“Bitch! Hold still,” he seethed.
Then he stopped. He was panting. I looked into the mouth of the inverted bottle held above my face. He shook it several times, trying to release the last drop. John threw it to one side, scooted up, and sat on my chest, with all his weight on my hands, which were still pinned on either side of my head. He started wheezing, and his face flushed to an abnormal color.
He glared at me with wild devil eyes, vacant eyes, scary eyes, like nothing I had ever seen in my life. His eyes blazed like a wild beast, set to kill his prey. And I was that prey.
I stared back at him and subconsciously reached into the depths of my being for the right approach to let me survive. Without skipping a beat or consciously recognizing it, I slipped into my caretaking mode, which I had practiced for almost ten years. Smooth it over. Try to understand. Get him to change. I smiled weakly and kept constant eye contact with him. Then, from my heart—from my inner self—I uttered the words that saved my life.
“John, if there’s a problem we can talk about it.”
He cocked his head to one side. His muscles relaxed on my hands and chest, but he didn’t move. I softly continued. “I think we both need a rest, don’t you? Why don’t you help me up?”
I firmly believe that if I had reacted any other way I would have died that day, in that hotel room. If I had not acquiesced, and instead had continued to struggle in my weakened condition, I know it would have triggered John into finishing the job in the heat of the moment. My words broke the momentum of his murderous attack.
For a moment, he did nothing. Then he loosened his grip, and his eyes lost the beastly stare. He didn’t speak, just sighed and struggled to get off me and stand up. Once steady on his feet, he reached down and helped me off the floor. I leaned against the divider, frozen, as my mind reeled with what had just transpired, and I remained speechless while John picked up my earrings, straightened my shoes, and retrieved my gloves and the car keys that had been knocked off the counter during the attack. He stood between me and the door. Even if I had wanted to run screaming for help, I could not have escaped.
“Let’s lie down,” he said.
He grabbed my right hand and led me to the disheveled bed where we had spent the night, cuddled together. I looked at the pillows. Alarms sounded. Would they be his next attempt at snuffing me out? An eerie calm pervaded the room.
“I don’t think I can lie down right now, John. I might get sick. I feel nauseated.” That sounded logical, and it was the truth. “But I’ll sit next to you while you rest.”
John bought it, and why wouldn’t he? I had accepted so many of his bad behaviors before. I followed his orders and sat down obediently on the edge of the bed, shoeless and in my torn raincoat. It still didn’t even occur to me to try to escape. Something was broken and I needed to understand what, so I could fix it. John crawled to the middle of the bed and stretched out, then reached over and grabbed my right wrist. His grip was tight, and he didn’t let go as he stared at the ceiling.
“Why did you do this, John?” I cooed, with care and kindness, with bewilderment and wonder.
“Right before we left, the doc called and said I had terminal cancer.”
“But why did you try to kill me?”
“I didn’t want to kill you. I just wanted to put you to sleep so I could jump off the Key Bridge and kill myself.”
“We have good medical coverage,” I said. “We can get you the best doctors.”
“I don’t want to live.” John’s eyes welled up with tears, and he coughed hoarsely. “I’m as crazy as your brother and should be locked up in an institution.”
“We can get you mental help, too, if that’s what you need.”
A tear ran down his cheek. “You said this trip was one of the biggest disappointments in your life.”
I paused. “No, John. Today was the biggest.”
We both fell silent, lost in our own thoughts. I was completely thrown off balance, and confused. I didn’t know if the cancer story was valid or if he was crazy. What if he tried to murder me again? My head throbbed. My mouth was dry. I asked if I could get a glass of water.
John released my wrist and rolled over to get off the bed. My pace was controlled, slow and easy. John followed directly behind me. I robotically passed the door and made no move to open it. At the moment it didn’t seem to offer me an escape. I moved to the sink.
The ether aroma lingered in the air, and for a moment I thought I might throw up, but I didn’t. I refused to lose control. I reached for a clean glass and shuddered. The empty amber bottle sat innocuously at the back of the counter, as did my wrecked earrings. Full glass in hand, I quickly glided back into the bedroom, passing my shoes that had been neatly arranged in the closet, and made my way to the desk chair. I took a sip of water, then another.
John followed but stopped at the end of the bed. His breathing was now less labored, and the redness in his face had receded. Perhaps he, too, still felt in control, so much so that he now removed his trousers, white dress shirt, and tie before he dragged himself back to the middle of the bed.
“Come sit beside me. I’m so tired.”
I returned to my spot beside him and perched on the edge. Thankfully, this time he did not grab my bruised wrist. “Close your eyes,” I whispered. “When you wake up, we can go to Bethesda Naval Hospital and get you checked out.”
“You always take such good care of me,” he said.
I gently laid his right arm in my left hand and lightly stroked it. His eyelids closed, his breathing deepened, and he appeared to be sleeping. Now I had to make the most important decision of my life.
I was in a dilemma. Beset with bold new facts and fears, I replayed the events of the morning and of the last several days. Is someone in the project out to get John? Is there actually a project, or an admiral? Does he have cancer? Did he go berserk because of the cancer news? Does he need mental help? Do I stay with him and take him to the hospital when he wakes up? Or do I try to escape and call the police?
Suddenly I understood how battered women feel, although I still didn’t realize I was one of them. My beloved, my most trusted person, had just tried to kill me. Murder? Did he really mean to do it? He seemed so contrite. Was it my fault? Did I push him to the brink? What could I have done differently? My mind swirled with questions. My skin itched. My throat burned. I continued gently rubbing my fingers up and down John’s arm.
Deep-sleep snores emanated from the bed. John was out, or so I thought. If I’m going to do anything, this is my chance. I reached into my inner self and found the strength I consciously lacked. The voice inside said, RUN. If you don’t, you won’t leave this room alive. RUN for your life. Do it now. RUN! RUN! RUN! For once I listened and decided to escape, but first I had to execute a safe plan.
I leisurely stopped rubbing John’s arm. He didn’t move. I softly laid his arm on the bed, slipped my left hand free, and sat very still with my hands folded in my lap. I hardly breathed. John snorted, stirred slightly, and resumed his snoring. Cautiously, in slow motion, I stood up, acting like I was going to take off my coat. John didn’t move. I tiptoed to the end of the bed and stopped, still pretending I was unbuttoning my coat. His eyelids remained closed, and his chest heaved with deep breaths.
My heart pounded. After a few seconds that seemed more like two hours, I slipped past the divider, grabbed the door handle, and slowly, quietly, carefully turned it. The latch clicked. I froze and listened. John continued to snore. I pulled the door open just enough for me to squeeze through and then braced it as I let it come to rest, without slamming it. Time is of the essence, I thought. Go! Go! Go!
I pushed open the solid doors and bolted through, turned right, and ran in my torn stockings through the two sets of double glass doors, down the long hall past the meeting rooms. Crazy thoughts sped through my mind. What would I say? Murder? No, John had just gone berserk. He needed help. I needed help. We needed to get to a hospital. Denial obliterated reality.
I turned left and sprinted past the elevators, then right, past the house phones. People stopped and stared as I wove around them—a shoeless woman in a torn coat with disheveled hair, reeking of ether. I didn’t care. At the main desk I caught my breath and blurted out the truth. “Call the police! My husband just tried to murder me with ether.”
A manicured manager appeared, and she led me immediately into her office. “We called the police. They’re on their way. Our security police are going to your room now. Is there anything you need?”
“Coffee, please.”
I was alone, safe from John in a stranger’s office, but not safe from my own thoughts. Denial slammed me. I had no weapons to vanquish it. I was weak, physically and mentally. I floated in a vacuum. I could see what was happening but unable to make sense of it.
Why did I ask for the police? I’m afraid of the police. What am I going to tell my family and friends when this gets out? No, I can’t have the police. Why did I say murder? John needs mental and medical help, and then everything will be okay. Then we can go to the admiral and John can join the project. I had at last opened my secret bag of fears and the demons flew out, swirling around me, devouring me.
The door opened. A black female police officer approached me. “I need to take your statement, ma’am.”
I answered her questions as best I could. When she asked where the ether bottle was, I told her it was on the sink counter the last time I had seen it. She continued, and all the while I implored her to ignore the police call. I didn’t need her. She could leave. I just needed to get John to Bethesda. She shook her head, as if she understood, then smiled and left the room. I was alone again, and my apprehension increased tenfold.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that my denial was a textbook reaction to domestic violence. I emerged from the attack confused and unable to face the truth that would set me free, I minimized the abuse, made excuses for John’s behavior, and reverted to my caretaking role. His needs once more became the focus of my attention, and right now I believed he had medical and psychological needs. Ironically I wasn’t too far off on the latter.
Five minutes later a slim, red-haired police officer entered the room. Her name tag read CATHERINE COBB.
“Where’s John? Is he okay?”
“We caught him getting into a rental car with his briefcase. He told us he had a plane to catch. When hotel security woke him up earlier, he got dressed and nonchalantly checked out of the hotel. So far he’s cooperated and has returned peacefully to the room. Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Perry?”
I ranted on about what had happened. Cobb took notes. I begged that we be allowed to go to Bethesda and drop the police report.
“Can’t do that, ma’am. Holly and I have both interrogated John, separately, and we feel there is something strange going on. We can’t pinpoint it. We’re going to take you and your husband to the Drewry Center to straighten this out.”
“Drewry Center?”
“The county mental facility. The paddy wagon’s on its way.” My mouth fell open. Now I was being taken in like a common criminal.
“Don’t worry,” Cobb said. “The paddy wagon’s for your husband. You’ll go in our police car. Is there anything you want to take with you? A purse or something?”
“Yes, my purse, and my shoes, and...my camera. I don’t want it to get stolen.” I stood at the door of the Drewry Center, clutching my purse in one hand and my camera bag in the other as raindrops pelted my unprotected face. What now? I thought, as Officer Cobb opened the door.
“Let’s go inside, Mrs. Perry. We’re going to get wet if we stay out here.”
I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to take John to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Officer Cobb gently took my arm and led me into the foyer. “I have Mrs. Perry with me,” she told the receptionist sitting behind a protective glass window.
“Up the stairs. Turn right and follow the hall all the way to the end for Ms. Lovato’s office. I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”
“Where’s John?” I asked.
“In an upstairs room,” Cobb responded.
“When can I take him to Bethesda?”
“I don’t know. Come this way, Mrs. Perry. Ms. Lovato is waiting for you.”
She led me up the stairs. We started down the hall; I glanced left and right, into each open room, hoping to see John. The hall branched to the right. I continued to look through open doorways. In the third room on the left, I saw him. He sat with his back to the doorway, his hands cuffed behind him. My breathing quickened. My eyes teared. My body tensed and stood riveted in place. The officer nudged me on.
At the end of the hall we stopped in front of an open door with LANA LUCAS LOVATO engraved on a brass plaque. A middle-aged woman with short brunette hair and Ben Franklin glasses sat inside at a green metal desk, browsing through a thick book. Officer Cobb knocked.
“Mrs. Perry is here,” she said.
“Please, come in and have a seat,” Lana said to me, waving her hand at the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.
I slumped into it and set my purse and camera bag on the floor, next to my feet. The officer patted me on the shoulder, smiled, and closed the door behind her as she left the room. Lana extended her hand and introduced herself.
“I’m a mental health emergency therapist, working with the Prevention and Intervention Unit.”
“I don’t need a mental therapist. I need to get my husband to Bethesda Naval Hospital,” I said in a monotone.
Lana said she understood that was foremost on my mind, but there were several professionals who had to make an assessment of what happened in the hotel room, and it would take some time.
“My husband freaked out. That’s all. He’s been under a lot of stress lately.”
Lana got up and poured us both a cup of coffee. When she sat down, the interview started. What happened in the room? What was the marriage like? Had my husband ever been physically abusive before? What was my background? I was bombarded with questions that invaded my privacy, and from a complete stranger. I was relieved when the telephone rang and Lana took the call.
“That was the poison control center,” she said, hanging up. “They’ve advised that we wash your face to remove any residue of the ether. They also said any ether you inhaled would be gone. It dissipates from the blood within half an hour.”
She led me to a small bathroom across the hall and switched on the light. “I’ll wait for you in my office,” she said as she closed the door.
I approached the sink and gasped as I looked into the mirror hanging above it. It was the first time I had seen myself since the attack. I stared at my reflection: sad brown eyes stared back. My hand gently touched my battered face. Was this person with scrapes, bruises, and welts all over her face really me? Tears escaped as I turned on the faucet. The water cooled the sting in my cheeks but could not douse the fire in my mind. I reached for the soft toilet tissue; the rough hand towels would have been too abrasive on my savaged skin.
Back in Lana’s office I faced more insulting questions, many similar to what I had already answered for the officers. How many times do I have to tell my story? I thought. Lana carefully recorded my comments on a yellow piece of paper attached to a manila folder. Half an hour later she closed it.
“That’s all for now. I’m going to interview your husband. Make yourself comfortable and don’t wander away from the room, except to use the toilet.”
“When can I take John to Bethesda?”
“I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”
She closed the door. I felt abandoned, afraid, and helpless. I wanted to get John to Bethesda Naval Hospital, but how could I when I was stuck in this office? I was still in denial.
For the next several hours, I existed in solitude, interrupted only by the occasional visit from Lana. When I said I was hungry, she gave me an apple. I would have preferred a sandwich, but they didn’t have a cafeteria. She kept fresh coffee i
n the pot, and I drained it. Each time I asked about John, her answer was always the same: the matter was in the hands of the police.
I was exhausted from the attack, the questions, the monotony. Like a caged animal, I alternated between pacing and sitting. There were no bars on the window, but I was just as trapped. I settled into my chair, placed my elbows on my lap, lowered my head into my hands, and closed my eyes. I felt I was suffocating. When I heard the office door open and someone enter, I did not look up.
“Mrs. Perry, I have someone I want you to meet,” Lana said. “This is Homicide Detective Greg Smith.”
I opened my eyes and stared at a pair of brown wingtip shoes. My head followed to the tan slacks, tweed sport coat, a friendly smile, intense blue eyes, and sandy blond hair. My first thought, He’s gorgeous, seemed wildly inappropriate. My second thought was, Why did I have the first thought? What I didn’t recognize at the time was that God had sent me an angel.
“Call me Greg,” he said, extending his hand. Then the detective’s title shook me back to reality.
“Homicide detective?” I said. “Why homicide? My husband didn’t try to kill me.”
My denial ratcheted up several notches. My conscious self refused to believe it as my subconscious self struggled over and over to make me see the light.
“John has been interviewed by a team of specialists,” Detective Smith said. “They all agreed there was something more than a domestic dispute taking place, so they called me. After talking with him, I support their conclusion.”
“John didn’t try to murder me. He’s under heavy medication. I need to get him to the hospital.”
“I’ve handled a lot of murder cases, Mrs. Perry.”
“He didn’t try to murder me! When are you people going to understand that?”
They just wouldn’t listen. I needed to get John to the hospital, to get him medical attention, and everything would be okay. John would get the help he needed and we’d go home. I felt trapped in the clinic with therapists and police who wouldn’t let me take care of John. I was as much a prisoner as he was.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 23