Missing Pieces (13 page)

“A sociopath is not necessarily a sexual sadist, but a
sexual sadist is almost always a sociopath,” came the reply from the witness stand.

“In your expert opinion, Dr. Pinsent, is Colin Friendly a sexual sadist?”

“He is.”

“Is he a sociopath?”

“Most definitely.”

Again, I looked at Jo Lynn, whose face was calm, even serene. Was she listening to this? Was she
hearing
it?

The prosecutor approached the defense table, stopping in front of the accused, staring at Colin Friendly as if he were seeing him for the first time. Colin Friendly smiled back pleasantly. He’d obviously recovered quite nicely from his bout with the flu. His eyes were clear; his color was good. Everything was back to normal. “But he doesn’t look abnormal,” Mr. Eaves observed, as if reading my mind. “In fact, Mr. Friendly seems as genial as his name would imply—handsome, polite, intelligent.”

“Sociopaths are often quite intelligent,” the witness explained. “And there’s nothing that says they can’t be good-looking. As for being polite, he’s just giving you what he thinks you need to see.”

The defense attorney was instantly on his feet. “Move to strike, your honor. The witness can’t speak for Mr. Friendly.”

“Sustained.”

“Speaking in more general terms, Dr. Pinsent,” the prosecutor continued, undeterred, “what do you mean when you say that sociopaths give people what they need to see?”

“Sociopaths are extremely manipulative. Their emotions run very shallow and they’re intensely self-centered. But they can mimic the emotions they observe in others, and feed back the appropriate response, the appropriate response being whatever would be considered normal under
the circumstances. They play on people’s assumptions of basic human decency. People attribute feelings to them that simply aren’t there.” He paused, looked directly at Colin Friendly. “Sociopaths are often highly articulate, very charming, and glib. They’ll make you laugh, then stab you through the heart.”

“Can you believe
anything
they say?”

“Oh yes. They’re often quite truthful. As long as you keep in mind that their version of the truth is very self-serving.”

“What produces a sociopath, Dr. Pinsent?”

Dr. Walter Pinsent rubbed his fingers across his chin and smiled. “I’m afraid that’s a little like asking, ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ The eternal debate—are killers born or are they made?” He shook his head. “It’s impossible to say conclusively one way or the other. There are many theories, of course, but they have a habit of changing with the times and the political climate. Sometimes we give more weight to the genetic theory, sometimes to the environment. We postulate about extra Y chromosomes and chemical imbalances. But lots of people have chemical imbalances; that doesn’t make them murderers. And lots of people have an extra Y chromosome and they don’t go around slicing up their fellow human beings.”

“Does Colin Friendly have a chemical imbalance or an extra Y chromosome?”

“No, he does not.”

“And what of the theory that environment is everything?”

Walter Pinsent cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, tugged on his tie. “There’s no question that our childhood is crucial in terms of our development. The seeds for everything we grow into as adults were planted when we were children. Almost all serial killers had truly
appalling childhoods. They were neglected, molested, beaten, abused, abandoned, you name it.”

“Is this true of Colin Friendly?”

“It is.”

Jo Lynn leaned toward me. “Poor baby,” she whispered, as I struggled to find a hint of irony in her words. There was none.

“Are there any characteristics that are common to all sociopaths?” the prosecutor asked.

“Research has shown that there is something we now refer to as the ‘homicidal triad,’ three elements that are present in virtually all children who grow up to become serial killers: cruelty to small animals; bed-wetting beyond the normally appropriate age; and fire-starting.”

“And were these elements present in Colin Friendly’s childhood?”

“They were.”

“And is there any doubt in your mind, after meeting with the accused and studying his background and the many psychiatric reports made available to you, that Colin Friendly is a sexual sadist and sociopath, guilty of the crimes for which he stands accused?”

“No doubt at all,” Dr. Pinsent replied.

“Thank you, Dr. Pinsent. Your witness, Mr. Archibald.”

Mr. Eaves sat down, unbuttoned his jacket; Mr. Archibald rose to his feet, buttoned his.

“Dr. Pinsent, are you a psychiatrist?”

“No.”

“A medical doctor?”

“No.”

“A doctor of psychology perhaps?”

“No. My doctorate is in the field of education.”

“I see.” Jake Archibald shook his head, appeared confused, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what Dr. Pinsent
was doing as an expert witness. This was purely for effect. The jury had already been told that Walter Pinsent was a special agent with the National Academy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Quantico, Virginia, and part of the Investigative Support Unit that specialized in profiling serial killers.

“How many times did you meet with the accused?”

“Twice.”

“Twice.” Jake Archibald shook his head, somehow managing to look subtly amazed. A neat trick, I thought. “And how long were these meetings?”

“Several hours each session.”

“Several hours each session,” the defense attorney repeated, this time nodding his head up and down. “And this was enough time for you to come to the conclusion that Colin Friendly is a dangerous psychotic?”

“Sociopath,” Dr. Pinsent corrected.

Jake Archibald chuckled derisively. So did Jo Lynn.

“You concluded after approximately four hours with my client that he was a dangerous sociopath and a sexual sadist?”

“I did.”

“Tell me, Dr. Pinsent, would you have reached these same conclusions had you encountered Mr. Friendly in another context?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Let’s say you encountered Mr. Friendly at a party, or ran into him on a holiday and spent a few hours talking to him. Would you have come away with the impression that he was a dangerous sociopath and sexual sadist?”

For the first time since he took the stand, Dr. Walter Pinsent looked less than sure of himself. “Probably not. As I’ve already stated, sociopaths are often very charming individuals.”

“You consider Colin Friendly charming?”

“He seems very affable, yes.”

“Is that a crime?”

The prosecutor raised his hand. “Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Is it possible, Dr. Pinsent,” the defense attorney pressed, “that you were influenced in your appraisal of Mr. Friendly by the fact that he was already under arrest, that your meetings with him took place in prison?”

“I was influenced by the things he told me.”

“I see. Did Colin Friendly tell you he was guilty?”

“No.”

“Did he, in fact, repeatedly protest his innocence?”

“He did. But that’s typical of this type of personality.”

“Interesting. So, what you’re saying is that if he confesses his guilt, that means he’s guilty, and if he says he’s innocent, well then, that means he’s guilty too. Damned if you don’t, damned if you do. Reminds me a bit of the witch hunts in Salem.”

The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “Your honor, move to strike. Is Mr. Archibald asking a question or making a speech?”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase that,” Jake Archibald said, a noticeable bounce to his words. “Do you see serial killers under every bed, Dr. Pinsent?”

Mr. Eaves’s ample backside barely had time to graze his seat before he was back on his feet again. “Objection.”

“I withdraw the question,” Jake Archibald said quickly. “I have no further questions of this witness.”

“The witness may step down.”

The judge called a ten-minute recess.

“Tell me you weren’t fooled by that,” I said hopefully to Jo Lynn, as people all around us stood up and stretched.

“Fooled by what?” She was squinting into her compact
mirror, applying a fresh coat of lipstick to already very pink lips.

“By the defense attorney’s attempt to throw a smoke screen over the evidence.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She raised the mirror, dabbed at her mascara.

“It means that Dr. Pinsent is about as expert a witness as anyone could find,” I began.

She interrupted. “He’s not a psychiatrist. Or even a medical doctor.”

“He’s a specialist with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Since when did you become such a fan of the FBI?”

“I’m just saying that he knows what he’s talking about.”

“His is only one opinion.”

“An expert opinion,” I reminded her.

“You put too much faith in experts,” she said. “Just because someone has a degree doesn’t mean they know everything.”

I took this as a direct dig at me. Jo Lynn was always trumpeting the value of practical experience over a university education.

Don’t bite, I told myself, determined to be pleasant. “So, anything new?” I asked, looking for safer ground.

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “Have you had any calls about those resumes you sent out?”

She clicked her compact closed. “You know I haven’t.”

Strike one, I thought.

“Have you spoken to our mother?”

She dropped the compact into her purse. “Why would I do that?”

Strike two.

“Do you have a date for the weekend?”

She snapped her purse shut tight. “I have a date for Friday.” She spun toward me, her mouth forming a provocative pout.

“That’s great. Someone new?”

“Sort of.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Someone you
think
you know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you think you know him, but you don’t. It means you’ve got him all wrong. It means you don’t know him at all. It means that you’ve been staring at the side of his face all morning.”

Strike three.

The room darkened around me. Normal courtroom sounds gave way to a loud buzzing in my ears. I felt dizzy, faint. I gripped the bench on which I was sitting, digging my fingers into the hard wood. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

Jo Lynn adjusted her tank top, repositioning the large pink heart so that it sat directly in the center of her large chest. “Why would I joke about something this important?”

Stay calm, I told myself. “When exactly did this come about?”

“Colin’s lawyer called me last night. I would have phoned you, but it was late and I know you guys are sound asleep by ten o’clock.”

“I don’t understand,” I stammered, “where is this ‘date’ taking place?”

“I’m not sure. Some holding room or something. They’re gonna let me know.”

“Jo Lynn, please,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Don’t you think this has gone far enough? It’s not too late to call the whole thing off. You don’t have to go through with it.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice was indignant. “Why wouldn’t I go through with it?”

“Because the man we’re talking about is a cold-blooded killer.”

“I don’t agree.”

“The evidence is overwhelming.”

“I don’t agree.”

“You don’t agree,” I repeated.

“No, and I don’t think the jury will either. Anyway,” she said, waving at one of the reporters in the back row, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Why do you always put a damper on everything?”

“I’m just trying to inject a little common sense into this mess.”

Jo Lynn looked toward the front of the courtroom. “You always had more common sense than imagination,” she said.

He was already seated when I arrived at Charley’s Crab at twenty minutes after twelve. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, collapsing into the chair the waiter held out for me, looking slowly around the large series of adjoining rooms, studying the framed photographs of prize fish that ran along one wall, admiring the large stuffed marlin that was mounted on another, gazing at the crowded bar, tracking the busy waiters as they maneuvered between booths and tables, zeroing in on the well-heeled patrons, with their large blond bouffants and fixed tight smiles. Anywhere but at the man sitting across from me.

“Considering that court doesn’t get out till noon,” he was saying, “you made very good time.”

“I left early.” I signaled for the waiter. An hour and a half early, I almost said, but didn’t. I’d fled the courtroom after Jo Lynn’s unpleasant revelation, and had been driving around ever since, trying to figure out what my sister
was trying to prove by throwing herself at a sexually sadistic sociopath who would most likely die in the electric chair. If she was trying to upset our mother, it wasn’t working. Our mother had ignored all Jo Lynn’s provocative pronouncements, carrying on as if there was nothing unusual or untoward about her younger daughter’s recent behavior. On the other hand, if it was me Jo Lynn was trying to upset, I had to admit she was doing a damned good job.

The waiter appeared.

“Could I have a glass of white wine?” I asked.

The waiter looked confused. “You don’t like the wine the gentleman ordered?”

For the first time, I looked at the man sitting across the table from me. Robert Crowe, looking suave, sophisticated, and generally drop-dead gorgeous, held up a bottle of California Chardonnay that had been cooling beside him.

“Thank you,” I told the waiter, feeling like a total idiot. “This will be fine.”

Robert said nothing, simply poured the wine into my glass, then clicked his glass against mine in a toast. “To the past,” he said.

“The past,” I agreed. It sounded safe enough.

“And the future.”

I downed half the glass.

“Someone’s either very thirsty or very uptight,” he said.

“It wasn’t an easy morning.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“I want to talk about anything but.”

“Talk about why you won’t look at me.”

I laughed, one of those awful, self-conscious barks that die upon contact with the air. “I’m looking at you.”

“You’re looking at my left ear,” he said.