A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (30 page)

“Coffee, please.”

I was alone, safe from John in a stranger’s office, but not safe from my own thoughts. Denial slammed me. I had no weapons to vanquish it. I was weak, physically and mentally. I floated in a vacuum. I could see what was happening but unable to make sense of it.

Why did I ask for the police? I’m afraid of the police. What am I going to tell my family and friends when this gets out? No, I can’t have the police. Why did I say
murder
? John needs mental and medical help, and then everything will be okay. Then we can go to the admiral and John can join the project.
I had at last opened my secret bag of fears and the demons flew out, swirling around me, devouring me.

The door opened. A black female police officer approached me. “I need to take your statement, ma’am.”

I answered her questions as best I could. When she asked where the ether bottle was, I told her it was on the sink counter the last time I had seen it. She continued, and all the while I implored her to ignore the police call. I didn’t need her. She could leave. I just needed to get John to Bethesda. She shook her head, as if she understood, then smiled and left the room. I was alone again, and my apprehension increased tenfold.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that my denial was a textbook reaction to domestic violence. I emerged from the attack confused and unable to face the truth that would set me free, I minimized the abuse, made excuses for John’s behavior, and reverted to my caretaking role. His needs once more became the focus of my attention, and right now I believed he had medical and psychological needs. Ironically I wasn’t too far off on the latter.

Five minutes later a slim, red-haired police officer entered the room. Her name tag read CATHERINE COBB.

“Where’s John? Is he okay?”

“We caught him getting into a rental car with his briefcase. He told us he had a plane to catch. When hotel security woke him up earlier, he got dressed and nonchalantly checked out of the hotel. So far he’s cooperated and has returned peacefully to the room. Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Perry?”

I ranted on about what had happened. Cobb took notes. I begged that we be allowed to go to Bethesda and drop the police report.

“Can’t do that, ma’am. Holly and I have both interrogated John, separately, and we feel there is something strange going on. We can’t pinpoint it. We’re going to take you and your husband to the Drewry Center to straighten this out.”

“Drewry Center?”

“The county mental facility. The paddy wagon’s on its way.” My mouth fell open. Now I was being taken in like a common criminal.

“Don’t worry,” Cobb said. “The paddy wagon’s for your husband. You’ll go in our police car. Is there anything you want to take with you? A purse or something?”

“Yes, my purse, and my shoes, and...my camera. I don’t want it to get stolen.” I stood at the door of the Drewry Center, clutching my purse in one hand and my camera bag in the other as raindrops pelted my unprotected face.
What now?
I thought, as Officer Cobb opened the door.

“Let’s go inside, Mrs. Perry. We’re going to get wet if we stay out here.”

I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to take John to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Officer Cobb gently took my arm and led me into the foyer. “I have Mrs. Perry with me,” she told the receptionist sitting behind a protective glass window.

“Up the stairs. Turn right and follow the hall all the way to the end for Ms. Lovato’s office. I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”

“Where’s John?” I asked.

“In an upstairs room,” Cobb responded.

“When can I take him to Bethesda?”

“I don’t know. Come this way, Mrs. Perry. Ms. Lovato is waiting for you.”

She led me up the stairs. We started down the hall; I glanced left and right, into each open room, hoping to see John. The hall branched to the right. I continued to look through open doorways. In the third room on the left, I saw him. He sat with his back to the doorway, his hands cuffed behind him. My breathing quickened. My eyes teared. My body tensed and stood riveted in place. The officer nudged me on.

At the end of the hall we stopped in front of an open door with LANA LUCAS LOVATO engraved on a brass plaque. A middle-aged woman with short brunette hair and Ben Franklin glasses sat inside at a green metal desk, browsing through a thick book. Officer Cobb knocked.

“Mrs. Perry is here,” she said.

“Please, come in and have a seat,” Lana said to me, waving her hand at the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.

I slumped into it and set my purse and camera bag on the floor, next to my feet. The officer patted me on the shoulder, smiled, and closed the door behind her as she left the room. Lana extended her hand and introduced herself.

“I’m a mental health emergency therapist, working with the Prevention and Intervention Unit.”

“I don’t need a mental therapist. I need to get my husband to Bethesda Naval Hospital,” I said in a monotone.

Lana said she understood that was foremost on my mind, but there were several professionals who had to make an assessment of what happened in the hotel room, and it would take some time.

“My husband freaked out. That’s all. He’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

Lana got up and poured us both a cup of coffee. When she sat down, the interview started. What happened in the room? What was the marriage like? Had my husband ever been physically abusive before? What was my background? I was bombarded with questions that invaded my privacy, and from a complete stranger. I was relieved when the telephone rang and Lana took the call.

“That was the poison control center,” she said, hanging up. “They’ve advised that we wash your face to remove any residue of the ether. They also said any ether you inhaled would be gone. It dissipates from the blood within half an hour.”

She led me to a small bathroom across the hall and switched on the light. “I’ll wait for you in my office,” she said as she closed the door.

I approached the sink and gasped as I looked into the mirror hanging above it. It was the first time I had seen myself since the attack. I stared at my reflection: sad brown eyes stared back. My hand gently touched my battered face. Was this person with scrapes, bruises, and welts all over her face really me? Tears escaped as I turned on the faucet. The water cooled the sting in my cheeks but could not douse the fire in my mind. I reached for the soft toilet tissue; the rough hand towels would have been too abrasive on my savaged skin.

Back in Lana’s office I faced more insulting questions, many similar to what I had already answered for the officers.
How many times do I have to tell my story?
I thought. Lana carefully recorded my comments on a yellow piece of paper attached to a manila folder. Half an hour later she closed it.

“That’s all for now. I’m going to interview your husband. Make yourself comfortable and don’t wander away from the room, except to use the toilet.”

“When can I take John to Bethesda?”

“I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”

She closed the door. I felt abandoned, afraid, and helpless. I wanted to get John to Bethesda Naval Hospital, but how could I when I was stuck in this office? I was still in denial.

For the next several hours, I existed in solitude, interrupted only by the occasional visit from Lana. When I said I was hungry, she gave me an apple. I would have preferred a sandwich, but they didn’t have a cafeteria. She kept fresh coffee in the pot, and I drained it. Each time I asked about John, her answer was always the same: the matter was in the hands of the police.

I was exhausted from the attack, the questions, the monotony. Like a caged animal, I alternated between pacing and sitting. There were no bars on the window, but I was just as trapped. I settled into my chair, placed my elbows on my lap, lowered my head into my hands, and closed my eyes. I felt I was suffocating. When I heard the office door open and someone enter, I did not look up.

“Mrs. Perry, I have someone I want you to meet,” Lana said. “This is Homicide Detective Greg Smith.”

I opened my eyes and stared at a pair of brown wingtip shoes. My head followed to the tan slacks, tweed sport coat, a friendly smile, intense blue eyes, and sandy blond hair. My first thought,
He’s gorgeous,
seemed wildly inappropriate. My second thought was,
Why did I have the first thought?
What I didn’t recognize at the time was that God had sent me an angel.

“Call me Greg,” he said, extending his hand. Then the detective’s title shook me back to reality.

“Homicide detective?” I said. “Why homicide? My husband didn’t try to kill me.”

My denial ratcheted up several notches. My conscious self refused to believe it as my subconscious self struggled over and over to make me see the light.

“John has been interviewed by a team of specialists,” Detective Smith said. “They all agreed there was something more than a domestic dispute taking place, so they called me. After talking with him, I support their conclusion.”

“John didn’t try to murder me. He’s under heavy medication. I need to get him to the hospital.”

“I’ve handled a lot of murder cases, Mrs. Perry.”

“He
didn’t
try to murder me! When are you people going to understand that?”

They just wouldn’t listen. I needed to get John to the hospital, to get him medical attention, and everything would be okay. John would get the help he needed and we’d go home. I felt trapped in the clinic with therapists and police who wouldn’t let me take care of John. I was as much a prisoner as he was.

“I’ve answered a lot of homicide calls,” Smith continued. “Each time I see a victim, I ask myself what I could have done to help them. That’s why I think I can help now.”

“But I’m not dead!”

“I know, but I believe you could have been. John brutally attacked you.”

“John never hit me before. He’s under medication. He overdosed. He needs to get to the hospital.”

“This is serious. I believe if we let you go with him tonight, we’ll find your body in the morning.”

“No! John loves me. He rubs my feet. He cooks for me. He buys me nice things.”

“Mrs. Perry, please listen. I also believe if we let you go back to California with John after a three-day psychiatric hold, someone is going to find your dead body out there.”

Dear God,
I prayed,
please help me. Why is he saying these horrible things? Help me get out of here so I can get John to a hospital.
But the detective did not let up and kept insisting that, based on John’s actions, he wanted to arrest him for attempted murder. I just about lost my mind.

“Attempted murder?” I whispered. “He has no reason to kill me.” Detective Smith explained that people kill for a lot of reasons. He asked more questions, looking for a plausible one in my case. We ruled out jealousy right away. When he asked about problems, I searched my soul and had to admit that we had been under financial strains, which was why the job offer for Egypt had been so critical.

“Would John benefit from your death?” Smith asked.

I hesitated, searching my life for answers, and thought especially hard about the past year. Yes, there was some life insurance from my work. John was the executor of my will and primary beneficiary. We had just redone the wills earlier in the month, but I didn’t think there was enough money there for him to want to kill me.

“Has John ever hurt you, say, in the last year?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have any accidents or strange happenings?”

I replayed events from the previous year in my mind. It seemed so long ago. After the attack this morning, a lot of things seemed like a long time ago. Slowly, I found some of the crazymaking puzzle pieces that might shed light on the situation, if I would only believe their message. I explained the car accident in Hot Springs, the sleeping pills, and the telephone pole. Recalling the accident confused me. Could it have been a murder attempt? Why would he have wanted to murder me then? No, it was just an unfortunate accident, nothing more.

Detective Smith prompted me again. He was relentless. I tried to think of something else out of the ordinary.

“Well, there was this incident with the gun,” I said, and went on to explain the Florida trip, John’s heart attack, and the foil-wrapped gun in his briefcase. It didn’t seem like a murder attempt, just carelessness on John’s part—although it was strange that the banker didn’t know John, and the attorney gave me an ominous warning.

“Was there anything else where you were hurt?” Smith asked.

The fall down the stairs came to mind almost immediately. I explained the circumstances, and that I had yet to prove that John was teaching at the University of California. Enlightening as some of these events could have been, my focus was still on getting John to Bethesda Naval Hospital.

“I’m sorry,” Smith said. “I don’t think that’s possible at this time, but you can help John right now. I agree with you that he is sick.”

Detective Smith said John could get psychiatric assistance in prison; a staff psychologist would evaluate him before trial, and the evaluation would be used to determine whether John should serve his time in the state’s criminal mental facility. I perked up. All I had ever wanted to do was get John medical attention. This might work.

“How can I help?”

“Let me arrest John for attempted murder.”

“What will I have to do after that?”

“Help us in our investigation. I suspect that a lot of evidence is back in California. And you’ll have to testify against him at the trial.”

I mulled it over. On the one hand, Detective Smith had brought up some interesting theories about the past year. I had been plagued with suspicions and troubled by missing family and mysterious loans. Maybe this was the way to help me shed light on them and help John at the same time. On the other hand, an arrest . . . and a trial? I wrestled with reality and faced the new chapter of my life that was about to unfold. The prospect frightened me. Reluctantly, I lowered my denial defense and agreed to let Homicide Detective Smith arrest John.