Charlie

by Elin Peer

  Conor rolled his eyes and sighed out loud. “Yes. I’m still disappointed when I think about how the girl didn’t take responsibility for gifting my foundation the sum. I suppose it’s a bit like when a woman is confronted with having had sex and she doesn’t want to admit that it was voluntary so she screams rape to look like the victim.”

  “Ye seem to have a long history of people blamin’ ye for things ye claim you didn’t do.” There was an undertone of skepticism in the officer’s voice.

  “As I said, I’ve gotten better at vetting the people I let into my life now.”

  “We’ve been receivin’ alarmin’ calls from family and friends of members in yer group. There are concerns that ye’re brainwashin’ and exploitin’ people. What do ye have to say to that?”

  Conor gave a bored smile. “Those aren’t new accusations. Many of the people living here come from families with high expectations and when they rebel against the chosen path for them, I’m accused of brainwashing them, but I’m really just helping them see that they have a choice.” He looked to me. “Charles here is a brilliant lawyer and dreams of serving justice to victims of international crime syndicates. But he’s also the sole heir to one of biggest business empires in the US, so you can imagine the pushback he received from his family when he said he didn’t want to take over the family business.”

  Both officers studied me.

  “What is yer last name?” the one with the pad asked.

  “Robertson.”

  His eyes lit up with recognition before he turned back to Conor. I figured it was because he knew of Solver Industries.

  “If O’Hara and I walked around and asked everyone who lived here if they were here by their own free choice, what do ye reckon that they’d say?”

  Conor swung his hand to me. “Charles, why don’t you answer that question?”

  I squared my shoulders and tried to calm my tics. “They’d say that they are all honored to be here. It’s a privilege.”

  Conor smiled at me with satisfaction while officer Williams scratched his gray beard. “Is it?”

  “Yes.” I gave a firm nod. “There’s no one better than Conor to help you find your true potential and unleash it. He pushes us to be the best version that we can possibly be. What he offers is a complete package of coaching, friendship, and family in one, and he’s right when he says that he never asks for anything in return except the same amount of loyalty that he’s showing us.”

  “All right.” Williams crossed his legs by his ankles and tapped his paper pad with the pencil. “Does that mean ye haven’t paid anything to be in this so-called program?”

  “No. I’ve made contributions to the foundation, but that was all voluntarily.”

  “Huh. Could ye give us an estimate of how much ye’ve paid?”

  I hesitated. “About four hundred thousand.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “Euros?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have ye been living here?”

  “I moved in about three months ago.”

  O’Hara whistled and crossed his arms. “It would take me a decade to raise that kind of money.”

  I looked away, aware that for a normal worker, four hundred thousand euros sounded like a lot of money, but for me it was a write-off as charity on my tax return.

  “Would ye mind if we take a moment to question everyone living here to see if they are as enthusiastic about being here as Charles?”

  Conor threw his hands up. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

  Williams stood up. “Thank ye for your time.”

  Conor moved around his desk and shook the men’s hands. “Charles can take you downstairs to meet the others, I’m afraid I have a class to teach. The children will be wondering what is taking me so long.”

  I showed the policemen down to the kitchen, where the white noise from voices went silent the moment we entered.

  “Everyone, this is Officer O’Hara and Officer Williams. They have some concerns about whether or not we’re here of our own free will and if we’re being brainwashed by Conor. Because of that they would like to speak to each of you alone to confirm that you’re fine.”

  “Oh, for God's sake,” Sara exclaimed and gave the officers an angry stare. “What a waste of time.”

  “Liv, why don’t you start by going with the officers into the living room?” I gave her hand a squeeze and looked at Williams, who seemed to be the senior of the two officers. “I assume you want to speak to each member in private?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Talking loud enough for anyone to hear me, I offered, “If you don’t feel comfortable speaking with the garda alone, Sara or I will be happy to stay in the room. You have the right to have an attorney present.”

  Liv walked off with the policemen without requesting my help. It seemed logical because her conversation would be short as her part in all of this was new. Still, my protective side made me follow and listen at the door. My biggest worry was that she would tell the officers about Conor’s weird prank on Tuesday where he pulled out the gun and challenged Sara to show him loyalty by shooting herself. I couldn’t blame Liv for telling that story because I knew she’d been shaken by the incident, but I hoped she didn’t because it would make things worse for Conor.

  “Yer full name, please.”

  “Charlotte Liv Christensen.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are ye a resident here?”

  “No, I’m a guest. My boyfriend lives here and I’m staying with him while visiting Ireland.”

  “Who is yer boyfriend.”

  “Charles McCann – I mean Robertson.”

  “How long are ye planning to stay?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m hoping he’ll travel around Europe with me but right now we’re just taking time to get to know each other better. The relationship is still new.”

  “How new?”

  “We go back five years, but we reconnected when I bumped into him about a week ago.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “Can ye confirm that ye’re here of yer own free will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do ye feel that ye’re being brainwashed in any way?”

  “No. I’m spending my time with Charles and the children who live here. I’m not really a part of the mastermind group.”

  “What’s yer impression of Conor O’Brien?”

  “He’s… ehhm, pretty intense.”

  “In what way?”

  I folded my hands into fists, afraid that she would tell them about the incident with the gun, but just as I was about to enter the room and hopefully distract her from saying it, she answered, “He makes the children study classes meant for college. He encourages them to speak with eloquence and refinement. They can’t use casual speech and they’re so damn smart that it’s frightening. He’s a great teacher, but I find him intense, that’s all.”

  “Ah, okay. Thank ye.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Yes, and will ye please send in the next person?”

  I moved away from the door and touched Liv’s shoulder when she exited. “Was it bad?”

  “No. It was fine. You wanna go for a walk?”

  “Later. Right now, I have to check in on Conor and see if he’s okay. They asked him some tough questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t tell you.” I kissed her nose. “As a lawyer I can’t discuss that sort of thing.”

  “Okay, but Charles…” She pulled at my collar and pulled me in face to face, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t like all these accusations. My father always said: where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  I jerked my head back. “Trust me. It’s all a misunderstanding. I was in the room when they questioned Conor and I heard his explanation for all of it. If you’d been there, you would know it wasn’t Conor’s fault. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

>   Liv let go of my collar and there was disappointment on her face. “No one is perfect, Charles. Not me, not you, and not Conor. People aren’t always who they say they are.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a Robertson until a few days ago. I’m sure you didn’t mean to lie to me and that you had your reasons. Maybe it’s the same with Conor. He’s only telling you what will serve his relationship with you. That’s normal human behavior. If he did any of the things that he’s accused of doing, he wouldn’t tell us about it, would he?”

  My eyes darted around, not liking her intense stare. “No, probably not.”

  “My point is that you can’t trust that you know everything about him.”

  “Fine, but I know he’s a good guy who does amazing things for others.”

  She sighed. “I’m going to get some fresh air while you go and check up on him. I’ll be down by the harbor.”

  I hugged her tight. “Liv, I’m so sorry about all of this. It wasn’t like this before you came. Things were happy and amazing. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  She hugged me back. “As long as I’m with you, things are still amazing, if you ask me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Body

  Liv

  “Why is it that when it’s just me here, you can’t be bothered to spend two minutes with me, but the moment Liv arrives, yer like an annoyin’ fly buzzin’ around us all the feckin’ time.” Kit scowled at her brother Damian, who was stuffing his mouth with the cookies that I’d brought. “Stop eating all of them. Shouldn’t ye be smooching on a protein shake like ye always do?”

  “Aye, but these are so good.”

  “Honestly, Damian, ye’re like a child with no self-control. It’s embarrassin’.” She gave me an apologetic eye roll.

  “I don’t mind him eating the cookies. I want to lose a few pounds anyway.”

  Damian stopped with another cookie to his lips. “Why? Ye're gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him and loved the boyish grin he shot back at me.

  “There has to be somethin’ to grab and squeeze on a lass. That’s the best part.” He was demonstrating with his hands and it made Kit hit his shoulder.

  “Don’t be vulgar. We know ye like to grab and squeeze. Why don’t ye stop annoying us, and go for a walk or somethin’?”

  Damian nodded to the window where rain was pummeling down outside his apartment. “It’s pissin’.”

  “Then go hang out with that neighbor ye talked about.”

  “What neighbor?”

  “The one who invited ye in for some coffee.” Kit’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

  “Are ye daft? Not even the tide would take her out. She’s fifty and missing two teeth.”

  Kit sighed. “What do I care? I’m tryin’ to work here, and do not forget that Liv is a payin’ client. Or Mr. Robertson is anyway. We have a case to crack and ye're not helpin’.”

  “All right, detective. What do we have?” Damian clapped his hands together and looked at the papers on the table.

  “Oi, now ye want to help?” Kit shook her head. “Seriously, go find some shite to blow up or some criminals to shoot at. You’re an action guy, not a detective.”

  He pouted. “I’ve got brains too.”

  I interrupted the sibling rivalry. “As I was saying, I keep planting little questions in Charles’ mind. The pressure from the police has made Conor moody and the atmosphere in the house is tense. Yesterday, he gave the children a day off from school, and it was the first one ever.”

  Kit lit up. “Told you that stirrin’ the pot was a good idea. We just need to keep the pressure up until he cracks with guilt for all the shite he’s done.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “If Conor is truly a psychopath, he won’t feel the least bit of guilt or remorse. That’s why psychopaths are so good at what they do.”

  Damian picked up a picture of Conor from the pile of papers. “From the things Kit has told me about this bloke, he sounds more like a bloody sociopath.” Damian crossed his arms.

  “There’s no difference,” Kit said, as if her brother had no clue what he was talking about.

  “Aye, there is. A sociopath is a step up from a psychopath.”

  I held up a hand and stopped them. “You’re both wrong.”

  “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’m right.” Damian lowered his brow with authority. “We learned about this during my trainin’. Psychopaths, sociopaths, and narcissists.”

  “Well, you got it mixed up then. They all share the same traits, but out of the three, the psychopath is the worst because the person is born with a personality disorder leaving them unable to feel empathy of any kind.

  A sociopath on the other hand, is a product of their environment. They actually do have a sense of right or wrong but it’s too weak to hold them back from their antisocial behavior.”

  “What kind of environment are we talking about?” Damian asked.

  “The kind no kid should grow up in! Each case is different, of course, but it could be a criminal environment where the parents are volatile and unpredictable. Stealing and hustling might be a way of life for the family and they teach their child to disrespect authorities and disregard rules. Typically, there’s mental and physical violence around the child and they are taught never to trust anyone and to always expect the worst from people. In that kind of environment, there’s no room for empathy or softness. To survive, a person would have to grow callous and cold-hearted, but if that same person had been born into a loving and supportive environment, things would have been different.”

  Damian scratched his stubble. “So, what ye’re sayin’ is that a sociopath is programmed to not care?”

  “That’s right. And where a psychopath is always a narcissist, a narcissist isn’t always a psychopath.”

  “Say what?” Damian scratched his stubble.

  “My professor taught us to categorize the narcissist as dismissive because everything is about them, and it’s impossible to ever have a healthy relationship with a narcissist since they have a high need for control and a low level of empathy. They’re right, you’re wrong. It’s all about their needs, and they are critical of everything you do. With the sociopath the word is schemer. They are highly manipulative and feel that rules don’t apply to them. They will cheat and lie without remorse because they have no set of morals. But the psychopaths are in the worst category, which my professor would have us headline predator. They can range anywhere from your worst nightmare boss to a cold-blooded killer. Therapy is useless, as psychopaths have no desire to change. They have zero compassion and use people for their benefit. They also tend to have a criminal mind. In fact, if we look at statistics for North America, we know that although only one in a hundred adult males are psychopaths, they make up between fifteen to twenty-five percent of the males incarcerated.”

  Damian whistled and looked to Kit. “Did ye know that?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The medical term is antisocial personality disorder, not psychopath or sociopath, although that in itself is an ongoing debate in the field of psychology.”

  “How do ye know all of this?” Damian took another cookie.

  “I have a degree in psychology.”

  “Gorgeous and smart.” He winked at me, and gave me one of his charming and very flirtatious smiles, which made his sister kick him under the table. “Stop flirtin’ with my client.”

  “Och, stop it. It’s a wonder I’m not a sociopath with a violent sister who kicks me.” Damian gave Kit a blameful look and turned to me. “How do ye diagnose a psychopath? Could be Kit is one.”

  She rolled her eyes, while I answered his question. “The doctors use a checklist. If a person scores high it’s because he shows a variation of antisocial behavior such as a sense of entitlement and a lack of empathy. They are unremorseful, lie, manipulate, are apathetic to others, conscienceless,
blameful, cunning, cold, and irresponsible.” I drew in a deep breath. “Some say that sociopaths are more hot-headed and will explode if you don’t give them what they want, while the psychopath is cold and cunning and will plan your demise if you’re in his or her way.”

  Damian narrowed his eyes at Kit. “Are ye remorseful for kickin’ me?”

  “It was ye’re own fault.”

  “Oi, I bloody knew it.” Pointing to Kit he looked at me. “She has no empathy and is blameful too. I’d say that’s antisocial behavior right there.”

  She pushed at him. “Shut yer cakehole. I’m no psychopath.”

  Damian was clearly riling her up, but couldn’t keep a straight face and cracked into a smile.

  Kit exhaled. “Bricks is the true psychopath here. When I asked him about Sandra, he sat in his chair and lied straight to my face. There wasn’t the least bit of remorse in his eyes.”

  I bit my lower lip. “If he did the things that he’s accused of then he’s a cold-blooded killer who would fit the classification of a psychopath.”

  “Why can’t his followers see it?”

  I sighed. “Because in order to get away with his cunning behavior he has developed a smooth and inviting personality that sucks people in. I’ve spent time with him these past two weeks, and it’s impressive how well he has perfected how to read people and tell them what they want to hear. Even though he can’t relate to their pain, he’s highly capable of mimicking what empathy looks like. They think he’s their friend, while he’s spinning a net around them with his charm and lies. River and Nathan have opened up a bit and told about some things that are truly alarming.”

  “Like what?”

  I thought about how to describe it. “He makes them question their own sanity. River confided in me that she’s sick like her mother but that Conor is protecting her from ending up in an asylum. She says she hallucinates and has false memories, but I think he’s the one messing with her head. Narcissists are notorious for gaslighting people. They lie with such confidence that it makes the people around them question what’s up and down. It would be like Damian blaming you for eating all the cookies. You tell him you were right here when he stuffed at least ten in his mouth, but he shakes his head and looks at you like you’re crazy and tells you straight to your face that you only imagined it, and that you’re wrong, confused, and seeing things that aren’t there. No matter how much you scream at him that he ate the cookies, not you, he refuses to admit it and over time you start wondering if you really are crazy.”