by E. G. Scott
She looks out the window and hoots. “Guests! And handsome ones! Good thing I bought extra mint and cachaça.”
My head begins to throb. “What are you talking about?” I hold the cold glass to my forehead. “No guests.” If she’s invited people over at a time like this, I’ll at least have a good reason to ask her to leave.
She looks at me and smiles sweetly. “Well, honey, in that case, you are going to break that very inhospitable bit of news to the nice detectives yourself.” She struts to my full-length mirror and examines herself as I absorb the news.
“You know I’ll never turn good-looking men away, especially during cocktail hour.”
The doorbell rings and, before I’ve moved, it is followed by an aggressive knocking.
“Get the door, honey. It will do you some good to get up and move around,” my mother tells me.
I take the remainder of my drink in two mouthfuls. I half walk, half slide down the carpeted stairs but pull myself together before I reach the doorway.
When I open the door, the detectives are standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking me from the rest of the world.
“Hi—”
“Charlotte Knopfler.” Dennis’s tone is unrecognizable. He is robotically militant. I feel his anger coming off of him in waves. His chest rises with his breath. “You are under arrest for the murder of Rachel Sherman.” A flash of light goes off in my head. I’m blinded from the inside out.
Before I can process, Wolcott is firmly guiding me by the shoulder down the stairs of my front stoop. He is turning me around as the sound of handcuffs being placed around my wrists by Dennis culminates in a terrifying metallic click. The metal is colder than I would expect.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
He’s facing me now. I just stare at him. His eyes are empty and resigned as he looks through me. He actually believes that I could have done this. I’m crushed.
Before I can even begin to muster a response, I hear my mother coming down the stairs in the house behind me. I’m facing the street and I see a neighbor’s car slowing down as they pass to get a better view of my new worst life moment. It is unreal how many of these are piling up this week.
“Who wants a caipiriiiiinha . . . wha?” They don’t acknowledge her as they walk me to their car and put me in the back seat.
“Charlotte??” Her muffled voice is for once without a singsong quality or a hint of sarcasm. She sounds scared. Which in turn snaps me out of my shock and straight into the horror of what is unfolding. “What is happening?!”
I don’t turn my head to look at her as they get in the driver’s and passenger’s seats and start the engine. I can’t let her see me crying.
PART THREE
Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/1/19
11:46 p.m.
Harmnoone82: Is anyone awake?
Miserylovescompany: I’m here.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Greetings.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Guilty. I’m Google stalking my exes.
Harmnoone82: Thank God. I didn’t think anyone would be up.
MaxineKD: Just us vampires.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Seems like Woundedhealer might be the only one of us sleeping this evening.
Harmnoone82: I was hoping she’d be on tonight.
MaxineKD: Hey, what are we? Chopped liver?
Harmnoone82: Sorry! Of course not. I’m so relieved you are all awake.
Miserylovescompany: What’s troubling you, Harmnoone82?
Makeupyourmindcontrol: The usual nightmare of being alive?
Biggirlsdontcry54: God, you are always so pessimistic.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Well, I am a highly traumatized and sensitive person living in the world.
Biggirlsdontcry54: It isn’t that bad out there.
MaxineKD: Says the woman who hasn’t left her house for three years.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: What’s wrong, H?
Harmnoone82: I think I made a big mistake.
MaxineKD: Big mistake how?
Harmnoone82: I stood up for myself.
Biggirlsdontcry54: GOOD!
Harmnoone82: HE took it really badly. Worse than I expected.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Shit.
MaxineKD: Okay, well, you knew this was a risk. You put yourself out there, that is what matters.
Harmnoone82: I think I went too far. He wants to “shut me up, once and for all.”
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Is he really capable of that?
Harmnoone82: I mean, he’s done it before.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Based on what you’ve told us, he’s clearly a sociopath.
MaxineKD: Are you safe to be alone?
Harmnoone82: I’m really freaked out.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Well, this is officially feeling very creepy.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Remember when we talked about inappropriate times for humor?
Makeupyourmindcontrol: I’m sorry. I know. My shrink says humor is my defense mechanism. I thought I was just really funny. (Turns out I’m just really fucked-up.)
MaxineKD: Harmnoone82, do you want to talk in person?
Harmnoone82: Is that allowed? I thought we were supposed to keep this anonymous.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: We can do whatever we want! Our room, our rules.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Amen, sister. And also NO BOYS ALLOWED.
Miserylovescompany: I can meet up. Or come to you?
Harmnoone82: That would be great . . . to meet up.
Miserylovescompany: I can meet you right now if you want.
Harmnoone82: That would be amazing. I’m definitely not going to be able to sleep.
Miserylovescompany: There’s a twenty-four-hour spot, the Beacon Diner, on Route 15.
Harmnoone82: Great.
Miserylovescompany: Any other takers?
Biggirlsdontcry54: I would almost leave my bubble for you guys. But . . . I can’t. Maybe next time.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: I wish I could, ladies. Unfortunately, I’m half a bottle in. No operating heavy machinery for me. And I’ve been banned by Uber (another story for another time).
MaxineKD: I can be there too. An hour?
Harmnoone82: That works for me. How will we recognize each other?
Miserylovescompany: Hmm. I’ll be the only woman holding a single flower.
MaxineKD: How very rom-com of you! I like it. I’ll wear something pink.
Miserylovescompany: Better rom-com than horror.
Harmnoone82: I can’t thank you enough. You are lifesavers.
Miserylovescompany: That’s what friends are for, honey.
MaxineKD: Never fear. As long as you have us, nothing bad will happen to you.
FORTY-EIGHT
WOLCOTT
“You guys in?”
Clarence’s voice is piping through the speaker on my desk phone. He’s given us the log-in information for a chat room Brooke Harmon belonged to. Silvestri and I have been scrolling through the backlog and have just discovered a chat from the night before she was killed. “We sure are. And we just stumbled onto a big clue.”
“Cool, cool.”
“Hey, Clarence. Could you dig up whatever info you can find on the other members?”
“On it, fellas. Working on those addresses as we speak. I’ll let you know when I’ve turned anything up.”
“Beautiful,” says Silvestri. “Thanks a million.” We hang up and stare at each other. “Well, this case is getting wackier by the fucking second, eh?”
<
br /> “Seems to be,” I say. “Let’s hit the diner and see what we can turn up.”
Before I finish the sentence, Silvestri’s up from his desk and pulling his coat on.
FORTY-NINE
CHARLOTTE
He shuts the door tightly once he shuttles me through the entryway and keeps a hand on my shoulder while sealing up any chance of escape. The lock catching makes the same doomed metallic click that every other door in this place makes. The sound that says, “You are trapped.”
There is a medium-size table in the middle of the room with four chairs around it. One of the two facing the door is occupied by a young woman with blond hair and bold red lipstick. She looks more like a hostess at an upscale restaurant than a court-ordered shrink. She stands to greet me while my mute escort with the name tag ROBERTS unlocks my handcuffs and ankle restraints. The whole arrangement seems a bit like overkill, but here at the Suffolk County Jail, they are very serious about prisoner accessories.
“Hi, Charlotte. My name is Dr. Louisa Russell.”
I’m too focused on watching Roberts transfer my handcuffs in the direction of the loop on the table to pick up my cue.
“That won’t be necessary, Officer.” She smiles big and he wordlessly shrugs his shoulders and turns to leave.
“I’ll be right outside the door.”
“Have a seat.” She refers to the chair across from her and I slide into it. “Thank you for meeting with me.” The situation feels vaguely like a job interview.
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
“I suppose that’s right.” She laughs lightly. “But I appreciate you being here. I’m going to be recording our conversation, if that is okay with you.”
I shrug in response. Nothing is okay with me anymore. I’m so consumed with every negative emotion, I feel like I’m wearing a five-hundred-pound suit.
“I know that you are going through a very distressing time right now.” Dr. Russell looks to be about twenty-two, if she’s a day. For some reason, her youth infuriates me as much as her restating the obvious. Maybe because it suggests that I’m not important enough to have been sent someone with more experience.
“Have you been told why I am here?”
“You are here to figure out if I’m crazy or not, right?” I say this without attitude.
“I wouldn’t put it so crudely. This may feel like a punishment, Charlotte, but this is to help you.”
“It would be far more helpful if people didn’t think I was a murderer.” I put my hands on either side of my head.
“That isn’t for me to decide.” She looks shaken. “I’ve been asked by Detectives Silvestri and Wolcott to do a standard psychiatric evaluation today.” I can see her trying not to waver from her training and to keep her cool.
“Sorry if I’m being rude. I haven’t slept much and, well, you know, I’m in here,” I say.
“I understand. The goal is to determine your state of mind currently, and your state of mind in the last couple of weeks when the deaths of Brooke Harmon and Rachel Sherman occurred. Specifically, this is an in-custody evaluation to determine if you are fit to stand before the judge for your bail hearing.” She appears to be consulting the folder sitting in front of her for her lines. I nod. “Do you understand the goal of our conversation today?”
I nod again.
“I’m going to need you to verbally answer for the recording.”
“Yes, I understand, Dr. Russell.” The ls are bitter coming off my tongue.
“And for the record, you have declined having your public defender present for this evaluation.”
“Yes. That’s right.” I don’t feel the need to explain to her that I’d rather take my chances at saying the wrong thing than have another stranger present for an inevitable, invasive line of questioning. I know it is probably supremely stupid, but I am too exhausted to wait the extra two days for the lawyer who they’ve appointed to me to be available. I had a lawyer for the aftermath of Michelle Harmon’s death, but I would sooner defend myself than call him ever again.
“Great. Let’s begin.” She straightens in her chair and takes a deep breath. She appears to be nervous, and I wonder how many of these evaluations she has done. It occurs to me that as far as she knows, she is sitting in a very small room with a murderer.
“Please state your name, age, date of birth, marital status, and gender, for the record.”
“Charlotte Anne Knopfler, April 1, 1979, age forty, female, single.”
She slides a piece of paper over to me, and a newly sharpened pencil. “Please check the following words you would use to describe yourself.”
I look down at the page and the words swim around. It takes a few seconds before they stabilize on the white space and I can read them.
_____ Intelligent _____ Confident _____ Worthwhile ____ Ambitious _____ Sensitive _____ Loyal _____ Trustworthy ____ Evil ____ Full of Regrets _____ Worthless _____ A Nobody _____ Useless _____ Crazy _____ Deviant _____ Unattractive _____ Ugly _____ Considerate _____ Unlovable _____ Inadequate _____ Naive _____ Confused _____ Hardworking ____ Incompetent _____ Stupid _____ Attractive _____ Persevering _____ In Conflict _____ Honest _____ Suicidal _____ Can’t Make a Decision _____ Memory Problems _____ Good Sense of Humor
I put check marks by the words that apply and slide the paper back to her; she doesn’t register any tells in her expression after reviewing my work. Satisfied, she continues.
“Great. Now, where were you born? And how long did you stay there?”
“I was born in Stony Brook, Long Island, and lived here until I was seventeen.”
“What other places did you live, and for how long did you live there?”
“I lived in Cambridge for my undergraduate degree for four years, and then New York City for medical school and my residency for eight years. I’ve been back in Stony Brook for six years now.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Not that I know of.” I can’t help thinking about how similar these questions are to a few first dates I’ve been on. If only this was one of those times. I’d be dressed better, for starters.
She raises her eyebrows. “None that you know of?”
“Sorry, bad joke. I’m an only child.”
“Got it. Okay, now, how about your father? Is he alive, and what is his age and occupation, or if he’s deceased, what age did he die, and cause of death?”
“No idea who my father is or if he’s alive or not.” There is not any discernible emotion in my answer, at least not any more than there is in my heart.
“Okay, how about your mother? Same questions.”
“She’s very much alive. She’s sixty-nine going on sixteen. Retired.”
“Retired from what?” She is clicking the pen gently.
“She has done a number of things. Worked in an office, done telemarketing, apparently she did a stint in a floral shop. I learn about a new vocation of my mother’s every time we speak. She was probably in the circus at some point.”
Dr. Russell laughs politely. “What was your relationship like as a child?”
“Let’s just say that if emotional abuse was an enforceable crime, Mom and I would be cellmates.”
“So I’m inferring that the relationship was not good? It was abusive?”
“Abusive may be overstating it. Maybe just dysfunctional.” I have to keep myself in check and not pull my mother down with me.
“And how about your relationship as an adult?”
“The playing field is even now that I’m an adult. But the game hasn’t changed much.”
“So you are not on good terms, I take it?” She leans on her clasped hands, which she has balanced on her elbows. She’s incredibly thin.
“We are on fine terms. Normal for us.”
She refers to the pages in her folder and skims a few paragraphs. I focu
s on the top of her head and start to hum softly.
“You were living with your mother for a length of time when you came back to Long Island six years ago, is that correct?”
“It must be if it is on your printout.” Dr. Russell frowns. I relent. “Yes. That is correct.”
“And, Charlotte, was that period of time particularly stressful?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“Would you say that?” Her voice jumps an octave.
“Yes, it was acutely stressful.”
“And what prompted you to finally move out?”
“I got a job. I reconnected with old friends and made new friends and started seeing someone who helped encourage me to get out of her house. My mother was ready for me to leave a few days after I arrived. She amused herself greatly when she drew up an eviction note as a ‘joke,’ but the message was received loud and clear. At least she gave me a slight break on the rent.”
In a surprising moment of humanity, Dr. Russell wrinkles her nose disapprovingly. “Your mother sounds charming.” We both laugh. Dr. Russell pulls a second page from her material and pushes it over to my side. “Here is another batch of words that I’d like you to review and check if any of the following apply to your childhood or adolescence.”
____ Unhappy Childhood ____ Family Problems ____ School Problems ____ Emotional/Behavioral Problems ____ Alcohol Abuse ____ Drug Abuse _____ Medical Problems _____ Legal Problems _____ Physical Abuse ____ Sexual Abuse ____ Emotional Abuse ____ Other
I run through the collection of phrases in front of me and sigh. “This is beginning to feel like a women’s magazine quiz. What kind of lover are you?” I drily joke as I check all of the terms that apply.
“How did your mother discipline you? Did she ever hit you or use physical punishment?”
“She employed varying degrees of emotional warfare and gaslighting. My mother is a huge fan of Joan Crawford’s work, on- and off-screen.”