The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “This is not my area of expertise, but I’ll tell you what I know and it’s not a lot. Psychologists have been studying pedophiles for years without coming up with any definite ideas. What we know is that some child abusers were themselves abused when they were younger. Others seem to have an inbred fixation with children. There is even research that suggests that pedophilia results from atypical wiring in the brain.”

  “Can you cure a pedophile?” someone asks from the back of the room.

  “Unfortunately, at this point in time, there is no cure. There have been a lot of things tried. Chemical castration to reduce the sex drive. Behavior therapy similar to how we treat addiction. But no real progress has been made and there is no reasonable way to study what’s effective. As you can imagine, pedophiles are reluctant to voluntarily seek help because it’s a reportable offense and they would be arrested.”

  “Once a pedophile always a pedophile. They ought to be locked up and have their dicks cut off,” a heavyset woman in a business suit says loud enough for everyone to hear. There’s laughter and a smattering of applause.

  “Actually, some pedophiles never act on their impulses while others are able to restrain their impulses until their life circumstances become so desperate that they have nothing left to lose.”

  “Bullshit,” the heavy woman says. “I work corrections. Nothing cures these assholes.”

  A small, very pregnant woman raises her hand. “My husband is suspicious of every man we meet, including my daughter’s play school teacher and our neighbor’s son.”

  “That’s not an uncommon reaction. Has anyone else’s husband grown more suspicious since he became a cop, less trusting of anyone who isn’t in law enforcement?” Every hand in the room goes up.

  The rest of the evening is pretty pedestrian. Questions and answers. Some advice from Fran, Irma, and Lil. A few more words of wisdom from Chaplain Barnes and me and then it’s over. Everyone seems to think the evening was well spent. I gather up a sheaf of anonymous evaluation forms that we asked the women to complete and carry the leftover food to the dispatch center before driving home to an empty house and an empty refrigerator. I should have bagged a few sandwiches for myself. I change into my bathrobe and settle on the couch with a glass of wine and a bowl of microwave popcorn. It’s too early for the nighttime news and too late for anything else. I pick up the evaluation forms. The ratings are uniformly positive, not glowing, but positive, between 3.5 and 4 on a scale of 5. There is only one handwritten comment. It is from Lupe. “Call me on my cell, please, I need your help.”

  Lupe is sitting on the front steps of my private office, holding two cups of Starbucks coffee. It’s seven a.m. I rarely see clients this early, I’m hardly awake myself, but it was the only time I had available. After talking with her on the phone last night, it was clear that something is seriously wrong at home.

  I unlock the front door and we walk up the stairs to my office. Lupe hands me the coffee and fumbles in her jacket pocket for packets of sugar.

  “I hope you like cream in your coffee. I took a chance.”

  She’s a tiny woman with long, streaked chestnut brown hair and eyes that look everywhere but at my face.

  “Nice office. Where do you want me to sit?”

  I point to the couch and we settle in, sipping our coffee in silence. I like my office. The vibe here is good even if the building itself is nothing like the charming antique-filled Victorian I once shared with my ex. When we divorced, I mourned for months as though the office and the furniture were a stand-in for my collapsed marriage. Now I’m happy with my clean, contemporary look. It’s hardly different from thousands of other therapy offices, except that it’s mine. I chose it and I paid for it. It is what it is, a place to meet and talk. Not a restoration project to shore up a failing relationship.

  “Are we waiting for Manny?” Lupe’s mouth puckers like a drawstring purse. She shakes her head.

  “He’s not coming. Says he has to work. He never stops.”

  “The murder of a child takes precedence over everything, including sleep. It’s very hard on families.”

  “It’s not Chrissy. This has been going on since the first day he started on the task force. It’s just gotten worse since Chrissy. Way worse. He’s on the computer all day and all night. Perverts like to do their business at night. So he bought a laptop. It’s faster than the computer they gave him at work. He has it fixed so that whenever somebody goes into a certain chat room, he gets a warning signal. Then he gets out of bed. Sometimes he doesn’t come back for hours. I can’t fall back to sleep.”

  Now I can see what I didn’t notice at the family meeting when she was wearing makeup. Dark purple filling the hollows under her eyes.

  “I want him to go back to the street. I feel bad asking him. If anyone was hurting my baby, I’d want someone like Manny on the job, but the chief won’t let him. Says there’s no one to replace him. Plus, he’s earned all those certificates. And now, since Chrissy, he doesn’t want to. He says perverts like fetishes. They use the same poses and props over and over. He watches every video ten times looking for some blanket. He won’t tell me why, except he thinks he saw it before on a video and if he finds it, he can keep another baby from being murdered. It’s like he’s obsessed.”

  And that’s all she can manage to say. Whatever brave face she’s been faking at home crumples into a noisy, watery mess.

  Nobody calls a cop or a therapist when they’re having a good day. Cops sometimes get to fix things. They can restore calm, put bad guys in jail, and separate warring parties. Not so for a therapist. It’s not my job to fix things, and I can’t take anyone’s pain away. All I can do is witness it, contain it, share it. This comes at a cost. If you have an ounce of empathy or compassion in your heart—if you don’t you shouldn’t be a therapist—other people’s pain sticks to you. Like secondhand smoke, it seeps into your pores and clings to your hair. I count my breaths as I wait for Lupe to let go of the emotions she’s been holding in. At thirty breaths, her weeping slows. At forty-five breaths, she sits up and mops at her face.

  “I thought I could wait it out, but I can’t. No way. This job is destroying him. And us. My daughter needs him. I need him.” She bites down on her lip. “I want to have more children before Carmela gets too old. Manny doesn’t want another baby. He says the world is too dangerous for children. He never thought like that before. Never. He wanted four kids. The job has changed him and now it’s changing us.” Something zigzags across her face, pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I try to be a good wife. I know he needs to talk. I read your book.”

  I give her a weak smile. Books don’t cure problems; at best, they explain them. Providing little more than cold comfort for the suffering.

  “I know what he sees. Babies being raped and tortured. I used to listen to his stories, but I can’t anymore, not after I had the baby. He’s disappointed in me, I know. He doesn’t say it, but now when I ask how his day is, all he says is ‘fine, just fine.’ He doesn’t talk about his work to anyone. Says if he did, he’d freak everybody out like he freaks me out. My family thinks he has a regular police job. So does his family. He needs to talk to you.” She blows her nose, excuses herself, and does it again.

  “He doesn’t even have a supervisor. Started out it was just him and one other guy. Now it’s four guys. They sit in a room together watching videos and making fake phone calls, pretending to be as perverted as the men they’re trying to catch. They try to help each other. But they’re guys. They don’t talk about how they really feel. All they know how to do is make bad jokes and drink.”

  “Manny, too? Is he drinking?”

  She looks out the window. It’s a gray spare-the-air day. A soupy mix of fog, smog, and who knows what.

  “I think so. Sometimes I can smell alcohol on him. I don’t say anything because I know he needs to unwind. They all do.” Now her eyes are full of worry. Worry that she’s said too much, betrayed a trust, gotten her husband in trouble
. “He’s never drunk. And he never drinks on the job.” She checks my face to make sure I understand. “Thing is, he doesn’t even like the taste of alcohol.”

  Cops drink. Men drink. But when a man who doesn’t like the taste of alcohol starts to drink, it’s a warning sign that he is under some serious stress. I can’t imagine what it feels like to believe, even if it’s not true, that you alone are responsible for preventing an innocent child from being murdered.

  “Will you talk to him? Please.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” I say. “Except that I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I get to my office early again. The sun is just beginning to warm the tops of the trees outside the window. It takes a minute for my computer to boot up. The first e-mail in my inbox is from my mother. She wants to know how Frank and I are doing. She’s no longer interested in me for myself, only me as half of a couple. She thinks Frank is wonderful. She thinks marriage is wonderful. She only hopes we tie the knot before she dies. She’s healthy as a horse, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying that when Frank and I finally do tie the knot—a metaphor I find distinctly unappealing—she’ll drop dead on the spot because my staying single seems to be the only thing keeping her alive.

  The second e-mail is from my women’s group about our upcoming meeting. I’ve known these women since grad school. They suffered through my divorce and now they’re suffering through my ambivalence about marriage. I hope they never team up with my mother.

  There’s an invite for me to join the AARP, some fund-raising appeals, and a slew of newsletters from various organizations. The last e-mail is from Lupe. She thanks me for talking to her yesterday and hopes I talk to Manny soon because she forgot to tell me about his nightmares and he had another really, really bad one last night.

  Manny is unshaven and can hardly keep his eyes open. He apparently doesn’t have the energy to be angry at me for showing up at the substation unannounced, once again. I look around. The formerly barren walls are decorated with the half-dozen photos of registered sex offenders I saw pinned up in the command center.

  “Suspects?”

  “Some are, some aren’t.” He wheels his chair around to face them. “Number one’s in jail, number two is dead, three moved to Arizona, four has a preference for prepubescent boys, and I’m still looking for five and six.”

  “Where are they? Aren’t they supposed to report in?”

  “They’re criminals, Doc. They don’t always do what we ask.”

  He swivels back to face me.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I just stopped by to say hi. How did the interview with Bucky and Kathryn go?”

  “Okay. The father thinks Anjelika got scared and ran. Made a big deal about how thoroughly he checked her background before he hired her. Stepmom thinks the nanny’s guilty. Wants me to contact the authorities in Norway. Get them to interview her. She’s convinced that if someone speaks Norwegian to her, she’ll confess.” He yawns.

  “What did Bucky think about that?”

  He yawns again.

  “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

  “The baby woke up at three o’clock. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “Lupe sent me an e-mail this morning. Said you had a nightmare.”

  “Shit. She watches me like a hawk and it’s making me nuts. Now she’s running to you.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  He tilts back in his chair and puts his feet up on the desk so I am looking at the soles of his shoes. In some countries this amounts to a supreme insult. I doubt that Manny knows this.

  “She worries too much. Thinks you have to be sick in the head to do what I do. If you’re not a pervert when you start, you’ll be a pervert after you stop.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Who’s going to protect kids if we don’t? I like my job. I was bored before. I’m not bored now. I like the money and I like working with the team.”

  As if on cue, the door opens and Manny’s team members walk in, each one carrying a cup of coffee from a local restaurant and one for Manny. I wonder if they’ve been listening at the door.

  “We interrupting anything?”

  “Yeah. The doc is here to check up on me before I go postal.”

  It’s a weak joke, but we all laugh just to be polite.

  I’ve copied a page from the appendix of Dr. Randall’s text on pedophilia and made one for each member of the team. It speaks volumes about Dr. Randall that, in an academic text, he would think to include a section speaking directly to the men and women who investigate pedophiles. Since they’re on a coffee break, I ask permission to read his suggestions aloud. Manny speaks before the other men have a chance.

  “Go for it, Doc. Couldn’t hurt.”

  I take Randall’s book out and show them the cover. For a minute, I think about standing to read but stop myself. There’s already enough resistance in the room. Standing up like a schoolteacher will only make it worse. I put on my reading glasses. I’m the only one in the room who needs them.

  “Investigating pedophiles requires infinite and careful attention to one’s self-care in order to avoid absorbing the pain inflicted on these helpless victims. Scrupulous attention to one’s own reactions is the surest way to prevent the investigator from being consumed by compassion fatigue, cynicism, and paranoia. Please consider the following suggestions.

  “#1: Put a bright line between home and work. No viewing images or making enticement calls for the first and last hours of your shift.

  “#2: Create a home-to-work, work-to-home transition. Select a song that prepares you for work and play it on the way to the office. Pick a different song to play on your way home. Restore some goodness back in your life before you spend time with your family. Watch cartoons or pleasant movies.”

  A big guy with a shaved head laughs. “Cartoons. Sweet.”

  “It’s better than going to a bar,” I say.

  Manny gives him a shove. “Let her finish.”

  “#3: Hang a note on the visor in your car reminding you that when you are home you are a husband, a father, and a friend. Not a police officer.

  “#4: Avoid engaging with the victim’s story. Your job is to collect evidence. The more you think about the victim and not the evidence, the harder your task becomes. Staying on task stimulates the thinking part of your brain and minimizes the impact on your emotions.

  “#5: When you feel yourself tensing up or getting emotional, relieve your stress with exercise or deep breathing.

  “#6: Reduce the sensory impact of the images you see. Turn off the sound. Shrink the size of the image, turn the computer on its side. Change color images to black and white.”

  One of the team members spins around in his chair and pitches his empty coffee cup in the wastebasket. “Are we done here? I have a phone date with a guy who likes little boys with freckles on their you-know-what.”

  “Almost there. I just have two things to add to Dr. Randall’s suggestions. First, fix up this office. It’s depressing. Don’t wait for your departments to give you the money. Spend a little of your own if you have to. Paint it a different color. Something cheerful. Bring in some plants, pleasant pictures. A bird cage. A fish tank.

  “Secondly, pace yourselves. There are too many pedophiles in the world and too many vulnerable children. You can’t lock them all up, no matter how hard you work. Give yourself credit for what you can do and leave the rest behind. Your efforts matter to some child, somewhere in the world. Never let anyone tell you they don’t.”

  “What in hell is going on?” Pence is leaning on the door to my office at headquarters, drinking coffee from one of his special order cobalt-blue coffee mugs. “Did you just go to the ICAC office and give Manny and his team a little lecture on stress management? Who gave you permission to do that?”

  I don’t bother asking how he knows this. Gossip moves through a police department fas
ter than a speeding bullet.

  “I don’t need permission. It’s part of my job to identify stressed employees before they fall apart.”

  Pence steps into my office and closes the door.

  “Manny’s teammates don’t work for me. So they got a little free advice? No big deal. What I really need to know is about Manny. Is he falling apart? Do I have to replace him? I don’t want to do that, but I will if I have to.”

  “He will if he doesn’t get some sleep and a few days off. He’s exhausted. I’ve told him that. But it doesn’t mean much coming from me. I’m not his boss. It would be a lot more meaningful if it came from you.”

  “That’s all? Not a problem.” He looks at his watch. “He’s coming in for a press briefing. I promised the media that he would be here to answer questions. He can go home after that. Take a few days off.”

  “He’s sleep deprived. If you put him in front of the press, chances are he’ll embarrass himself. And you.” Pence’s right eye starts to twitch.

  “Dr. Meyerhoff, there’s something you need to understand. Whatever you may think about me, I care deeply about the welfare of my officers.” He starts to leave and turns back again. “By the way, do you or your boyfriend have any idea where JoAnn Julliette has gone? We’ve been calling her for days and she doesn’t answer her telephone. I sent a unit to her commune. Apparently she’s decided that now, right in the middle of our investigation into her daughter’s murder, would be a fine time to go to a spa. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “JJ’s not at a spa,” Frank says. “She’s on a retreat. Something called healing from grief, using art to mend a broken heart.”

  “Doesn’t look good leaving town in the middle of the investigation. A lot of people at the PD think she’s responsible for Chrissy’s death. This only increases their suspicions.”

  Frank folds his dinner napkin, pressing his fingers down on every crease.