All Is Not Forgotten (31 page)

“It's fine. Really. He's not being questioned because of anything that happened in here. He did something in his past. And then he lied about where he was that night. The police know nothing about our work. About your memories. I promise.”

It's happening, isn't it? There's going to be a trial and everyone will see how messed up I am in my head! And Sean … Oh my God!

“What are you afraid of for Sean?”

He just … He's just so angry. He said he …

“What did he say, Jenny?”

I shouldn't tell you.

“It's okay. Do you trust me?”

Yes … it's just … he's, like, my best friend. Sometimes I think he's my only friend.

“Then help me help him. Tell me what he said.”

Jenny looked at me then, like a little mouse trying to not be heard even as she opened her mouth and let out the words.
He said he wanted to kill him.

“Well,” I said dismissively, “people say that all the time, don't they? Just this morning, I yelled at my dog and said something like that. ‘I'm going to kill that dog!' Right? People say it, but they don't really mean it. It's an expression.”

No. You don't understand. He said that he pictures Mr. Sullivan like one of the terrorists he was sent in to kill. He says he feels that way about him, like he has to die for what he's done and so he doesn't do it again. And then he said … he said he pictures Mr. Sullivan holding that stick and carving my skin with it. He just, like, sits there and lets himself imagine it, like an obsession. He said he has a gun. Said he knows how to fire it with his left arm. Like he's been practicing.

“Really? When did he get this gun?”

I don't know. He just said he would kill Bob Sullivan if he wasn't brought to justice. He said he had a gun now and he would just do it. I told him I would rather die myself than see him get in trouble like that. And he just … he just held me really tight and …

Jenny was crying again. Oh, my twisted emotions! Crying was what she needed to do. She needed to keep feeling anything and everything. Can you see how this works? The feelings had found one memory and attached to it. Now we could use them to lead us to the others; we could follow them back to where that memory was hiding and see what else was hiding there. It was just a theory. But I believed in it.

And yet, the agony for my poor soldier! The fact that this was weighing so heavily upon him broke my heart. He was identifying these facts with what had happened the night he lost his arm. The terrorist behind the red door, needing to be brought to justice. To be killed. I was suddenly anxious to get him in for a session.

And then there were other concerns.

“Jenny,” I said in a steady voice, “when you say he held you, what do you mean?”

He just holds me sometimes. It's not like anything bad. He says I'm like his sister, but also like one of his soldiers, you know, the ones who are under him. The rookies. He says he will die protecting me. Fighting for me.

“I see. That's a relief, actually. I was afraid that your friendship might become something else, and that would not be good for either of you.”

But I still love him. He's the only thing I look forward to now.

“Well, we are going to change that.” I leaned forward and took hold of her hands in mine. “We are going to finish what we started. You will remember everything from that night. We will put all the ghosts back to bed, and then you will get on with your life. Do you hear me?”

Jenny looked at me, a little surprised. I had never touched her before, or spoken to her with any emotion. I had not lost control. Rather, I was giving her a small dose of what she got from Sean.

“Do you hear me?”

Yes.

“Do you believe me?”

I don't know. I'm scared to hope for that. I'm scared to find it. I feel like I'm poison, and if I can just keep myself away from people, I won't hurt anyone.

“No, Jenny,” I said. “You are not the poison. You are the cure.”

 

Chapter Thirty

I would not see
Sean again before this story ends. I had not realized this at the time. Too many spinning plates. Too many puppets to manage.

Detective Parsons reluctantly pursuing the lead on Bob Sullivan. Bob lying about his alibi to Parsons and Charlotte. Charlotte beginning to think he was guilty. Bob's wife covering for him. The lawyer protecting him. Jenny and I resuming our work to keep her from slipping away from us. And Sean seeing Bob carving his sweet Jenny with a stick while he viciously rapes her. That leaves Tom. And my son.

First things first. I had become very intolerant of Tom and his obsession with the blue sweatshirt. I had not come to disdain or dislike the man. Quite the contrary. I looked at him like a petulant child, my petulant child, who would not obey my instructions.

I just don't understand why they don't have every forensic guy looking into this picture!
Tom was holding the photo of my son from a yearbook. You could not see his face.

“This is from a lacrosse game? At the school?”

Yes! The spring Jenny was raped.

“And what do you think they will be able to tell with more forensics? This is a medium-sized teenage boy, nondescript body, a Fairview High School cap. I'm sure you've looked at it with a magnifying glass. Every inch, right?”

Tom stared at the photo.
Yes. I have. I just … Look, I can identify one of the girls standing behind him, and one of the boys next to her. If they showed this to everyone who went to that game, surely someone would remember!

“Maybe. I'm sure that's the problem. They're talking to all the kids at the party again. Maybe they're afraid to have this thing start looking like a witch hunt. They don't have to come in for questioning, you know. Under the law. Right now, it's all voluntary. That could change if people got the wrong sense of what this has become.”

Really. And what has it become?

“Well, we've talked about your guilt. About your parents and how they affected your self-esteem. Your sense of self. Your ‘id,' if you will. Tom, these things will not be changed simply by finding the man who raped your daughter.”

Jesus Christ! Are we really going to talk about my id when we have this lead? Can't I just find this fucker, and then, I promise you, I'll come back in and disparage my poor parents until I can stand up to my wife and my boss and anyone else you want me to. How's that?

Two words popped into my head then. Oh shit.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you need to see this through. Maybe our work has to stop for now. But consider this before we do: This photo—all it shows is a boy with a sweatshirt. You can hardly see what the shape is on the sweatshirt from the angle it's at. And the only reason you're concerned with the sweatshirt is because of something a drug dealer said to reduce his sentence. Do you see my concern?”

Frankly, no. Not at all.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together and head hung to my chest. I could feel Tom's eyes upon me, waiting for the words that I looked so pained to find. This technique is extremely effective. When I lifted my head, I wore the face of conviction.

“Over the past few months, we have dug very deep and stirred many feelings about your childhood. And in doing so, you have courageously faced your anger at your parents—and there is anger, Tom. It doesn't matter how lovely they are, how supportive of your family. You parent your children in a way that is in complete defiance of everything they did with you and your sister. And that tells me that you know, in your heart, that they caused you harm. Emotional harm. You feel unworthy of everything in your life that's good, like you've stolen it. And you have a subconscious belief that the bad things that come your way do so as retribution for your theft. You have guilt for that, Tom. Anger and guilt.”

Tom was following along, and I was gently leading him to the path I needed him to follow.

I was so fucking sick of that blue sweatshirt.

“Where has that anger gone? Where has the guilt gone?” I took the picture from his hand. “Here, Tom! Here!” I waved the picture. “It's all here—directed at some kid wearing a sweatshirt. You're not seeing the big picture—for yourself or for the investigation.”

You are weary of my descriptions about my patients crying. But I assure you, I have been very judicious in this regard. Every patient I see cries at almost every session. Do the math on that.

Tom cried. If it annoys you, don't worry. We are moving on and moving quickly.

I held Tom's hand and then I gave him a gentle push down the path.

“Tom. Have you considered that the police have other leads? And that maybe they're not including you, because of this blind rage you have at the moment? Maybe it's all under control and you can just hand them the reins and let them do their job. That would be a relief, wouldn't it?”

Tom looked at me with a new fire in his eyes.
Would they do that? Would they not include me? I've been part of this investigation for over a year. Since it happened!

I shrugged. “I don't know, Tom. It's just a possibility I would like you to consider. I was hoping it would put your mind at ease. Let you lay down your sword and shield and rest for a while.”

I have to go, Alan. I'm sorry. I know I'm being a bad patient. I will deal with these things you raise. Just not now. Not now!

We both stood up. I extended my hand, and when he gave me his, I cupped my other one around it. “Tom. Please. Consider what I've said. Lay down your weapons. Let the professionals do their work.”

But Tom was already gone.

Now for my son.

The interview could not be put off any longer without raising suspicion. Attorney Brandino went with him. I did as well. I told my wife to stay home because she did not have the ability to hide her emotions. Two young male cops asked the questions. They were tired of all this, of Tom Kramer, of the daily calls to small-town districts, asking about old rape files, sitting on hold with the phone pinned between their ears and necks, giving them cramps and headaches and keeping them from their tweets and Snapchats and Facebook updates. This was their town as well, so in addition to the boredom, they were reluctant to ruffle feathers. It is not fun to go through one's day being scowled at.

Questions were asked. Answers were given.

What time did you arrive at the party? What time did you leave? Were you with anyone? Did you exit the house at any time? Was anyone with you? Did you see Jenny Kramer? Was anyone with her? Et cetera, et cetera … Do you own a blue sweatshirt with red symbols or letters?

Jason held up well. His guilt came across as teenage fear. He reminded me of a boy meeting a girl's father for the first time on prom night. Was he a good kid? Yes. Did he want to have sex with the man's daughter? Yes. Would he? Probably not. It's an accepted deception. It has been many words since I told you what I think about honesty, about the need for lying in the human relationship. If that boy told that father that he had pictured his daughter naked, imagined her breasts in his palms, his tongue in her mouth, his hands reaching up her dress, and that he imagined all of this while masturbating just an hour before this civilized introduction—well, you can imagine how many kids would show up at the prom. I have been crude. But I wanted my point to be made.

I don't think so,
Jason said about the sweatshirt, squirming a bit.
I mean, I don't have one now. I don't remember having one before.

This was the brilliant part. He executed it perfectly.

Did you leave the party at any time to go outside?

Jason paused before answering. He looked at his lawyer, who nodded and patted his hand. He looked at me. I did the same. I may even have said, “Go ahead, son. Tell the truth.”

Jason sighed. Now, mind you, none of this was acting on his part. He is not a good liar. He is a good boy. A wonderful boy. My boy.

I went out for a few minutes. I was looking for that man. The one in the blue Honda.

The cops got a little more interested then, but their interest was, of course, being misdirected. No one else had admitted to doing anything wrong, because nothing could be proved. Cruz Demarco made over a grand that night, and yet, somehow, only John Vincent had admitted to buying anything. This interview was like finding a small nugget of gold in the pan.

I see.
One of the cops said,
So you were going to buy drugs?

Jason nodded sheepishly.

And did you?

No. I saw the car and I got scared so I walked right by it and then turned around and walked on the other side back to the house so he wouldn't see me.

What time was this?

I don't know. It was before nine thirty. After eight. I'm not sure.

Did you see anyone else?

No. But people were coming in and out from the street all night, looking for that guy. Everyone was talking about it. I think he came to the house, to the back, also.

Attorney Brandino jumped in.
Are we done? As you can see, my client has been very forthcoming and honest. It was not in his interest to tell you of his intention to buy drugs. I hope you can give him some credit for that.

Yes. Credit. But it was done not for any “credit,” whatever the hell that meant, but to explain his nervous disposition, his squirming in his seat when he was asked about the sweatshirt. You see?

There was more to the interview. But it was of no consequence. The lie about the sweatshirt and my son's poor performance in telling it had been perfectly deflected.