Broken (5 page)

Here are some more statistics. Alice Hunter was 27 years old when she was raped and killed. Her daughter was 14 weeks old. Six of her ribs were broken. 65% of her blood was drained from her body. She was violated anally and vaginally. The knife that she was killed with came from our kitchen drawer, it was part of a Christmas present moving in set from Alice’s mother. Only 5% of rapists will ever spend a day in jail. This one is never going to get close enough to even think about what that might feel like.

What do I have to go on? I have DNA from the sperm he left inside her, and the skin she scratched away in desperation from somewhere on his body. I know he was alone. I know he broke into the house, which means he either knew she was alone too, or he was planning a burglary and changed his mind at the last minute. The police say the murder was not premeditated. The police care a lot less about solving this than I do. Fifty days have already passed and I haven’t so much as received a phone call from them.

I read as much as I can about arrests, charges, trials, and convictions. I cover the whole of America, just in case. For such a large area, you’d be surprised at how few cases there are that relate to sexual assault, rape or murder with some kind of sexual element.

I’m looking for patterns, trains of thought, the typical perpetrator’s modus operandi. I don’t look at murder specifically, but I do look at burglaries that end up in murder. I look at straight burglary too, but only in the state I’m in and the counties near the border of the states that border us. According to statistics, a large enough percentage of burglaries are committed close to home to make me feel like an extended search would be a waste of my time. I could use Martin to help me with an algorithm that makes the whole thing easier, but there is no way I’m going to bring him in on what I’m doing. I can’t disappoint him like that. Martin’s dealing with Alice’s death in his own way. He’s working a lot more, he’s going to therapy, he’s taking the normal, recommended path.

Personally, I think this whole thing was a burglary gone wrong. I think it was a person that thought the house was going to be empty and then panicked when they found out that it wasn’t. Drifters don’t do that. Drifters don’t burgle a house out in the suburbs that you can only get to and away from by car. This was someone from this area or from close enough to it. This was someone who had no reason not to still be in it.

Across America as a whole in 2014, there were 12,416 murders. This number changes depending on who provides the statistics. In my state, 325. It’s fairly low on the scale. Of that 12,416, we can assume, based on what is generally understood, that around 75-80% will be premeditated. Around 10,000 murders in America in one year will be intentional. Around 1000 of those will be as a result of a break-in, and more than half of that thousand, homeowners killing the people that are trying to rob them.

I don’t have the official statistics for this year yet because they haven’t been published, but I do have access to information from the United States Courts on burglary charges and convictions nationwide. That’s a public access system and the information is in the public domain. Anyone can get that information if they want to, and I’ve been busy making my way through it.

I’ve got a list of names, and that’s where I plan to start. This isn’t a list of people that have been charged with rape or sexual assault and are awaiting trial, or people that have served time in jail for rape - I’ll get onto them eventually - these are people in this county, who’ve been charged with burglary or have served time for burglary. It makes more sense for me to start that way around. This was a burglary that turned into a rape that turned into a double murder, but it was a burglary first of all.

Out of the thirty seven names I have, four also have charges for sexual assault or rape. Those are the people that will soon be getting a visit from me and this is how I’m going to put my life back together.

4
November 2015. Fifty two days after.

“You know what we should do?”

I look up from my laptop. Martin has that look in his eye I’ve seen a couple of times before in Alice. It’s a restless need for change.

“I’m busy, Martin”, I say, as politely as I can.

“What are you doing up here? You’ve hardly come out of your room all week.”

“I’m working”, I tell him, and he has the manners not to push it any further.

“We should redecorate.”

“I’m not going to redecorate”, I tell him after a moment of silence. “If you want to change the spare room around, it’s all yours.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about the spare room”, he says. “I was thinking more of the rest of the house. I think a change would do you good, you know, a project.”

“I don’t think so.”

There is too much of Alice in this house for me to even think about changing it. I can’t even bring myself to completely remove the blood stains. It would feel like casting her away forever and I’m not ready to move on.

“New colors for a new season?”

I shake my head, slowly. “I like the colors we have. If you’re bored, why don’t you write some more code?”

“I’ve been writing code all month. I’m coded out. Do you want to head out into town, maybe we could watch a movie, have dinner, a few beers?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea after what happened last time, besides which, I’m working”, I say. “I’ve got to finish this.”

“I’m worried about you, Ethan.” He doesn’t come into the room even though I know he wants to. “We all are.”

I close the laptop, firstly to show him I’m engaging and secondly to hide what I’m looking at. “I’m fine, Martin, really. What happened was just a misunderstanding. I was drunk, and angry, and, you know, that wasn’t me doing that.”

“Then come! That’s my point. Aren’t you bored staying at home all the time?”

“No”, I say, shaking my head. “And I’m not here all the time. I run. I go to therapy. I go out.”

“Not with people you don’t”, Martin says.

“I see people in my group”, I say. I have a feeling Martin is going to tell me those people are not real people but he doesn’t. Afterwards I wonder if that’s just how I feel about them.

“Ethan, I know what happened was, I mean, shit man, Alice was my sister. I think about her every day. I can’t wrap my head around what happened, but we can’t let ourselves go down with her, do you know what I mean? We can’t let this sink us.”

“Martin”, I say calmly. “I’m coping with this as best as I can. I have professional support, I am taking medication, and I have people around me for when I need them. I’m not closing down or bottling it up, or whatever expression you want to use to describe whatever it is you think I’m doing. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, really. You just have to give me time to move on.”

“Alright buddy”, Martin says. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know I’m there for you. We could talk, you know, if you think it would help. I know it would help me. Everyone else talks. We all do. It’s not easy for anyone.”

“I’ll let you know, ok?” I say. I’m calm outwardly, but inwardly I can feel a rage building inside me. “For now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. I want to look forwards not back. Please, can you respect that?”

“Sure”, Martin says. “You know where to find me ok? I’ll leave you to your eBay or your running forums or your computer games or whatever.”

“Thank you.”

“If you change your mind about redecorating, I don’t mind paying for the magazines.”

I wave Martin a goodbye and I hear him trudge slowly down the stairs and back to his office.

Lies. We are surrounded by them. We plaster them on as thick as wallpaper paste and then stare at the result with valor and pride.

Nothing, absolutely nothing is ever as it seems.

1
0 November 2015. Forty four days after.

Ethan looks even more distracted today than he did in the first session. His knuckles aren’t red anymore, nor does he try to hide them, but he spends most of the first hour slumped over not really saying much of anything at all. It’s only my second time here, so I haven’t yet worked out the nuances of each member of the group, but there is something about Ethan that draws me to him more than the others. He’s warm, and he smiles a lot, and he has a placidity about him that I find calming.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here. I know it’s a strange thing to say, when none of us really belong here, but with Ethan, it’s kind of like he seems so serene, it’s impossible to believe anything bad has ever happened to him at all.

I finally called the police back. They had little more to tell me than they already had to my answer phone. The man they have charged with raping me, along with five other woman of a similar age and appearance, all over the course of the year in a six mile radius around my neighborhood, is called Jason Fleitman. They police are certain they’ve got their man. My father is certain they’ve got the right man. He fits the description I gave of him, he has a history of domestic violence and sexual assault, and he lives less than ten minutes away from where I was attacked. Jason Fleitman. I could have walked past him in the street and not known it.

The temptation to check the internet for pictures of him is little more than a passing thought. As soon as I’m told his name, I realise I don’t want to know it at all. I don’t need it. I don’t want to personalize him. I don’t want to breathe life into the monster by giving him a history of his own. His own emotions, sensations, feelings. His own brain.

When this goes to court, I’m going to have to stand there in front of this man again, and tell everyone, in full detail, exactly what he did to me. I still remember those eyes. I remember how he smelled. I remember the roughness of the buttoned front to his jeans cutting into the skin at the top of my thigh.

Dad says, “They’ll cross examine you so make sure you get your story straight”, as if there is more than one version of it. There’s the truth and nothing else. No muddy waters or clouded skies. I don’t know if i’ll even have the energy to get to the stand.

“That’s it”, I say, looking up from my hands - which have turned sweaty and red from where I’ve been rubbing them - and back to the group. “That brings me up to here, and why I came.”

“Thank you, Jo”, Katy says.

I half expect a patronizing volley of claps, or a round of hugs, but they don’t come. People just smile sweetly, or look at me with sympathy, or empathy, or a mix of the two and we move on, as though I’ve told them about my weekend camping, or a problem I’ve had with my boiler.

I thought it would be harder than it was. I guess that’s what everyone says. I thought I’d be judged, or challenged, or laughed at for being ridiculous. These were the thoughts that were going through my head. Now my secret is out, and the group know my weakness, I feel stronger for it. I feel like I can’t fall any further.

“Would anyone else like to share their story, or say a bit more about themselves?”

Katy gives the group a look, and it surprises me to see that it’s Ethan with his hand up. He’s said practically nothing in this session or the last, and I’m not even sure whether he’s shared anything at all about himself apart from his name. I don’t mind at all. I shared, not because I felt obliged to do so, but because I couldn’t carry the weight anymore.

“Hi, Jo, I’m Ethan”, he says, “I guess you probably already know that part though so I’m not sure why I’m saying it again.”

There is laughter in the group and I find myself joining along with it. It’s an interesting sensation. Ethan adopts a casual pose, leaned back against the chair, his hands pushed into the front pockets of the hoodie that he’s wearing.

“Everyone else in the group already knows my story, and last week I think I was a little bit distracted so I didn’t really join in as much as normal. The doctors have put me on these meds to help me sleep, and sometimes I find myself zoning out for long periods at a time, you know, just standing there staring at something when all of this stuff is going on around me in the background.”

Ethan pauses to push his glasses back up his nose. The cadences to his speech are slow and rhythmic and although the words themselves aren’t soothing, nor the subject matter, I find myself enjoying listening to him tell his story. I notice I’m not the only one either. Some people struggle to get a group of people to listen to them and others seem to be able to do it effortlessly. Ethan is one of these people. He doesn’t look like he should be, but that’s often the way. Often the most appealing and most powerful orators, are the ones who command attention through deference and meekness.

I remember an old school teacher of mine who had the most incredible ability to bring a class to order. She never raised her voice, and never showed any sign she was flustered. She spoke quietly, and casually and people just wanted to listen.

“I’m really here on behalf of my wife, Alice”, Ethan says, and then he pauses, as though what he was going to say he’s suddenly decided not to. “You know, I’ve told this story a bunch of times already, so I’m going to tell you something different. I’m going to talk to you about the day Alice and I met, not the day she died. This will be new for everyone else too. I haven’t told this story before. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever told it before. This one has a happier ending too.”

They say to survive a tragedy you have to do it in stages. First comes the shock, next the grief, afterwards the acceptance, and finally the continuation. Within that, one of the turning points is the ability to treat the tragedy as a basis for humor, but in a way that doesn’t disassociate from the experience itself. This, I suppose, is what would be called desensitization, and might explain why every doctor I have ever met has such a darkly comic view of death.

“Alice and I went to the same University together, the University of Pittsburgh, right around the corner from here, but we didn’t meet in class, or even on campus, or even at all that first year. We met at six o’clock in the morning, in the freezing cold, in the centre of Point State Park, dressed as chickens.”