the dead know about each other? Was there some kind of roster? Welcoming parties? “I killed him. In your apartment.”
“You killed him?” T
he shadow rose, as if standing to see me better. “God, Elle. Did he hurt you?”
This wasn’t a real person. I didn’t have to respond. But I did. “No. He tried.”
“Son of a bitch was looking for the flash drive.”
Yes. He was.
“Derek swore they’d never let me give the photos to the police.”
“How would they stop you? By stabbing you?”
Charlie’s voice sighed. The shadow slumped. “They might have, Elf. If you hadn’t done it first.”
Damn. I didn’t want to argue. Wasn’t sure he was wrong. But how could he be sure who’d stabbed him? He couldn’t have seen the actual attacker; the knife had been in his back.
“So you were going to give the flash drive to the police. You didn’t offer them an alternative. Like buying it back from you?” I set my glass on the coffee table, got up. Walked over to the desk, addressing the corner where the shadow had been. “Swear to me that you weren’t blackmailing those men.”
I stood alone at the desk, demanding an answer from the dark space behind it. I hadn’t vacuumed in a while; a cobweb had formed near the floor, connecting the bookshelf to the hardwood. I wondered for a moment where cobwebs came from. They weren’t spiderwebs, weren’t free-floating dust. I waited, but Charlie didn’t swear his innocence to me. He didn’t answer at all. The space in the corner behind the desk looked empty and bare, without the slightest sign of a shadow.
I’d been seeing things again. It wasn’t like pretending, not like imagining. What I saw and heard seemed real, even though I knew it couldn’t be. I wasn’t merely depersonalizing or dissociating or having amnesia. I was over the edge. Not having a breakdown. I was already broken. Real and not real were interchangeable to me. I was, in scientific terms, nuts.
Agitated. Unable to stay still. I kept moving. Pacing in circles. Okay, time to get out of the house. I grabbed a sweatshirt and my keys, hurried outside, felt the reassuring slap of cool October air on my face. Saw normal traffic, normal parked cars. Normal people walking normal dogs or riding normal bikes. Gradually, I began to calm down.
