Salter, Anna C (14 page)

"Oh, just give it your best shot," he said with a wry smile, and I would have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye.

There was one more thing that had to be done, and the easiest way to do it was to call Adam. Not a chance. It might be the easiest way to deal with it, but I wasn't calling him. I had to know somebody else who could help.

I couldn't just open the yellow pages and look for a private eye. Some investigators are very skilled and others are a rip-off, but there wasn't any way to tell the difference from an ad. I wasn't even sure there were any in the Upper Valley who were any good. Rural New England just doesn't have a big need for private eyes. Everybody already knows who is having an affair and with whom. Finding out that kind of thing is what keeps most private eyes in business.

My problem wasn't whether my spouse was having an affair. My problem was whether Willy was bugging my office, and the grapevine couldn't help me very much with that. Damn it, if I were in the city, there were probably places that specialized in sweeping your office for bugs.

But of course. Danny. I didn't know him well, but I had been involved in a situation where the FBI was brought in. Danny was a senior special agent in the local branch, and he had been called in. When I worked with him he said he was retiring in a few months, and he thought he'd do a little private work after that. I opened the yellow pages and found him. He had a small ad that said nothing about the incredible credentials he had for that kind of work.

Danny was tall and lean and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant —which actually he was, by training at least—but he was also somebody who had twice rescued U.S. hostages in South America. He was good on a negotiation team —he could talk to anybody and you couldn't help but like him—but he was always thinking a whole lot more than he seemed to be.

Both times in South America, Danny had got information on the phone with the kidnappers that was used to track them down and storm their hideouts. And he was also one of the people kicking down the door. All this I knew from Adam, who had a buddy in the FBI. It wasn't like Danny told you a whole lot about his work.

I had liked him, and we'd had lunch a few times, but it was a little weird. He could be funny and likable, but he always managed to sit with his back to the door, and if you looked carefully, you'd see that he was always scanning the crowd — even when he laughed.

I'd thought about what it would be like to be in bed with him —my fantasy life is, shall we say, a rich and varied one — but I concluded he'd have to have the side of the bed farthest from the door, and he'd be constantly scanning the room even when he . . . laughed.

But a case was another matter. I dialed his number and waited. I smiled thinking he knew who I was before he answered the phone. What were the chances that Danny had the kind of Caller ID that gave you the person's name as well as their number? Oh, about 100 percent. I was gratified that his voice was warm when he answered.

"Hello, this is Danny Barns," he said.

"Danny," I began, "this is Michael Stone." He would never admit he had known who it was, and I wouldn't put him on guard by mentioning it.

"Doc," he said. "How are you?"

Private eye work was pretty boring, he said, but he did a little consulting on the side, and that was interesting. He didn't say to whom, and I didn't ask, but I had a feeling he was still tied up with the old agency in one way or the other, and it was probably very interesting. We went on like that for a few minutes, and then I got on with it.

"I want to hire you," I said. I was prepared to tell him the truth. I didn't think there was any other way to get him to take it seriously. "Somebody may be bugging my therapy sessions. It's somebody I know, and he's sent me a teasing message that sounds like he knows who my clients are. I don't know how he'd know, and I want to be sure he isn't bugging me."

"What phone are you calling from?"

I laughed. Adam had told me once how many people who thought they were being bugged called about it on the same phone they thought was bugged. "I'm calling from a different office."

"How do you know he bugged you? Could he have gotten into your records?" Danny asked.

"Maybe," I answered. "They're in the same office —this is all in my private practice—but I've got dead bolts, and there's no indication of a break-in. Anyway, I've put all the records in safety deposit boxes, just to be sure."

I was struck by how focused and intent he was. His voice was all business with none of the warm, fuzzy overtones I'd seen him use when he wanted to. This was a whole different side of Danny than the public one I'd seen before, closer to the bone, I thought.

''How much does he know?"

"Beats me," I said. "All he's done thus far is drop their names."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Danny responded, sounding less interested. "Could be he's just watching your office and following people."

"Maybe," I said. "But he's not someone who'd be satisfied with a cheap thrill. He's a planner. Likes long, drawn-out, meticulously scripted stuff. If names were all he had, he wouldn't have dropped them just like that. Whatever he's up to, this is only the opening volley."

There was a pause on the phone.

"What kind of 'scripted stuff?" Danny asked finally.

"Uh, well, he's a sadist. Card-carrying. Not a nice man. And he's more or less told me some things he wishes he hadn't." And right now, I thought, I wished he hadn't either.

"Well, is it 'more' or 'less'?"

"Actually it's 'more.' A whole lot more than he'd like me to know now that he's been suddenly released from a lengthy and just incarceration by a group of judicial assholes I hope he moves next door to."

"How does today sound?" Danny offered. It looked like I had gotten his attention back, which was probably not a good sign. It was like being a "great case" in medicine. Anything that interests the doctors is bad news for the patients.

"Sounds good," I replied. "If you've got the time." He said he'd make the time, and we agreed to meet at my office first thing after lunch.

It turned out it was a big deal sweeping for bugs. Microphones are about the size of the tip of a pencil these days, and they can be anywhere. If someone gets access, he can put them in a wall socket, in the receiver of the phone, almost anywhere. Those two places are most common, Danny said, because bugs need power, and the only way not to have to keep coming back to change the batteries is to hook them directly into a power source.

Bugs can also be on any frequency. Great, so we had something that was practically microscopic in size and it could be on any frequency. But technology works both ways. Danny went all over the room with his bug detector, a small device that went up and down the frequencies. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Danny did it thoroughly. But nothing.

"It could be turned off," he said. "You can turn them on and off remotely. He could be just turning them on for the therapy sessions. How cautious is he?"

"I wouldn't say cautious," I said. "He's pretty egotistical, and he likes to brag. On the other hand, he's not exactly a fool, and he's telling me he's bugging me so he has to expect I'll look for it. This could be a problem if he's just turning it on for therapy sessions. I can't exactly ask a client to have a seat while I sweep for bugs."

"Sure you can," Danny said, "if you ask the right client. You're about to have a new client. What kind of problem would he have that would interest your perp so he'd stay tuned?"

"Pedophilia," I replied without hesitating. "If he heard a pedophile in here, he'd stay tuned."

We made a plan. Danny would call and leave a message on my private practice phone asking for an emergency appointment. He'd identify himself as John, no last name, and ask if he could come in as soon as possible. He was having some thoughts, again, about children, and . . . well, he needed to talk to someone quick. I'd call back and set up an appointment at nine a.m. on Friday. My usual nine a.m. was Kiwi, someone Willy had mentioned. If he was bugging, he was bugging her. I'd cancel Kiwi and put in "John" instead, who'd show up right on time with a small device in his briefcase.

Alexander Hammil, Lucy's alleged tormentor, wasted no time in calling me. He sounded unbearably preppy over the phone, but I reminded myself preppies are obnoxious by nature, but that doesn't mean they are all rapists. I told him my terms, and he still wanted to see me, which meant he was either an arrogant little twerp or he was telling the truth.

I told him I would send him a letter outlining what we had talked about. Never, I knew, never trust what someone says on the phone in a situation like this. He'd have to sign my letter and bring it to the appointment with him before I'd see him. He seemed impatient with all of this and wanted to know if he could pick up the letter to speed things up. Sure, I said. I'd have it ready tomorrow and I'd see him in my private practice office on Friday.

I hung up the phone and sat down at my computer to write. I knew I could screw up myself and the situation royally if I didn't set things up properly:

Dear Mr. Hammil,

I am responding to your phone call requesting an appointment regarding the matter before the university's discipline committee. I am writing the conditions under which I will see you in order that there be no possibility that we might misunderstand each other. As you know, Lucy MacDonald has filed a complaint with the university saying that you and several other men had intercourse with her without her consent. She claims she was incapacitated from alcohol ingestion and passed out repeatedly. She states that she did tell you and the other men "no" and that you ignored her protests. You have asked me to evaluate you in terms of the charges against you.

I have explained that standard psychological tests will not determine whether or not a specific event happened and that there is no psychological profile of a rapist. I have agreed only to interview you but have been clear with all parties in this case that the greatest probability from this assessment is that I will be able to make no firm determination of any sort.

Ordinarily, a psychological assessment is confidential. However, in this case I have explained that I will only evaluate you if the results are available to both sides of the dispute. This is so whether I conclude that there is a possibility you committed the offense as alleged or whether I agree with your description of events or whether I can make no determination. You have agreed to sign a release of information prior to my evaluating you consenting to these terms.

I have explained to you that you should consult a lawyer prior to agreeing to this, and you have informed me that you have already consulted a lawyer and he has indicated his willingness for you to pursue this evaluation. Please be sure that your lawyer sees this letter and is fully informed of all conditions attached to this evaluation.

If this is agreeable to you, please sign this letter and the attached release of information and return both at or before your appointment time.

I gave the letter to Melissa for Mr. Hammil to pick up and called up Lucy. There wasn't anything I could really tell her until Hammil signed the letter—not even that he had an appointment—but I told her I had agreed to look into the matter. She sounded so relieved that I wondered what Toby had said about me. I asked her for a written statement of exactly what happened to her from the time she left her dorm until the time she got home. I told her I needed it by Friday with a signed release to share it with Mr. Hammil.

Lucy agreed readily. Probably doing something felt a whole lot better than doing nothing.

By Friday, my ducks were in a row. At nine a.m., "John" arrived right on schedule. At his request I pulled down the shades and only then did he take his bug detector out. "John" started wandering around the room scanning it with his bug detector, all the time talking about his preference for children, how long he'd been out of jail, and how much he didn't want to go back.

I was amazed. Danny couldn't have been any more convincing if he was sitting down and concentrating on what he was doing. I was the one who was having trouble concentrating. I was hearing one thing while at the same time Danny was wandering all over the room, climbing on chairs to check the ceiling, crawling on his hands and knees to check the floor, without ever missing a beat.

"Nothing," he finally said, after a full hour of crawling and climbing and checking and rechecking. "At least nothing that's turned on now."

"Good," I said, relieved. "So, it's wait-and-see time. Maybe it was just the records."

He turned to go and then stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to me. Clients do that all the time. "Doorknob comments," we call them. They are invariably the most important part of the session. "You're in over your head," he said flatly. It didn't sound like he meant to be hurtful. It just sounded like a factual assessment of the situation.

I just shrugged. What could I say?

"There are other ways to play it," he said.

I shrugged again.

He paused a moment longer as though waiting for me to say something, but I didn't. I just didn't feel like trying to explain myself. Besides, I wasn't sure I could.

"All right," he said, "you want some advice?"

"Sure," I said. For some reason, advice from Danny didn't seem as threatening as Carlotta or Adam.

"Don't stay on the defensive. Don't sit around waiting for him to find you. He'll have everything on his side: the time, the place, the circumstances. If you're going to play this by yourself, at least find out where he is and go after him."

"Right. And what do I do when I find him?"

"Don't hesitate."

I didn't respond. I knew what he meant. Adam had once told me that a surprising number of women who have guns and know how to use them still get raped or murdered. They don't pull the trigger, he said. They hesitate too long. It sounded like Danny thought I might be one of them.

He handed me a card with a number on it. "You can always reach me with that." he said. It didn't look like the number in the phone book. Probably a mobile phone, I thought. Maybe a number not everybody has.

Then he handed me the bug-sweeping device. "Sweep before every session," he said. "Maybe he had a cold today. Maybe he took the day off. It doesn't mean he won't be back."

He left, and I sat thinking for a moment. I felt better but wasn't sure why. I hardly knew Danny. He had so many layers of onion skin, I wasn't sure if there was a real Danny under all of them. If there was, you'd never know it if you'd found it.

But that meant I could listen to his advice without feeling bad if I didn't take it, and he could give it without being that upset if I didn't take it. If I got myself killed, Danny would work that crime scene just like any other. Probably it was not a sign of major mental health that Danny was the only person I could even imagine talking to about this. To hell with it. Alexander Hammil was waiting.

I pulled up the shades —the room looked serious with the shades drawn, and I did not want Mr. Hammil on guard—and walked out to greet him. He had arrived right on schedule, and I went out to the waiting room to find a tastefully dressed, good-looking young man sitting confidently on the couch.

He stood up when I walked in. Oh dear, this was going to be one of those "yes, ma'am, no, ma'am" things. "Hello," I said reaching out my hand. He shook it with exactly the right degree of firmness. "I'm Dr. Stone. I'm glad you came in, and hopefully we can clear this whole thing up today.

"I am running a little late, and I thought to expedite matters I would have you fill in a brief questionnaire for me. It just gives your version of what happened. I'm afraid it looks a bit long, but there's only one question on most of the pages, and it really would help, if you don't mind." I handed him a questionnaire and a pen and said quickly, before he had a chance to protest, "Would you like some coffee? Tea?"

He said "no," and I turned to go before he had a chance to think things over. I glanced back and saw him shrug and sit down. Well and good. The interview had begun.

The questionnaire was a simple one. It asked him to explain what he did on the day of the alleged rape from the time he got up until the time he went to bed. It asked him his opinion of how these charges came about. It asked him why I should believe him, and it asked him if he was lying. I left the door of my office partly open so that I could walk by and see how he was doing.

He wrote furiously for twenty minutes, and then he put his pen down. I came out a couple of minutes later and collected the questionnaire. I offered him coffee again, and this time he accepted. I told him I needed a few minutes to look over the questionnaire.

I read through the questionnaire. All I wanted to know was whether he said he didn't do it. Over 90 percent of people lie by omission rather than commission. Unless you ask them a direct question, like "Did you do it?" —unless you force them to lie —the vast majority of people evade the question. For some reason it turns out to be hard to say, "I" (first person) "didn't" (past tense) "do that" (thing he was charged with).

I went to the last page first. It asked why I should believe him and whether he had been truthful in his statement. "Why should I lie?" he had written. "I was raised to tell the truth. It's not the sort of thing I would do." Uh-oh. There wasn't anyplace where he said he didn't do it.

I started from the first page of the questionnaire and read forward. There wasn't a single place where he denied it, if you read carefully. I read his description of the day. There were indications of missing time, changes in verb tenses, out of sequence information, and changes in pronouns —all of the sort that were consistent with deception. We had a problem. He was a lying little twerp after all. But knowing it was different from proving it. For that I needed his help.

I walked out again and smiled. "Your questionnaire is very helpful," I said, "and it clears up a lot of things. I wonder if there is one more thing I could ask you to do. Here is Ms. MacDonald's story of what happened. Could you just take this red pen and cross through everything that she says that you don't agree with. Then on every line that you cross through, I want you to write a number and initial it. Then I want you to put that number on this clean sheet of paper and write what really happened."

I went through it a couple of times to make sure he had it. He was plenty bright, but he wasn't expecting this, and his mind was on other things — mainly impressing me —so it took him a couple of rounds to get it.

"If you'll just do this, I'm fairly confident we can clear this whole thing up today." He agreed. It sounded good to him, and he sat down to work with relish. When he had finished, I came back and asked him if he was sure he had crossed out everything that wasn't true.

"I think so," he said.

"Oh, no," I replied. "I don't want you to think so. I want you to be sure. Absolutely sure. I want to give you all the time you need to be sure you have crossed out everything you don't agree with. So take a few more minutes and go over it."

I turned to go, and he looked perplexed and sat back down. In a few minutes he knocked gently on the partly opened door. "I'm done," he said.

"Great," I said, standing up from my desk and walking over. "You're sure you've crossed everything out you don't agree with?"

"As far as I can tell," he said.

"Well," I said. "I don't want you to have any doubts. Sit back down and go over it again. Don't come back until you are really sure you have crossed everything out that isn't true and have written in exactly what really happened."

He was pissed off, but he sat back down. For this to work he had to be committed to what he had written, and I was prepared to go on indefinitely until he made that commitment.

This time when he came back he was ready for me. "I'm finished," he said. "I've gone over everything," he added quickly.

"You're sure," I said. "You've crossed out everything?"

"I'm sure," he replied. He did not want to sit down and go over this again.

"Come on in," I said and opened the door. I looked over the statement as he sat down. He had followed instructions carefully, and there were red lines on a number of places on Lucy's statement. Each one had his initials next to it and a number. I took the extra sheets of paper he had given me and went back and forth going from the numbers he had put on Lucy's statement to what he said really happened on the other pages. Finally, I shook my head.

"I'm not sure you and Ms. MacDonald mean the same things by some of your terms," I said. "Just so I'm sure. What do you mean by 'assault'?"

"Assault?" he said, surprised.

"Assault. I don't mean that you need to come up with a dictionary definition, but just roughly, say, what do you mean by the term."

"Well, I'd say assault involves inflicting some sort of violence on someone."

"Against their will?"

"Well, sure. Most people wouldn't agree to violence being inflicted on them," he said sarcastically and then caught himself.

"And what about 'passed out'?"

"Unconscious," he said.

"Would you write those down?" I said sweetly, handing him back the piece of paper where he'd written what really happened.

He paused for a minute to think it over, but couldn't see what the problem would be, so he wrote them down. "Would you sign them?" I asked.

"Why should I sign it?" he replied.

I rolled my eyes heavenward for him to see. "I've got material from you and Ms. MacDonald, and I want to be clear what's what, plus this whole thing is very emotional, and I don't want Ms. MacDonald, or even you later, to claim I made anything up. It's standard procedure. Is there something wrong with the definitions that you don't want to sign them? If there is, just change them."

He looked at them again and then signed them.

I picked up the statements again —Lucy's version and his rewrites —and looked back and forth from one to the other. I shook my head, perplexed, but kept reading. Silence filled the room. He started shifting in his seat. I just kept reading and let the anxiety build.

Finally, he couldn't stand it. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.