by Leslie Wolfe
But the increase in recall with hypnosis techniques was often associated with misleading information that was regarded as highly reliable by law enforcement, because it was obtained under hypnosis. The susceptibility of the witness to be influenced by the questions she was asked during the interview made Kay rehearse the line of questioning she was about to engage in, whispering to herself, making sure they came across just as perfectly neutral when spoken as they sounded in her mind.
Before pushing the door open and entering the nap room, she stopped one more time and sent a quick email, requesting a favor from an old friend and colleague—an FBI technical analyst who had both the knowledge and the equipment necessary to clean the nine-one-one call recording of all the static, breathing sounds, and background noises, and enhance the voices.
Then she looked at Heather through the small window. She still sat on the side of the bed, hands folded in her lap, seemingly unaware of the passing of time. Kay took a moment to consider whether to move her to a more comfortable position, where she could rest her back against something. She decided some pillows would do the trick, because moving her could agitate her and make the hypnotic induction more challenging.
She entered the room quietly, then closed the door behind her without a sound. Throwing the window a quick look over her shoulder, she found Sheriff Logan was looking in, keeping watch. Gathering all the clumpy, white-and-blue-striped pillows from the other bunks, she spoke softly, in a soothing voice. “It’s me, Kay, and you’re safe with me.” She propped the pillows behind her back. “There, you can lean back a little now. Your back must be sore after all this time.”
She waited, her eyes fixed on the girl’s shoulders, waiting for the smallest hint of movement. A long moment later, her shoulders dropped just a little bit. The shirt she wore, a couple of sizes too large, made her seem smaller than she was, more vulnerable.
Kay covered the girl’s legs with a blanket and continued the breathing exercise, noticing how her body continued to relax in the tiniest of increments.
“Good,” Kay said, “that’s a good girl. You deserve to rest and relax and feel safe. Breathe with me,” she continued, speaking softly, slowly. “Breathe in, hold it for a moment, then breathe out. In, hold, and out. That’s it.”
At first, Heather’s breathing was offbeat, but slowly she started following her guidance. That meant she could be reached, she was listening, and willing to connect.
“Feel the pillows under your body supporting you,” Kay said. “Hear my voice, and know you’re safe. No harm will come to you. Breathe in, hold it for a moment, breathe out. Yes.”
She watched Heather breathe, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, following her instructions. When she felt the girl was ready, she continued. “We’ll go on a journey together. It will be like watching a movie. Whatever happens on the screen cannot touch you. Follow my voice and know you’re perfectly safe.”
The child still stared ahead with that disheartening, empty look in her eyes, but her eyelids were growing heavy.
“As I count down from five to one, you will be more and more relaxed.” Kay counted, “Five,” her voice calm, melodious, soothing. “You feel yourself relaxing. Four. Going deeper and deeper, doing great. Three. You’re drifting further and further from the world, deeply relaxed. Two. Deeper, excellent, follow my voice into feeling totally relaxed. One. You are now in a deep trance.”
For a moment, Kay wondered if her choice of words had been adequate. Would an eight-year-old know what a deep trance was? Apparently, this one did, judging by the relaxed posture and calm breathing.
“Hear my voice and know you’re completely safe,” Kay said, starting with grounding techniques—Heather’s trauma was the biggest challenge to overcome before learning anything about the events that had taken place the night her mother was killed. “Feel the support under your body, the warmth of the blanket sheltering you in a cocoon of safety.” She paused for a long moment, then asked, “Can you talk?”
Kay held her breath for what seemed like forever.
“Yes,” Heather finally answered, her voice a little strangled, coarse. She hadn’t spoken a word in almost two days.
“Take me to your house, two nights ago, and show me what you see,” Kay said. Heather’s breathing picked up, racing toward panicky. “I’m right here, and you’re perfectly safe. Nothing you will see can hurt you.” Heather’s breathing slowed a little. “Can you see who came to visit your mom?”
“The little weasel is telling on me again,” Heather said, her speech slightly slurred. Her jaws were tense, clenched tightly. “But Mom doesn’t care. Julie’s late and Mom wants us to go.”
“Go where?” Kay asked.
Heather shook her head a couple of times, her hair dancing loosely around her face. “Away. We have to run, to leave this place, to save Julie,” she said, in what sounded like an imitation of an adult woman’s voice. “But Julie doesn’t believe her, and she’s late, and Mom is angry,” she continued in her normal, high-pitched and rushed voice.
She stopped talking, reliving memories in her mind. Her eyes moved rapidly under closed eyelids; her head shook occasionally as if she rejected what she was seeing.
“What’s happening now?”
“Julie’s back, and Mom is mad. It’s too late to leave, it’s dark outside. Mom’s afraid.” Her voice trailed off, strangled by fear.
“Who is she afraid of?”
She wrestled with a memory, making spasmodic gestures with her arms. “Someone’s at the door, but Julie’s taking us upstairs. He can’t see her.”
Kay frowned, clutching her hands tightly together to pace herself. “Who can’t he see?”
“Julie,” Heather said, then gasped. “He will take her.”
The eye movements continued, and her agitation increased.
“You’re safe with me,” Kay repeated. “Nothing you see or hear can hurt you. It’s like watching a movie. What happens next?”
“Glass of wine?” Heather said, in that imitation of her mother’s voice. “I’ll have some,” she replied, now imitating a man’s voice. “You know why I’m here,” she continued in the same low-pitched voice that must’ve been the killer’s. “No, leave us alone, please,” she continued, now in her mother’s voice. “You don’t have to do this.”
She fell silent, while her breathing accelerated, and her agitation increased.
“I’m right here, and you’re safe. Breathe in, hold it in with me, breathe out. There. What’s happening now?”
A spasm shook the girl’s entire body, as if she’d been electrocuted. “It has to happen,” she spoke between clenched jaws, in a low-pitched voice. “You’ve known all along. You know she must. Tonight.” She started shaking badly, as if she were caught in a winter blizzard, her teeth clattering. “No,” she shouted, in what seemed to be her mother’s voice. “Heather, call nine-one-one, just like Mom taught you.” That must’ve been Julie telling her to call for help.
“You’re safe, here with me,” Kay said calmly, watching with deep concern how her little body writhed reliving the horrors. She had to pull her out. “I will count to five, and you’ll wake up, feeling rested and strong and safe. One, you’re starting to—”
Heather shrieked, then called, “Mommy?”
“You’re safe, waking up rested and relaxed,” Kay continued, rushing through the waking process. “Two. You’re following my voice and know you’re safe; you’re starting to wake up. Three. You feel like you’re waking from a deep sleep.” Her agitation subsided and her breathing stabilized. Then a long, pained sigh left her chest. “Four. You’re getting ready to wake up, rested and refreshed. Five. You’re awake.”
Heather opened her eyes and focused them on Kay.
“Hello,” Kay said. “Did you sleep well?”
For a moment she seemed disoriented, but then, as she remembered her reality, a heart-wrenching wail ripped through her chest. She broke down in uncontrollable sobs, clinging to Kay’s neck.
“He killed my mommy,” she said, barely able to speak between gasps and wails.
Kay wrapped her arms around her and rocked her back and forth, soothing her with soft-spoken words, while struggling to keep her own tears in check. Heather’s sobs quickly subsided, too quickly, and her body turned inert, distant. Pulling away gently, Kay looked at the child, searching her eyes. The same vacant stare had returned, and her tears had stopped falling, the last of them drying out in stains on the colorful fabric of her borrowed shirt.
Her mind had shut off again.
Kay wanted to scream. If she’d had the unsub in front of her, she wouldn’t need a gun to end him; she’d rip his heart out with her bare hands.
Forcing herself to breathe away her rage, she stood and walked to the door, where the sheriff’s frown promised nothing good.
“What the hell was that?” he asked, as soon as she’d closed the door. “With the has-to-happen story? How did these folks know Julie was about to be taken, and why didn’t they tell anyone? Geez…” Frustrated, he took his hand to his forehead so forcefully it sounded like a slap.
Suddenly she felt immensely tired, as if the last hour had burned all her energy somehow, leaving her an empty husk. There were no answers to the sheriff’s questions, nor hers. Nothing made any sense.
But there wasn’t any time for tiredness, not with Julie still missing. She wished Elliot was there, by her side, her secret weapon. When he was around, things seemed more logical somehow, easier, as if his broad shoulders sustained the weight of the world that was crushing her.
“I don’t know what to believe,” she replied honestly, although omitting to mention the high rate of error documented with hypnotic interviewing of witnesses. “I was expecting, um, I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a name? I’m thinking this unsub was someone Cheryl knew, and I thought—”
“So, you have nothing,” Logan summarized coldly, sucking his teeth in disappointment. “Well, this story’s about to end. The girls’ family is here to claim them, and they’re threatening legal action if they’re not released into their custody immediately.”
“But, Sheriff, we have to try again. Heather will remember—”
“You see them, over there, by my office? Marleen and Avery Montgomery, the girls’ great-aunt and great-grandfather.” The sheriff pointed out a man and a woman who were impatiently pacing the small hallway back and forth. The woman, elegantly dressed in a beige suit and matching scarf over a black, silk blouse, was in her early fifties. Her sleek, shoulder-length hair was perfectly colored and styled as if she’d just left the salon. She seemed relatively pleasant when she wasn’t looking in Kay’s direction. When she did, her eyes turned into daggers, and her pretentious, menacing smile promised no good. The man who was with her must’ve been well over seventy. The dark navy blue of his shirt contrasted with his white, neatly trimmed beard and brought color to his eyes. He was tall and walked straight, his head held high, towering over his companion. Their overall demeanor spoke of wealth and power, ingrained in their behavior the way it becomes with people who have had it for a very long time. “I have a hurricane landfall to deal with. Whatever it is you want to say, say it to them and see if it sticks,” the sheriff added, lowering his voice. “That was our agreement.”
20
Dr. Edgell
Dr. Vella Edgell’s office was housed in the Mount Chester Medical Center building, on the second floor. The small plaza in front of the building—usually teeming with pedestrian traffic attracted by the smell of fresh donuts and coffee spread generously by the coffee shop near the entrance—was now deserted, washed by heavy raindrops carried by the strong winds and slammed against the asphalt in angry bursts.
Elliot liked dry weather. Back where he grew up, it was so dry he was spitting cotton. For the most part, California had been reasonable from that perspective, only a few of these massive storms battering the area since he’d moved there from Austin, Texas. He’d left the Lone Star State in his rearview mirror because he just couldn’t keep his head screwed on straight when it came to the woman he’d worked with, and now he had to deal with the stupid rain and learn to like it.
Eyeing the entrance and going slowly, he drove onto the deserted sidewalk all the way to the entrance, leaving his flashers on. From there, in a few quick large strides, he’d made it inside, but even so, he’d taken enough rain to feel the legs of his jeans getting soaked. He stomped his feet a couple of times, shaking off water like a stray dog, still mumbling curses after he’d slipped and almost fell on the wet concrete that bore the logo of the medical center in pink and gold.
Taking the stairs to the second floor, he found Dr. Edgell’s office immediately, the first one on the left. Tastefully decorated, the waiting room was empty, but he could hear a voice coming from the office. The receptionist’s desk was bare and cleared of the objects that normally clutter such workspaces, explaining why his calls to the office had gone straight to voicemail. A faint scent of lavender floated through the air, emerging from an essential oil dispenser plugged into a wall socket by the bookcase.
He hesitated for a moment, knowing how Kay would’ve reacted if she learned he’d interrupted a patient’s therapy session. He listened, taking off his hat and putting his ear close to the door, and heard a woman’s voice talking about carpeting several rooms, installation costs, and other such matters in a one-sided conversation. He wasn’t going to interrupt much.
He knocked twice, then tentatively opened the door and looked inside.
The woman, a tall and slender blonde with long, sleek hair, raised a frustrated glance at him. Then she seemed to notice the badge he was holding and invited him in with a rushed hand gesture. Her frustration melted and turned into a pleasant, almost flirty smile with every step he took on her thick, oriental carpet as she sized him up without the faintest attempt to hide her interest.
She wrapped up the call with a quick and unceremonious, “I’ll have to ring you back,” then extended her hand. “Vella Edgell,” she introduced herself.
He shook her hand briefly, then took two steps back as he said his name. “Detective Young.”
She leaned against the large oak desk and crossed her legs at the ankles, showing off tan skin and high heel, black patent shoes, while he stood awkwardly, still holding his hat in his hand.
“Please, take a seat,” she motioned toward her couch. “What can I do for you, um, Detective?”
He set his hat on the couch but chose to remain standing. He pulled up the photo of the doctor’s business card on his phone and showed her the screen. “We’re investigating the death of a man who had your appointment card on him. Seems he was your patient.”
“Oh?” she reacted, surprised, worry washing over her face. “Can you share his name?”
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out. For now, he’s a John Doe. According to this, he was supposed to see you next Monday at ten.” He flipped a few screens over, then showed her the man’s photo.
She looked at the picture, then at him for a moment, before walking around her desk swaying her hips, her heels clacking loudly on the hardwood floor not covered by the rug. She sat in front of her computer and tapped a few keys, her fingernails clicking against the keyboard. A few moments later, she said, “I wanted to make sure, but yes, that’s Mr. Smith.”
He smiled incredulously. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me? Mr. Smith?”
She batted her eyelids a couple of times and lowered her gaze, then looked at him with an apologetic smile. “That’s all I have, Detective, because that’s all he would say. He only had one session, paid in cash, and was reluctant to come into the office; he requested we do the sessions by phone, but that’s not how I work,” she added, her voice soft and melodious, yet professional at the same time. She leaned over the desk, resting her elbows on the shiny surface and clasping her hands together. “I study the patients’ body language to identify areas where therapy can best
assist in achieving their goals.”
The way she looked at him made him uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stepping in place. Maybe in another world, he would’ve been flattered by her interest. It was strange how women had stopped mattering since he’d met Kay.
“What was wrong with him?” he asked, his voice a little colder than he’d anticipated.
She pulled back, choosing to lean against the backrest of her leather chair, her smile gone, and her eyes loaded with unfiltered disappointment.
“You see, Detective, that’s exactly why people choose to pay in cash and give fake names when they come into my office,” she replied, anger seeping through the low notes of her voice. “It’s easy to believe that people have to have something wrong with them to see a psychologist. But most of them have goals for their lives—want to better themselves, become someone more polished, more successful, someone happier. How this is wrong, I can’t begin to understand.”
“I apologize,” Elliot started to say, taken aback by the passion in Dr. Edgell’s voice.
“It’s not your fault, Detective; it’s the entire society’s fault. As a society, people spread the stigma of mental health with the juvenile excitement of a pubescent boy reading foul messages on a restroom stall door. Because it feels so damn good to say that so-and-so is crazy, right?” She stared at him with firmness in her frown and a tense jawline. “You know what, Detective? My patients, dead or alive, have rights. Why don’t you come back and see me after you’ve secured a warrant?” She stood, crossing her arms at her chest in a stance that was clear as day.
But he wasn’t leaving without more information. Not too many options were left, except maybe his smile and sense of humor, both proven quite effective in two different states.
“On behalf of the entire human society, I apologize,” he said, letting his smile touch his eyes. He knew a good apology disarmed a woman no matter how mad she was, even if she could start a fight in an empty house.