Self-Defense (13 page)

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s say we do somehow
get to the bottom of it, find out Daddy
did
do something terrible
twenty-one years ago. And let’s assume Lucy gets herself to a point where she
can deal with it. Then what? Bring the bastard to the bar of justice? You know
what uncorroborated memories are worth in court. And the fact that it came out
in therapy makes it even weaker. Nowadays prosecutors assume anything retrieved
in a shrink’s office is bullshit till proven otherwise. Too many cases thrown
out of court, too much pop-psych crap, satanic bullshit—if you
feel
you’ve been abused, you
have
been.”

“Baby-with-the-bathwater,” I said, “just
like when the courts tossed out hypnotic evidence. But you know as well as I do
hypnosis
does
help some witnesses remember facts. And plenty of patients
do retrieve valid memories during therapy. I’ve seen dozens of corroborations.
The key is never to plant anything in a patient’s head and never to lead. Stay
skeptical as hell but keep it to yourself, and if you end up with something,
check it out to the max.”

“I know, I know, I’m just saying it’s an
uphill battle.”

“Look, even if it never goes anywhere
legally, I think, at some point, knowing what really happened—or didn’t—will
help her.”

“What if we learn Daddy did something,
can’t touch him legally, and the bastard gets away with it? What does
that
do to her psyche?”

“So what do you suggest, drop it?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, just
creating problems to keep your mind active.”

“What a pal,” I said. “Anyway, it’s
probably theoretical. After the way the last session went, I doubt Lucy’ll want
to see me. Maybe she’ll hook up with Embrey—maybe seeing a woman will make it
easier. Whoever her therapist turns out to be, they’ll need to know what’s
going on.”

“Think they’ll keep her in past the
seventy-two?”

“Not unless she really falls apart. It’s
what’ll happen when she gets out that worries me.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. I thought
of all the possibilities we’d just raised. Wondered if Lucy would connect with
Embrey. I found myself hoping so.

“What?” he said.

“That summer,” I said. “At least we could
try to narrow things down by finding out if any dark-haired girls were reported
raped or murdered or missing in Topanga that summer. If they were, we’ve got
possible corroboration. If not, that will also define the focus of Lucy’s
therapy. Either way, she doesn’t need to be told until the time’s right.”

“Narrow things, huh?”

“I can’t see it hurting.”

He scraped a tooth with a fingernail.
“Guess I could make a call to Malibu Sheriffs. It’s a low-crime neighborhood,
there shouldn’t be too much paper to wade through, assuming they keep their old
files. I can also look into any public records on Mr. Trafficant. When exactly
was this party?”

“August—mid-August.”

He took out his notepad and wrote it down.
His beer glass was empty and he reached for a breadstick.

“Hope she heals,” he said softly.

“Amen.”

Twirling the breadstick, he put it down.
“Haven’t had lunch yet. You in any mood to eat?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

He’d left his unmarked around the corner
from the restaurant, in a loading zone, and a meter maid was approaching it
with a predatory look in her eyes.

Milo flashed his badge, wagged his finger,
and grinned. The meter maid snorted, returned to her buggy, and putt-putted
away.

“Power!” he said. “Intoxicating as fine
cognac and it won’t damage your liver.”

As he got in the car, I said, “Anything
new on the Santa Ana murder?”

“Shwandt’s lawyers are going to use it as
grounds for a mistrial.”

“You’re kidding.”

“In lawyer logic, the similarity between
this one and the Bogeyman murders casts doubt on Jobe’s guilt for all of them.
We only had physical evidence on Carrie, Marie Rosenhut, and Berna Mendoza. All
the others were circumstantial.”

“So what? He still did
those
three.”

“Three versus fifteen. The victim
load—their phrase—prejudiced the jury against him and was responsible for the
death penalty. They want a retrial on Carrie and the other two physicals,
too—fruit of the poisoned tree or some shit like that.”

“Absurd,” I said. “Like you said, anyone
who’d been at the trial or read the transcripts would have had enough
information to copycat.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Logic has nothing to do with it. It’s a
game.
There’s a whole subspecies of sharpies makes a living filing death
penalty appeals. They’ve got it down to a science, and we pay for it with our
taxes.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“What does that say about our society,
Alex? A piece of shit like Shwandt can cut up women and kids, gouge their eyes
out, shit on them, and get himself a supporting case of legal beagles, access
to a law library, three squares, TV, magazines, nutritious snacks. I mean,
let’s cut through all the theology and ideology and tell me what reason can
there possibly be to let someone like that
live
?”

“No argument from me.”

“Does that mean you’ve finally converted?”

“To what?”

“The Church of Abject Hostility.”

“Depends on what day you catch me.”

He laughed and started his engine.

I said, “Do you think there’s really any
chance of a new trial?”

“Who the hell knows? The goddamn press
corps loves the slimy fuck. He feeds them like trained seals.”

I wondered how Lucy would react to the
legal circus. Would she see it as diminishing what she’d done in that jury box?

Right now that seemed the least of her
problems.

I called Woodbridge Hospital and used my
title to cadge information from a nurse.

The patient was still sleeping. Dr. Embrey
had not come in yet.

I tried to reach Peter Lowell. No answer.

Phoning my service, I discovered Dr. Wendy
Embrey had left a message. My callback got her voice mail. I said I’d be happy
to speak to her and returned to the Seville.

I couldn’t rid myself of the thought that
something had happened to Lucy that summer. Couldn’t erase the idea of a little
girl and a paroled killer thrown together. Heading north on Westwood Boulevard,
I drove to Vagabond Books, parked in the back, and entered the store.

The owner was playing his sax. He looked
up as I approached, not missing a note. Then he recognized me and said, “Hey.”

The glass case of first editions fronting
the register had something new in it, along with the books. Big silver
automatic.

He saw me looking at it. “There’s a guy
running around robbing used bookstores. Comes in just before closing time,
pulls a gun, beats and sodomizes the clerk, and takes the cash. Kid over at
Pepys Books is getting tested for AIDS.”

“God.”

He fingered his ponytail. “So what can I
do for you?”

“Terrence Trafficant.
From Hunger to
Rage.
”

He took the gun out, put it in his
waistband, and stepped out from behind the counter. Ambling over to the rear of
the store, he came back with a worn-looking paperback. Bright red cover, black
title letters that resembled knife slashes.

Two cover blurbs:

“It stirs and jolts with all the cruel
authority of the electric chair!”—
Time

“Twisted, heroic, visionary, touched with
genius, Trafficant holds us by the scruff and forces us to stare into our own
nightmare. This may be one of the most important books of our century.”—Denton
Mellors,
The Manhattan
Book Review

“Doing some kind of psychology research?”
he said, ringing up the sale. “You couldn’t be reading for pleasure. It’s
really a piece of crap.”

I opened the book. More raves from
Newsweek, Vogue, The Washington Post,
the
Times
on both coasts.

“The critics didn’t think so.”

“The critics are brainless sheep. Trust
me, it’s crap.”

“Well,” I said, paying him, “you’ve got
the gun.”

I got home at three, feeling antsy, yet
tired. The ocean was green and silky. Putting the book on the coffee table, I
went out, lay down on a lounge chair, caught a face full of ultraviolet, and fell
asleep.

Robin kissed me awake.

“Someone on the phone for you.”

“What time is it?”

“Five-fifteen.”

“Must have dozed off.”

She wiped my forehead. “You’re really hot.
Better watch that sun, honey.”

I took the call in the kitchen, rubbing my
eyes and clearing my throat. “Dr. Delaware.”

“Doctor, this is Audrey from Dr. Wendy
Embrey’s office. Dr. Embrey said to tell you she’d like to meet with you
concerning Lucretia Lowell, if you’ve got the time. Would sometime tomorrow be
okay?”

“Tonight would be okay, too.”

“Dr. Embrey’s all over the place
tonight—she attends at a bunch of different hospitals. How about tomorrow
around lunchtime?”

“Sure. Where?”

“She’ll be over at the university all
morning. If it’s convenient, she could meet you in the med school dining room
at twelve-thirty.”

“That would be fine.”

“Good, I’ll tell her.”

“How’s Ms. Lowell doing?”

“I’m sure she’s doing as well as can be
expected.”

I read
From Hunger to Rage
over
breakfast. The bookseller had been right.

Trafficant’s style was crude and uncontrolled,
boiling with junior-high revolutionary rhetoric and obscenities. His editor had
left his faulty spelling and grammar intact, aiming, I suppose, for gritty
authenticity.

In the first half, he worked two themes to
the death: “Society screwed me” and “I’m getting even.” The next fifty pages
were letters he’d written to various celebrities and officials. Only two had
answered, the congressman from Trafficant’s home district in Oklahoma—who
responded with a Dear Constituent form letter—and M. Bayard Lowell, who praised
Trafficant’s “bloody poetry.”

The two men began to correspond,
Trafficant ranting and Lowell commiserating. The final page was a photocopy of
Trafficant’s approved parole application.

A biography and picture were on the inside
back cover, the mug shot the papers had run.

Terrence Gary Trafficant, of uncertain
parentage and hot blood, was born April 13, 1931, in Walahachee, Oklahoma.
Beaten often and suckled by wolves, he spent his formative years in various
institutions and hells-on-earth. His first major punitive adventure came at the
age of ten, when he was locked up at The Oklahoma Institute for Children for
stealing cigarettes. He proved an uncooperative prisoner and alternated for the
next thirty years between steadily escalating violence and incarceration, much
of it in solitary confinement. He brings a unique perspective to our perception
of right and wrong.
From
Hunger to Rage
has been purchased for adaptation as a major motion picture.

A psychopath making it in Hollywood—not a
huge stretch. Yet Trafficant had turned his back on it.

A best-seller who admired the Däusseldorf
Monster.

Steadily escalating violence....
The more I thought about it, the harder it
was to ignore his presence that summer.

Call his publisher... too late to phone New
York.

I let my own imagination run on:
Trafficant seducing the long-haired girl. Things getting out of hand... or
maybe she’d resisted and he’d raped, again, then killed her. And told Lowell.
Lowell panicking, rushing to bury the evidence, unaware that a little girl was
watching.

A little girl who wet the bed—maybe dank
sheets had aroused her.

Waking and walking and witnessing.

And paying for it now.

The med school cafeteria was a mass of
flatware clatter, white coats everywhere. Soon after I walked in, a pretty
Asian woman in a plum-colored silk suit came up to me.

“Dr. Delaware? Wendy Embrey.”

She was young and petite with long,
straight, blue-black hair and onyx eyes. A faculty picture badge clipped to her
lapel showed her hair permed.
W. TAKAHASHI-EMBREY, M.D.,
PSYCHIATRY.

“I’ve got a table over there,” she said.
“Would you like to get some lunch?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She smiled. “Have you eaten here before?”

“Occasionally.”

“Are you on staff?” she said, as we walked
to her table.