She sighed. “I guess I’m ready.”
Polochek looked at the two detectives.
Moore nodded; then he and Rizzoli stepped out of the room.
From the other side of the window, they watched as Polochek took out a pen and a pad of paper and placed them on the table beside him. He asked a few more questions. What she did for relaxation. Whether there was a special place, a special memory, that she found particularly peaceful.
“In the summertime, when I was growing up,” she said, “I used to visit my grandparents in New Hampshire. They had a cabin on a lake.”
“Describe it for me. In detail.”
“It was very quiet. Small. With a big porch facing the water. There were wild raspberry bushes next to the house. I used to pick the berries. And on the path leading down to the dock, my grandmother planted daylilies.”
“So you remember berries. Flowers.”
“Yes. And the water. I love the water. I used to sunbathe on the dock.”
“That’s good to know.” He scribbled notes on the pad, put down the pen again. “All right. Now let’s start by taking three deep breaths. Let each one out slowly. That’s it. Now close your eyes and just concentrate on my voice.”
Moore watched as Catherine’s eyelids slowly closed. “Start recording,” he said to Rizzoli.
She pressed the video Record button, and the tape began to spin.
In the next room, Polochek guided Catherine toward complete relaxation, instructing her to focus first on her toes, the tension flowing away. Now her feet were going limp as the sense of relaxation slowly spread up her calves.
“You really believe this shit?” said Rizzoli.
“I’ve seen it work.”
“Well, maybe it does. Because it’s putting me to sleep.”
He looked at Rizzoli, who stood with arms crossed, her lower lip stuck out in stubborn skepticism. “Just watch,” he said.
“When does she begin to levitate?”
Polochek had guided the focus of relaxation to higher and higher muscles of Catherine’s body, moving up her thighs, her back, her shoulders. Her arms now hung limp at her sides. Her face was smooth, unworried. The rhythm of her breathing had slowed, deepened.
“Now we are going to visualize a place you love,” said Polochek. “Your grandparents’ cottage, on the lake. I want you to see yourself standing on that big porch. Looking out toward the water. It’s a warm day, and the air is calm and still. The only sound is the chirping of birds, nothing else. It is quiet here, and peaceful. The sunlight sparkles on the water. . . .”
A look of such serenity came across her face that Moore could scarcely believe it was the same woman. He saw warmth there and all the rosy hopes of a young girl. I am looking at the child she once was, he thought. Before the loss of innocence, before all the disappointments of adulthood. Before Andrew Capra had left his mark.
“The water is so inviting, so beautiful,” said Polochek. “You walk down the porch steps and start along the path, toward the lake.”
Catherine sat motionless, her face completely relaxed, her hands limp in her lap.
“The ground is soft beneath your feet. The sunlight shines down, warm on your back. And birds chirp in the trees. You are at complete ease. With every step you take, you are growing more and more peaceful. You feel a deepening calm come over you. There are flowers on either side of the path, daylilies. They have a sweet scent, and as you brush past them, you breathe in the fragrance. It is a very special, magical fragrance that pulls you toward sleep. As you walk, you feel your legs growing heavy. The scent of the flowers is like a drug, making you more relaxed. And the sun’s warmth is melting away all the remaining tension from your muscles.
“Now you are nearing the water’s edge. And you see a small boat at the end of the dock. You walk onto that dock. The water is calm, like a mirror. Like glass. The little boat in the water is so still, it just floats there, as stable as can be. It’s a magic boat. It can take you places all by itself. Wherever you want to go. All you have to do is get in. So now you lift your right foot to step into the boat.”
Moore looked at Catherine’s feet and saw that her right foot had actually lifted and was suspended a few inches off the floor.
“That’s right. You step in with your right foot. The boat is stable. It holds you securely, safely. You are utterly confident and comfortable. Now you put in your left foot.”
Catherine’s left foot rose from the floor, slowly lowered again.
“Jesus, I don’t believe this,” said Rizzoli.
“You’re looking at it.”
“Yeah, but how do I know she’s really hypnotized? That she’s not faking it?”
“You don’t.”
Polochek was leaning closer to Catherine, but not touching her, using only his voice to guide her through the trance. “You untie the boat’s line from the dock. And now the boat is free and moving on the water. You are in control. All you have to do is think of a place, and the boat will take you there by magic.” Polochek glanced at the one-way mirror and gave a nod.
“He’s going to take her back now,” said Moore.
“All right, Catherine.” Polochek jotted on his pad of paper, noting the time that the induction had been completed. “You are going to take the boat to another place. Another time. You are still in control. You see a mist rising on the water, a warm and gentle mist that feels good on your face. The boat glides into it. You reach down and touch the water, and it’s like silk. So warm, so still. Now the mist begins to lift and just ahead, you see a building on the shore. A building with a single door.”
Moore found himself leaning close to the window. His hands had tensed, and his pulse quickened.
“The boat brings you to shore and you step out. You walk up the path to the house and open the door. Inside is a single room. It has a nice thick carpet. And a chair. You sit down in the chair, and it’s the most comfortable chair you’ve ever been in. You are completely at ease. And in control.”
Catherine sighed deeply, as though she had just settled onto thick cushions.
“Now, you look at the wall in front of you and you see a movie screen. It’s a magic movie screen, because it can play scenes from any time in your life. It can go back as far as you want it to. You are in control. You can make it go forward or backward. You can stop it at a particular instant in time. It’s all up to you. Let’s try it now. Let’s go back to a happy time. A time when you were at your grandparents’ cottage on the lake. You are picking raspberries. Do you see it, on the screen?”
Catherine’s answer was a long time in coming. When at last she spoke, her words were so soft Moore could barely hear them.
“Yes. I see it.”
“What are you doing? On the screen?” asked Polochek.
“I’m holding a paper sack. Picking berries and putting them in the sack.”
“And do you eat them as you pick?”
A smile on her face, soft and dreamy. “Oh, yes. They’re sweet. And warm from the sun.”
Moore frowned. This was unexpected. She was experiencing taste and touch, which meant she was reliving the moment. She was not just watching it on a movie screen; she was in the scene. He saw Polochek glance at the window with a look of concern. He had chosen the movie screen imagery as a device to detach her from the trauma of her experience. But she was not detached. Now Polochek hesitated, considering what to do next.
“Catherine,” he said, “I want you to concentrate on the cushion you are sitting on. You are in the chair, in the room, watching the movie screen. Notice how soft the cushion is. How the chair hugs your back. Do you feel it?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Okay. Okay, now you’re going to stay in that chair. You are not going to leave it. And we’re going to use the magic screen to watch a different scene in your life. You will still be in the chair. You will still be feeling that soft cushion against your back. And what you’re going to see is just a movie on the screen. All right?�
��
“All right.”
“Now.” Polochek took a deep breath. “We’re going to go back to the night of June fifteenth, in Savannah. The night Andrew Capra knocked on your front door. Tell me what is happening on the screen.”
Moore watched, scarcely daring to breathe.
“He is standing on my front porch,” said Catherine. “He says he needs to speak to me.”
“About what?”
“About the mistakes he made. In the hospital.”
What she said next was no different from the statement she had given to Detective Singer in Savannah. Reluctantly she invited Capra into her home. It was a hot night, and he said he was thirsty, so she offered him a beer. She opened a beer for herself as well. He was agitated, worried about his future. Yes, he had made mistakes. But didn’t every doctor? It was a waste of his talent, to cut him from the program. He knew a medical student at Emory, a brilliant young man who’d made just one mistake, and it had ended that student’s career. It wasn’t right that Catherine should have the power to make or break a career. People should get second chances.
Though she tried to reason with him, she heard his mounting anger, saw how his hands shook. At last she left to use the bathroom, to give him time to calm down.
“And when you returned from the bathroom?” asked Polochek. “What happens in the movie? What do you see?”
“Andrew is quieter. Not so angry. He says he understands my position. He smiles at me when I finish my beer.”
“Smiles?”
“Strange. A very strange smile. Like the one he gave me in the hospital . . .”
Moore could hear her breathing begin to quicken. Even as a detached observer, watching the scene in an imaginary movie, she was not immune to the approaching horror.
“What happens next?”
“I’m falling asleep.”
“Do you see this on the movie screen?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I don’t see anything. The screen is black.”
The Rohypnol. She has no memory of this part.
“All right,” said Polochek. “Let’s fast-forward through the black part. Move ahead, to the next part of the movie. To the next image you see on the screen.”
Catherine’s breathing grew agitated.
“What do you see?”
“I—I’m lying in my bed. In my room. I can’t move my arms or my legs.”
“Why not?”
“I’m tied to the bed. My clothes are gone, and he’s lying on top of me. He’s inside me. Moving inside me . . .”
“Andrew Capra?”
“Yes. Yes. . . .” Her breathing was erratic now, the sound of fear catching in her throat.
Moore’s fists clenched and his own breathing accelerated. He fought the urge to pound on the window and put an immediate halt to the proceedings. He could barely stand to listen to this. They must not force her to relive the rape.
But Polochek was already aware of the danger, and he quickly guided her away from the painful memory of that ordeal.
“You are still in your chair,” said Polochek. “Safe in that room with the movie screen. It’s only a movie, Catherine. Happening to someone else. You are safe. Secure. Confident.”
Her breathing calmed again, slowing into a steady rhythm. So did Moore’s.
“All right. Let’s watch the movie. Pay attention to what you are doing. Not Andrew. Tell me what happens next.”
“The screen has gone black again. I don’t see anything.”
She has not yet shaken off the Rohypnol.
“Fast-forward, past this black part. To the next thing you see. What is it?”
“Light. I see light. . . .”
Polochek paused. “I want you to zoom out, Catherine. I want you to pull back, to see more of the room. What is on the screen?”
“Things. Lying on the nightstand.”
“What things?”
“Instruments. A scalpel. I see a scalpel.”
“Where is Andrew?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s not there in the room?”
“He’s gone. I can hear water running.”
“What happens next?”
She was breathing fast, her voice agitated. “I pull on the ropes. Try to get myself free. I can’t move my feet. But my right hand—the rope is loose around my wrist. I pull. I keep pulling and pulling. My wrist is bleeding.”
“Andrew is still out of the room?”
“Yes. I hear him laughing. I hear his voice. But it’s somewhere else in the house.”
“What is happening to the rope?”
“It’s coming off. The blood makes it slippery, and my hand slides out. . . .”
“What do you do then?”
“I reach for the scalpel. I cut the rope on my other wrist. Everything takes so long. I’m sick to my stomach. My hands don’t work right. They’re so slow, and the room keeps going dark and light and dark. I can still hear his voice, talking. I reach down and cut my left ankle free. Now I hear his footsteps. I try to climb off the bed, but my right ankle is still tied. I roll over the side and fall on the floor. On my face.”
“And then?”
Andrew is there, in the doorway. He looks surprised. I reach under the bed. And I feel the gun.”
“There’s a gun under your bed?”
“Yes. My father’s gun. But my hand is so clumsy, I can barely hold it. And things are starting to go black again.”
“Where is Andrew?”
“He is walking toward me. . . .”
“And what happens, Catherine?”
“I’m holding the gun. And there’s a sound. A loud sound.”
“The gun has fired?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fire the gun?”
“Yes.”
“What does Andrew do?”
“He falls. His hands are on his stomach. There’s blood leaking through his fingers.”
“And what happens next?”
A long pause.
“Catherine? What do you see on the movie screen?”
“Black. The screen has gone black.”
“And when does the next image appear on that screen?”
“People. So many people in the room.”
“Which people?”
“Policemen . . .”
Moore almost groaned in disappointment. This was the vital gap in her memory. The Rohypnol, combined with the after-effects of that blow on her head, had dragged her back into unconsciousness. Catherine did not remember firing the second shot. They still did not know how Andrew Capra had ended up with a bullet in his brain.
Polochek was looking at the window, a question in his eyes. Were they satisfied?
To Moore’s surprise, Rizzoli suddenly opened the door and gestured to Polochek to come into the next room. He did, leaving Catherine alone, and shut the door.
“Make her go back, to before she shot him. When she’s still lying on the bed,” said Rizzoli. “I want you to focus on what she’s hearing in the other room. The water running. Capra’s laughter. I want to know every sound she hears.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Just do it.”
Polochek nodded and went back to the interview room. Catherine had not moved; she sat absolutely still, as though Polochek’s absence had left her in suspended animation.
“Catherine,” he said gently, “I want you to rewind the movie. We’re going to go back, before the gunshot. Before you’ve gotten your hands free and rolled onto the floor. We’re at a point in the movie where you’re still lying on the bed and Andrew is not in the room. You said you heard water running.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything you hear.”
“Water. I hear it in the pipes. The hiss. And I hear it gurgling down the drain.”
“He’s running water into a sink?”
“Yes.”
“And you said you heard laughter.”
&nbs
p; “Andrew is laughing.”
“Is he talking?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“What does he say?”
“I don’t know. He’s too far away.”
“Are you sure it’s Andrew? Could it be the TV?”
“No, it’s him. It’s Andrew.”
“Okay. Slow down the movie. Go second by second. Tell me what you hear.”
“Water, still running. Andrew says, ‘Easy.’ The word ‘easy.’ ”
“That’s all?”
“He says, ‘See one, do one, teach one.’ ”
“ ‘See one, do one, teach one’? That’s what he says?”
“Yes.”
“And the next words you hear?”
“ ‘It’s my turn, Capra.’ ”
Polochek paused. “Can you repeat that?”
“ ‘It’s my turn, Capra.’ ”
“Andrew says that?”
“No. Not Andrew.”
Moore froze, staring at the motionless woman in the chair.
Polochek glanced sharply at the window, amazement in his face. He turned back to Catherine.
“Who says those words?” asked Polochek. “Who says, ‘It’s my turn, Capra’?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know his voice.”
Moore and Rizzoli stared at each other.
There was someone else in the house.
fifteen
He’s with her now.
Rizzoli’s knife moved clumsily on the cutting board, and pieces of chopped onion skittered off the counter onto the floor. In the next room, her dad and two brothers had the TV blaring. The TV was always blaring in this house, which meant that everyone was always yelling above it. If you didn’t yell in Frank Rizzoli’s house, you didn’t get heard, and just a normal family conversation sounded like an argument. She swept the chopped onion into a bowl and started on the garlic, her eyes burning, her mind still wrapped around the troubling image of Moore and Catherine Cordell.
After the session with Dr. Polochek, Moore had been the one to take Cordell home. Rizzoli had watched them walk together to the elevator, had seen his arm go around Cordell’s shoulder, a gesture that struck her as more than just protective. She could see the way he looked at Cordell, the expression that came over his face, the spark in his eyes. He was no longer a cop guarding a citizen; he was a man falling in love.
Tess Gerritsen Page 19