Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes

by Private Eyes(Lit)

  I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. "I've Unimpressed, she looked at her shoes. Sticking her legs straight out, she began bobbling her feet.

  "Still," I said, "even going to a doctor who doesn't give shots can be scary. It's a new situation. You don't know what's going to happen."

  Her head shot up, the green eyes defiant. "I'm not scared of you."

  "Good." I smiled. "And I'm not scared of you either."

  She gave me a look that was part bafflement, mostly scorn. So much for the old Delaware wit.

  "Not only don't I give shots," I said, "but I don't do anything to the children who come here. I work with them. As a team. They tell me about themselves and when I know enough about them, I show them how not to be scared. Because being scared is something we learn. So we can unlearn it."

  Spark of interest in the eyes. Her legs relaxed. But more kneading, faster.

  She said, "How many other kids come here?"

  "Lots."

  "How many?"

  "Between four and eight a day."

  "What are their names?"

  "I can't tell you that, Melissa."

  "Why not?"

  "It's a secret just like I couldn't tell anyone that you came here today unless you gave me permission."

  "Why?"

  "Because kids who come here talk about things that are private.

  They want privacy do you know what that means?"

  "Privacy," she said, "is going to the bathroom like a young lady, all by yourself, with the door closed."

  "Exactly. When kids talk about themselves, they sometimes tell me things they've never told anyone. Part of my job is knowing how to keep a secret. So everything that goes on in this room is a secret.

  Even the names of the people who come here are secret. That's why there's that second door." I pointed. "It goes out to the hall. So people can leave the office without going into the waiting room and seeing other people. Would you like to see?"

  "No, thank you." More tension.

  I said, "Is something bothering you right now, Melissa?"

  "No."

  "Would you like to talk about what scares you?"

  Silence.

  "Melissa?"

  "Everything."

  "Everything scares you?"

  Look of shame.

  "How about we start with one thing."

  "Burglars and intruders." Reciting, without hesitation.

  I said, "Did someone tell you the kinds of questions I'd be asking you today?"

  Silence.

  "Was it Jacob?"

  Nod.

  "And your mother?"

  "No. Just Jacob."

  "Did Jacob also tell you how to answer my questions?"

  More hesitation.

  I said, "If he did, that's okay. He's trying to help. I just want to make sure you tell me how you feel. You're the star of this show, Melissa."

  She said, "He told me to sit up straight, speak clearly, and tell the truth."

  "The truth about what scared you?"

  "Uh-huh. And then maybe you could help me."

  Accent on the maybe. I could almost hear Dutchy's voice.

  I said, "That's fine. Jacob's obviously a very smart person and he takes good care of you. But when you come here, you're the boss. You can talk about anything you want."

  "I want to talk about burglars and intruders."

  "Okay. Then that's what we'll do."

  I waited. She said nothing.

  I said, "What do these burglars and intruders look like?"

  "They're not real burglars," she said, scornful again. "They're in my imagination. Pretend."

  "What do they look like in your imagination?"

  More silence. She closed her eyes. The hands kneaded furiously, her body took on a faint rocking motion, and her face screwed up. She appeared to be on the brink of tears.

  I leaned in closer and said, "Melissa, we don't have to talk about this right now.

  "Big," she said, eyes still closed. But dry. I realized that the facial tightness wasn't a presage to tears, just intense concentration.

  Her eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

  Chasing images.

  She said, "He's big with this big hat Sudden stillness beneath the eyelids.

  Her hands untangled, floated upward, and made wide circles. and a long coat and "And what?"

  The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.

  Hypnotic.

  Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

  Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

  Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick.

  The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

  I said, "The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat. Unconsciously, I'd lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

  More tension. No reply.

  "Anything else?" I said gently.

  She was silent.

  I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. "He's got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn't he, Melissa? Something in his hand?"

  "Bag." Barely audible.

  I said, "Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?"

  No reply.

  "To put stuff in?"

  Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

  I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.

  "Do you want to talk about what goes into the bag, Melissa?"

  She closed her eyes and kept rocking. Trembled and hugged herselo A tear rolled down her cheek.

  I patted her again, got a tissue, and wiped her eyes, half expecting her to pull away. But she allowed me to dab the tears.

  Dramatic first session, movie-of-the-week perfect. But too much, too fast; it could jeopardize the therapy. I dabbed some more, searching for some way to slow it down.

  She killed that notion with a single word: "Kids."

  "The burglar puts kids in the sack?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So the burglar is really a kidnapper."

  She opened her eyes, stood up, faced me, and held up her hands as if praying. "He's a murderer!" she cried, emphasizing each word with a shake. "A Mikoksi with acid!"

  "A Mikoksi?"

  "A Mikoksi with acidthatmeanspoison! Burning poison! Mikoksi threw it on her and he's going to come back and burn her again, and me, too!"

  "Who did he throw poison on, Melissa?"

  "Mother." And now he's going to come back!"

  "Where is this Mikoksi now?"

  "In jail, but he's going to get out and hurt us again!"

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Because he doesn't like us. He liked Mother but then he stopped liking her and he threw poison acid on her and tried to kill her but it only burned her on the face and she was still beautiful and could get married and have me!"

  She began pacing the office, holding her temples, stooped and muttering like a little old woman.

  "When did all this happen, Melissa?"

  "Before I was born." Rocking, face to the wall.

  "Did Jacob tell you about it?"

  Nod.

  "Did your mother talk to you about it, too?"

  Hesitation. Shake of head. "She doesn't like to."

  "Why's that?"

  "It makes her sad. She used to be happy and beautiful. People took pictures of her. Then Mikoksi burned her face and she had to have operations."

  "Does Mikoksi have another name?
A first name?"

  She turned and faced me, truly puzzled. "I don't know."

  "But you know he's in jail."

  "Yes, but he's getting out and it's no fair and no justice!"

  "Is he getting out of jail soon?"

  More confusion.

  "Did Jacob tell you he was getting out soon?"

  "No."

  "But he did talk to you about justice."

  "Yes!"

  "What does justice mean to you?"

  "Being fair!"

  She gave me a challenging look and put her hands on the flat place where one day her hips would be. Tension rumpled the sliver of brow beneath her bangs. Her mouth curled and she wagged a finger.

  "It was no fair and stupid! They should have a fair justice! They should have killed him with the acid!"

  "You're very angry at Mikoksi."

  Another incredulous look at the idiot in the chair.

  I said, "That's good. Getting really angry at him. When you're angry at him, you're not so scared of him."

  Both hands had fisted. She opened them, dropped them, sighed, and looked at the floor. More kneading.

  I went over to her and kneeled so that we'd be at eye level if she chose to raise her eyes. "You're a very smart girl, Melissa, and you've helped me a lot by being brave and talking about scary things.

  I know how much you want not to be afraid anymore. I've helped lots of other kids and I'll be able to help you."

  Silence.

  "If you want to talk some more about Mikoksi or burglars or anything else, that's okay. But if you don't, that's okay, too. We've got some more time together before Jacob comes back. How we spend it is up to you.

  No movement or sound; the second hand on the banjo clock across the room completed half a circuit. Finally she lifted her head.

  Looked everywhere but at me, then homed in suddenly, squinting, as if trying to put me in focus.

  "I'll draw," she said. "But only with pencils. Not crayons, they're too messy.

  She worked the pencil slowly, a tongue tip extending from one corner of her mouth. Her artistic ability was above average, but all the finished product told me was that she'd had enough for one day: happy-face girl next to happy-face cat in front of red house and a fattrunked tree full of apples. All of it under a huge golden sun with prehensile rays.

  When she was through she pushed it across the desk and said, "You keep it."

  "Thank you. It's terrific."

  "When am I coming back?"

  "How about in two days? Friday."

  "Why not tomorrow?"

  "Sometimes it's good for kids to take some time to think about what happened before they come in."

  "I think fast," she said. "And there's other stuff I didn't say yet."

  "You really want to come in tomorrow?"

  "I want to get better."

  "All right then, I can see you tomorrow at five. IfJacob can bring you.

  "He will," she said. "He wants me to get better, too."

  I saw her out through the separate exit and spotted Dutchy walking down the hall, a paper bag in one hand. When he saw us he frowned and looked at his watch.

  Melissa said, "We're coming back to him at five tomorrow, Jacob."

  Dutchy raised his eyebrows and said, "I believe I'm right on time, Doctor."

  "You are," I said. "I was just showing Melissa the separate exit.

  "So other kids won't see me or know who I am," she said. "It's privacy."

  "I see," said Dutchy, looking up and down the hall. "I brought you something, young lady. To tide you over until dinner." The top half of the bag was accordion-folded neatly. He opened it with his fingertips and drew out an oatmeal cookie.

  Melissa squealed, took it from him, and prepared to bite into it.

  Dutchy cleared his throat.

  Melissa held the cookie midair. "Thank you, Jacob."

  "You're quite welcome, young lady."

  She turned to me. "Would you like some, Dr. Delaware?"

  "No, thank you, Melissa." Sounding to myself like a charm school candidate.

  She licked her lips and went to work on the cookie.

  I said, "I'd like to talk to you for a moment, Mr. Dutchy."

  He glanced at his watch again. "The freeway the longer we wait.

  I said, "Some things came up during the session. Important things."

  He said, "Really, it's quite I forced a patient grin and said, "If I'm to do my job, I'm going to need help, Mr. Dutchy."

  From the look on his face, I might have passed wind at an embassy dinner. He cleared his throat again and said, "One moment Melissa," and walked several feet down the corridor. Melissa, her mouth full of cookie, followed him with her eyes.

  I smiled at her, said, "We'll just be one second, lion," and joined him.

  He looked up and down the hall and folded his arms across his chest.

  "What is it, Doctor?"

  From a foot away, he was shaven clean as palmar flesh, smelling of bay rum and fresh laundry.

  I said, "She talked about what happened to her mother. Some person named Mikoksi."

  He flinched. "Really, sir, it's not my place."

  "This is important, Mr. Dutchy. It's obviously relevant to her fears."

  "It's best that her mother "True. The problem is I've left several messages with her mother that haven't been returned. Normally, I wouldn't even see a child without direct parental participation. But Melissa obviously needs help. Lots of help. I can provide that help but I need information."

  He chewed his cheek so long and hard I was afraid he'd gnaw through it.

  Down the hall, Melissa was munching and staring at us.

  He said, "Whatever happened was before the child's time."

  "Chronologically, maybe. But not psychologically."

  He stared at me for a long moment. A hint of moisture appeared in the corner of his right eye, no bigger than the diamond on a budget engagement ring. He blinked and made it disappear. "Really, this is quite awkward. I'm an employee I said, "All right. I don't want to put you in a difficult position.

  But please deliver the message that someone needs to talk to me as soon as possible."

  Melissa scuffed her feet. The cookie was gone. Dutchy gave her a grave but oddly tender look.

  I said, "I do want to see her tomorrow at five."

  He nodded, took a step closer, so that we were almost touching, and whispered in my ear: "She pronounces it Mikoksi but the damned villain's name was McC/oskey. Joel McCloskey."

  Lowering his head and pushing it forward, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Waiting for a reaction.

  Expecting me to know something I said, "Doesn't ring any bells."

  The head drew back. "Were you living in Los Angeles ten years ago, Doctor?"

  I nodded.

  "It was in the papers."

  "I was in school. Concentrating on my textbooks."

  "March of 1969," he said. "March third." A pained look crossed his face. "This is That's all I can say right now, Doctor. Perhaps some other time.

  "All right," I said. "See you tomorrow.

  "Five it is." He let out his breath and drew himself up. Tugging at his lapels, he cleared his throat. "Getting back to the present, I trust everything proceeded as planned today."

  "Everything went fine."

  Melissa was coming our way. The white satin sash had come loose and hung from a single loop, scraping the floor. Dutchy rushed over and tied it, brushed crumbs from her dress, braced her shoulders, and told her to stand up straight, young lady, a curved spine simply wouldn't do.

  She smiled up at him.

  They held hands as they left the building.