His scent reached me before he did and reminded me of inhaling it with my face against his neck. I felt weak, vulnerable, confused. Was my career more important than Nick and his precious daughter, whom I missed every day? With a large amount of guilt, I knew if I had to think about it, even momentarily, the answer was yes.
“Corky! It’s been a long time.” Nick stepped in close and pulled me against his body for a half-hug.
“Hi, Nick. How’s Faith?”
“She’s great, as always. She asks about you all the time.” He eased his grip, and I took a step back.
“I wish I could see her, but I’m told that will just complicate things for her.”
“Change of mind, heart?” he implored.
I searched his classically-handsome face. “I guess we’re at a standstill.”
“Until you retire?”
I realized I was holding my breath and forced the air out of my nose. “Someone will snatch you up long before then.”
“And you, I guess. Someone with nerves of steel who can actually watch you get into that squad car day after day.”
I shrugged. “Say ‘hi’ to Faith for me. Good to see you, Nick.”
He gently took my forearm in his hand, nodded, dropped my arm, and walked away.
My legs were shaky all the way to my car. After I sat in the seat for a minute, I phoned Smoke on his cell phone. “What are you up to?”
I heard the verbal exchange coming from his police radio. “On my way to a drive-thru to pick up some lunch.”
“Which one?”
“I haven’t decided yet, Arby’s or Culver’s.”
“Where are you now?”
“A block from the office. Why?”
“Meet me in the parking lot of Culver’s? I’m near there.”
“Ten-four.”
I was waiting when Smoke drove in. He pulled up so we could talk, driver’s side window to driver’s side window.
“What’s up?”
“I have an appointment with a psychologist who has worked with a lot of people who have supposedly been involved with cults. I’m hoping she can give me some insights into what Jeffrey Trippen may be like, you know, his behavior. We’ve been in enough situations with unpredictable behaviors.”
“Yeah, we’ve had plenty of those deals go south in a hurry.”
We both thought a moment, envisioning scenarios.
I recalled a memorable one. “Remember that burglary a few years ago? The one where the guy broke into a house where the woman was home alone with a baby? He was all wild-eyed and scared the living daylights out of her.”
“Yeah. Sure. She managed to get into the baby’s room and locked the door. Good thing. In the few seconds it took her to dial nine-one-one, the guy was outside howling at the moon.” Smoke threw his head back and imitated the suspect.
I grinned at his silly action. “That was a long night. Weber was first on the scene, got him in a body lock and had enough strength to hold him until Carlson arrived. I got there a minute later. It seemed like hours before the ambulance got there so we could backboard him and get him to the hospital. It took a hefty dose of sedatives to bring him down. We all thought he was on meth. He certainly acted like it, but he was having some type of psychotic episode instead.”
“I think it’s a good idea, meeting with someone who works with cult victims, possibly getting some insights on how to deal with Trippen before we find him. Good thinking, little lady.”
I smiled and nodded. “Mind if I tag along? I need a break from looking through the personnel files of our old-timers.”
“I don’t mind, and I doubt if the doctor will either. She sounded hospitable enough on the phone.
15
I rode with Smoke in his squad car to Dr. Fischer’s home office, four miles from downtown Oak Lea. The maple trees bordering her driveway were leafing out and would completely block the view of her house from the road in another week.
“Nice digs,” Smoke admired as he put the car in park.
“Not bad.”
Dr. Fischer’s home was a two-story Tudor-style, sided with stucco and decorative timbers. We walked to the front entry, and Smoke rang the bell. Dr. Fischer opened the door and smiled warmly. She stepped back, allowing us entrance into the foyer.
“Sergeant Corky Aleckson.” I extended my hand, and Dr. Fischer shook it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant. And . . .” She turned to Smoke.
“Elton Dawes, detective. I kind of invited myself. I hope it’s all right if I sit in on the meeting,” Smoke said as he took her right hand into his.
Dr. Fischer’s pupils widened a tad when she looked into Smoke’s eyes. His eyebrows rose, as if he was surprised by her reaction and hint of attraction. I had witnessed the effect he had on women of all ages over the years and wasn’t surprised.
Dr. Fischer looked like a model. She was around five foot nine, maybe one hundred and thirty pounds. Her breasts sat high on her chest, so there was a long expanse between them and her waist. Her hips curved slightly, evidenced by the slim, fitted skirt outlining them. Her beige silk blouse was a couple of shades lighter than her taupe skirt. Light brown hair, cut an inch above her shoulders, flipped up at the ends and provided a nice frame for her violet-blue eyes. She was classy from head to toe.
“Thanks for taking time from your busy schedule, Doctor Fischer,” I said, breaking the spell between her and Smoke.
Her eyes flicked over to me. “Certainly. Please come in. My office is right over here.” She lifted her arm, indicating the door on our right. Smoke and I followed her in.
“Sit down. Please.” Dr. Fischer pointed at a sitting area with a loveseat and two stuffed armchairs. Smoke and I both went for the loveseat, but I shifted to an armchair before we wedged in together.
“May I offer you something to drink? Bottled water, coffee, tea?”
We both said, “No thanks.”
Dr. Fischer lifted a notebook and pen from her desk then sat down in the other chair. She folded her hands around her pen and leveled her eyes on me. “You said you are working with two brothers who were involved in a cult as children. And one is planning to sacrifice himself to Satan.”
“That’s correct.” I gave her a summary of my initial call from Gregory Trippen, his description of Jeffrey, his belief his stepfather had killed his father, our meeting with Gregory, and the inverted crosses burned on the soles of his feet. Dr. Fischer delicately nodded throughout my monologue, occasionally glancing at Smoke.
I summed up by saying, “Doctor Kearns recommends you as the person to talk to. He says you’re an expert in the area.” I withdrew a memo pad and pen from the back pocket of my jeans.
Dr. Fischer shrugged one shoulder. “I went into this field because I was greatly influenced by a book I read as a teen. The book was called Sybil—”
“I saw the movie,” Smoke interrupted.
She looked from Smoke to me. “It was about a young woman who was sexually and physically abused from a very young age. When her immature mind and body could not abide what was happening to her, she developed dissociative identity disorder, or DID. She fragmented into many separate personalities.”
“Fragmented into separate personalities?” I had heard of split personalities, but the term fragmented struck me as a much worse condition.
“Multiple personality disorder?” Smoke asked.
“Yes. Now it’s generally known as dissociative identity disorder. The mind is capable of forgetting, or repressing, traumatic experiences. There are a variety of conditions and terms to describe this. Besides dissociative state, there’s traumatic amnesia, psychogenic shock. Dissociative amnesia can occur after any type of traumatic event.”
I jotted the names down quickly to keep up. “It’s not schizophrenia?”
“No, that’s often confused by laymen, but schizophrenia is very different. The word is taken from Greek words meaning ‘split mind,’ so it’s no wonder why it’s confusing. Schizophrenia is a severe mental
illness where the person suffers from delusions and hallucinations—”
“Like hearing voices,” Smoke chimed in.
“Correct, but does not have multiple personalities, as the name suggests.”
“What is dissociative identity disorder, exactly?” I asked.
“It is quite a remarkable protective device, a coping mechanism. For example, when a child is being abused by a trusted adult such as a parent or caregiver, the child needs to block out awareness—the memory of the event—to survive the relationship. The victim’s memories and feelings go into the subconscious and emerge later as a separate personality. When more traumatic things happen to the victim, more personalities can develop. These personas have different memories and different functions.”
“The personalities that have split off have different memories?” I said.
Dr. Fischer nodded. “The strongest personality becomes the gatekeeper and tells the others when they need to take over for a while. Sometimes there is actual fighting for control between the personalities. DID is a sad thing, of course, but extremely fascinating at the same time. A subconscious technique that allows people to survive trauma and abuse. It’s tragic that a little child, or anyone, would have to resort to it to protect themselves.” Dr. Fischer raised her hands a tad. “And it’s not just children. Adults enduring torture sometimes fragment to keep from dying. There are a few documented cases where they have found up to a hundred different personalities, all housed in a single person.”
“I had no idea.” It was beyond my comprehension. There were days I had trouble managing my one personality.
Smoke shifted to the front of the seat. “What kind of numbers, percentages, are we talking here, doc?”
“A small percentage. No one really knows because of all the undiagnosed cases, but most likely somewhere between a tenth of a percent and one percent. Other estimates put it up to seven percent of the population.”
“Seven percent is a lot of people.”
Dr. Fischer nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“How many personalities do you typically see in a client?” I asked.
“There is no ‘typical.’ I’ve worked with people who have two to four, mainly. The worst case I treated had thirteen alternates that we identified. She suffered unbelievable abuse as a child on through young adulthood. Her family was heavily involved in cult activities. We worked for years, but hadn’t completely integrated her. We were making significant headway when she died suddenly of an apparent heart attack. A fragile, yet strong woman. I think about her every day.”
“How long ago was that? I asked.
Dr. Fischer studied her watch, as if looking for the answer. “Just about three years now.”
I nodded. “Where did she live?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Rockwell, but that’s not where the abuse happened.” Rockwell was the next town southeast of Oak Lea.
Smoke extended his long legs in a stretch then pulled them in again. “Working with these people, you’ve seen the separate personalities come out at different times?”
“Yes. It’s quite astonishing. The alternate personalities actually look different, sound different, have different mannerisms. I work to get each of them to trust me. I’m not always sure who the core person is when we start. It might be that the gatekeeper has sent in the personality who deals best with medical or professional personnel. Fragmented personalities are not fully mature ones.”
“By core person, you mean the original personality?” I said.
“Correct.”
“And how do you figure that out?” Smoke leaned forward.
“My professional trade secrets?” Dr. Fischer smiled at Smoke in a way that bordered on flirting.
Smoke smiled back.
“You have to understand the magnitude of this condition and all the implications for the patient. Multiples are in the mental health system for an average of seven years before they are diagnosed.
“They usually suffer from depression, anxiety, may have had suicide attempts. Finding out you have multiple personalities is not easy to accept, but it is also something that doesn’t always come as a complete shock, either. It helps explain gaps in time, or wearing certain clothes they would never choose, or finding items in their house and wondering how they got there.”
My mind wandered, recalling a few suspects over the years who claimed they didn’t know how stolen items came to be in their possession, or how they ended up naked at a beach, or why they had driven into a public building. Was it possible they were telling the truth?
“One tool I use is to give my DID clients a notebook. I instruct them keep the notebook in one spot in their living quarters and to write to their alternates, actually addressing them by name. They write and the alternates write back, in different handwritings, no less. Sometimes it’s a child who prints like a child and can’t spell very well.”
“So some of these, what you call alternates, are children?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s quite common. They may be of the opposite sex. I’ve read some have animals as alternates, but I’ve never dealt with that.”
Smoke furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief. “Animals?”
“DID is extremely complex.” Dr. Fischer studied Smoke’s facial expression. “I’ve used hypnotherapy to invite the alternates to come out, to talk, while the core person stays. Co-consciousness is important in the healing process. The pain each personality suffers needs to be brought to the surface. Healed.”
I tried to envision what that healing process would be like. My own counseling sessions paled in comparison.
“Most of my clients are on meds for depression, anxiety, or both. Many have benefited from art or movement therapy. Painting, drawing, sculpting, all enhance recovery from psychological disorders. Dance therapy strengthens the mind-body connection, based on the concept that movement and emotions are directly connected.”
I attended a weekly ballet class. Though I had never thought of it before, I silently agreed with the doctor. Movement and emotions were definitely connected.
“I’ve given you a very brief snippet of the disorder. Still, I have given you a lot of information to digest. Do you have any questions?”
I was processing her words and couldn’t think of a single intelligent question to ask.
Smoke cleared his throat. “This isn’t meant to discredit your work, it’s meant as a clarifying question. You mentioned that you used hypnotherapy. Some years back there was a big hoopla about implanting false memories in patients.”
Dr. Fischer nodded. “Yes, there were a lot of stories to that effect back in the eighties. Assuming psychotherapists can implant false memories in patients is just not plausible, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve done a great deal of research, and I’m not aware of any studies that proved it is possible to do so.”
“Good to know,” Smoke said.
I thought of the main reason we were there. “Doctor Fischer, Jeffrey Trippen has mental illness, maybe DID. How do you think he’ll react when we find him? Is there a special way we should approach him? Anything we can say that might help keep him calm?”
“I wish there was an easy answer to that, but there isn’t. If he does have DID, it could be that one of the alternates purchased the dagger and made the phone call to his brother.”
“So you think it’s possible Jeffrey may not be coming here, after all?”
“No, I think either Jeffrey or an alternate is very intent on doing exactly what he said. He has a definite plan. I’m sure you’ve ascertained how complicated this is. The best assurance you—any of you at the sheriff’s department—can provide is to calmly and firmly call Jeffrey by name and reassure him he is safe, that you will get him to a safe place, keep him safe, and you will keep the bad people away from him,” she said.
I thought of the bad person who was lurking around the sheriff’s department. If he was around when Harlan Manthes was killed, had he figured out who Jeffrey was? What if a citizen repor
ted a suspicious guy who fit Jeffrey’s description and our dirty deputy got to him first? Could we keep Jeffrey safe?
Dr. Fischer shifted then tugged to readjust her skirt. “You called me an expert in this field, and I do specialize in DID, but that can occur from other abusive situations as well and not be cult-related. There are a number of ministers who work with the spiritual aspects of healing. I’ll give you the name and number of a local one. He’d be a good resource. And I think it would be helpful for you to talk with one of my patients, if you’re interested.”
“Yes,” Smoke and I said in unison.
“I have a couple in mind. I’ll check with them and get back to you.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Thank you,” Smoke added.
Dr. Fischer wrote on the back of her business card. She handed it to me and said, “Pastor Daniel Trondholm.” I knew who he was. He had a congregation on the north side of Oak Lea.
I gave Dr. Fischer my business card, and Smoke followed suit. “Got one for me?” Smoke held out his hand to her.
“Certainly.” She retrieved another from her desk and gave it to him. “I’d like to offer my help when you find Jeffrey. I know your officers are trained to handle critical incidents and hostage situations, which this may very well be. If Jeffrey does have DID, either his core personality or one of the alternates is holding the rest of them hostage. One of them may want to die, sacrifice himself, but it’s likely not all of them do. Please don’t hesitate to call. I’ve been working with SRA victims for many years.”
“We appreciate that,” Smoke said.
As we walked toward the entry door, I said, “What is the cure rate for people with DID who get treated?”
Dr. Fischer blew out a quick breath. “There is no cure, but long-term treatment can be very successful.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, having clients come to your home?” Smoke asked.
Dr. Fischer’s lips pulled to one side. “When my practice took this rather unexpected turn, working almost exclusively with SRA victims, the other psychologists in my group asked me to move out of the building.”
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