The reporters threw questions out like a drill sergeant barking orders at green recruits, but Jessica led Ryan back to the house, hand in hand, without looking back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It's useless to lecture a human.
~Rick Riordan
There are a few therapists who know all about Drew.
~ Ben Davis
...................
Ben called Drew and insisted that she get out of the house for some fresh air.
“Come have lunch with me, please?”
Drew acquiesced after putting up a mild argument about needing more sleep and rest.
They arrived at a quiet sandwich shop, and Drew got a table. He knew she was depressed and overwhelmed; he didn’t blame her, but he wanted to help.
Ben ordered lunch for them both.
“I’m thinking you should go see a counselor,” he said.
“I don’t need a shrink, I need to get back to my life, and I need that asshole to be arrested. Fuck!”
“I know. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do those things. Go to class, keep working with the cops, the FBI, whatever you need to do. But go see someone. How could it hurt?”
“I don’t do shrinks.”
“God. I’m not asking you to sleep with one. It’s not invasive surgery, Drew. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s not a sign of weakness to see someone, it’s a sign of strength.”
“Can we change the subject?”
Ben didn’t want to push her too hard.
They chatted about school, and he offered to help her get caught up on her work. He was worried about her, however, and didn’t want to give up on the idea of getting her to see a therapist. The police were advising her to do the same, as were her parents, who had flown out immediately and had visited her in the hospital.
“How are things with your father?”
“Okay. We don’t see eye to eye, but they’ve both been very caring and kind to me, even my dad. I think as long as we never discuss porn or politics we’ll be fine.”
She laughed a little bit and smiled for the first time with an open mouth and bright eyes.
Her smile gave Ben the impression they’d made progress. He took her hand and said, “They love you. In their own way.”
“I know. Really. But sometimes people have an incapacity to love you the way you need to be loved. So that you can be you. I had to give that up with them, but it’s nice that they are here to support me. I’m having dinner with them later tonight.”
“That’s good. If they suggest that you see a therapist, don’t rebel against the idea just because they are suggesting it too.”
“Can you get off the shrink idea?”
“I’m only pushing because I care.”
“Well, it’s pissing me off.”
“I respect that you’re a strong person, but sometimes you’re just stubborn.”
“Well, fine. I’m stubborn. I told you to drop the shrink thing already. God.”
Ben nodded his head in resignation. He didn’t want to alienate her, or push her away, but he resolved not to give up trying; she needed an outside perspective from a professional whether she admitted it or not.
The last year had been good for her; she’d distanced herself from her ordeal with Congressman Boyd and started school. But she’d also suffered heartbreak in her relationship with Kyle, and while Ben knew she was no stranger to that kind of pain, he also knew it had been hard on Drew to see her trust betrayed so soon after her last ordeal.
But being kidnapped, raped, and left to drown? That’s too much trauma and emotional damage to leave to a do-it-yourself program, even for a strong person like Drew. He resolved to keep working on her; she needed to see that she needed a professional’s help, whether a psychiatrist, psychologist or family therapist, even if she resented him for it. Sometimes being a good friend meant confrontation.
They finished lunch, and Ben picked up the bill. Drew argued for a second, but he insisted, and she relented.
“Thank you,” she said.
Ben took her arm and led her out to his car. “What’s next for you to do?” Ben asked. He was fidgety because he had to bring up therapy again; he wanted to pick the right time.
“Tomorrow I have a meeting with the FBI. I want to know what the hell they are doing waiting to arrest that fucker and I’m sure they have more questions for me. This is fucking up my semester.”
“Drew? Do you have a little more time right now?”
“Sure, I guess. Why?”
“I want you to meet someone. Just meet her, that’s all.”
“Meet who?”
“Her name is Brenda Houser. She’s a highly recommended psychotherapist that specializes in these situations. I’ve scheduled an introduction, sort of like a meet and greet. You don’t have to commit to anything.”
“Goddamn it, Ben! I told you. I’m really not happy with you right now. You have no right, please, take me home.”
“Drew, please. I’m sorry, but you could you just meet her? Just listen to what she has to say.”
“I’m getting an Uber.”
“Drew, please,” he said, but she walked away and pulled out her phone.
Ben felt regret; he didn’t mean to push her away. She’d been through a lot, and he only wanted to help. She needed help, too. With all she’d been through, she needed a professional. Why was she being so stubborn?
Ben sat in his car with the air conditioner running full blast, watching Drew. He knew she was safe, but he felt better watching her while she waited for her ride. He considered confronting her again, but he realized she’d made a firm decision and there was no point in arguing anymore. He called Brenda’s office and canceled the introductory meeting. Once Drew got into a car he sent her a text telling her he was sorry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I'm not somebody that thinks about destiny and fate, but I don't walk away from it when something unfolds.
~ Angelina Jolie
A lottery winner spends a lot of mental energy trying to figure out why they were chosen. A lone survivor of a tragic event does the same. I’m confident that men involved with Drew have believed that they’d been blessed by the gods of good fortune.
~ Rick Stevenson
...................
Stevenson was impressed with Drew Stirling. He’d expected her to fit into a stereotype: a typical good-looking blonde who took off her clothes for money and became a minor celebrity by becoming famous for being famous.
He and his partner, Jimmy Tamboli, were the primary agents in San Diego for the case being assembled against Ryan Mills, as well as consolidating other related cases. Nobody was sure how many victims might be involved, even in solved cases of men that were prosecuted (and in some cases executed) neither the state, the feds, nor the press would ever be able to verify if they’d found all the victims of a mass offender. Rick would be doing much of the field work (and the grunt work) because Tam had many years of seniority on him. Tam felt the best way to learn was by doing, and he didn’t hesitate to ask Rick to do everything he could pass off to him.
Rick was happy with the arrangement because, as he realized more each day, Tam had a brilliant mind that seemed to work in a non-human dimension. He could recall facts, rules, and specifics of things that happened years ago, plus he was a math wizard. He’d also taken on Rick’s FBI training as a personal mission, and that kind of serious attention would undoubtedly mean a faster rise in rank and prestige. Tam also knew all the best places to eat in San Diego; he was friends with dozens of restaurateurs. It was standard procedure for Tam to surprise Rick with samples of exotic foods, served on the house. The expectation of the chef was always to see if Tam could name the ingredients, it was fascinating to watch, and Tam only occasionally missed something.
He explained to Rick once, when they began working together, how identifying all the ingredients used in a dish was similar to the investigation of a crime. It was imperative to train your brain
to ignore all the overpowering flavors: garlic, onion, or ginger, for instance, so that the subtleties in the dish could be identified. Noticing slight flavorings that made the dish unique was very similar to picking out the small clues that could turn the corner in a tricky investigation.
The case against Ryan Mills fell under FBI jurisdiction. The current working theory was that because Drew Stirling’s look so closely matched the look of the other victims, and because of her testimony about her experience, it was probably the same perpetrator involved.
However, there were problems with the case.
They had three victims, or at least one victim and two alleged victims, but Drew’s account was the only evidence they had. It’s true that she’d been found alone at sea, nearly dead from exposure, but that was evidence only that her story could be true. It didn’t provide direct evidence that she’d been a hostage.
The Reed and Madison cases were at a standstill. Stuck. No evidence had turned up in either case, and while it was quite possible that they’d been murdered, likely wasn’t beyond a reasonable doubt, and with no evidence linking them to Mills, the case was weak all around.
The fact that they all looked like they could be related and that they disappeared in similar ways was enough to investigate them as one case, and nearly everyone assumed that they were all abducted by the same person, but assumptions, feelings, and intuition were not evidence to present in court; they were just factors that drove the investigation.
There simply wasn’t sufficient evidence for the District Attorney’s to seek an arrest warrant on Ryan Mills; a point Stevenson had a hard time explaining to Drew. A capital case of this magnitude would be analyzed for years, and so everyone and anyone involved was under pressure to live up to an impossible standard: perfection.
“I understand your frustration, Ms. Stirling.”
“No. I don’t think you do. And please, call me Drew. I’m not my mother. Honestly. Fuck. I’ve already asked you twice.”
“My apologies. Drew. Please, I’m on your side.”
“Then prove it and arrest that asshole before he does this again.”
“We are working on building a case. That’s why we appreciate your continued help and cooperation. We want to get him off the streets, too. If we act too quickly, it can hurt us in court.”
“He’s going to do this again.”
“Yes. Most likely. Serial rapists and killers don’t stop. We are aware of what is at risk here. We are working with local police. He’s being watched. Twenty-four-seven. We won’t let him roam around alone. But we cannot arrest him, yet. No evidence links him directly to you. I mean physical evidence. I believe your statement, Drew. Don’t think for a moment that I’m doubting you, but we don’t have any physical evidence of you actually being on his boat.”
“What did he do?”
“Well, he cleaned up. Meticulously. It’s not, actually, an unbelievable story, although perhaps he went a bit overboard. Pardon the pun. He claims that he caught a few fish. We verified that with his wife, and it appears to be, in fact, in line with your own statements. Because tuna fish are messy and bleed when you catch and land them on the deck of a boat, it’s not unreasonable for him to claim he cleaned up so well because that’s what he always does. The boat is clean. We can’t convict him because he cleaned out the towels and linens from the cabin of his boat. Suspicious? Sure. But, it was a smart move on his part. There is no direct evidence of you, or anyone else, having been onboard.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. I do. Actually, his exceptional cleaning, to me, is evidence that you’re telling the truth. But I cannot give that as evidence to a prosecuting attorney to prove in court that your story is true. There’s a world of difference between saying that we’re sure someone is telling the truth, and finding a fingerprint or blood evidence.”
“Well, what about my direct testimony?”
“Can I speak candidly with you?”
“Please.”
“Your history. You’ve got a monkey on your back in a sense, the whole situation with Congressman Boyd. Have you seen the news?”
“No. God. The last thing I care to watch if I have free time is the news.”
“Mrs. Mills. Jessica Mills. She’s made a statement, and it’s convincing, and it’s going to be problematic. She’s brought out the Boyd affair. You accused Boyd of trying to kill you and then parlayed that into a payday. It doesn’t look good. It casts doubt. You’re a good swimmer. You get found at sea. Jessica Mills is out there saying that she knows her husband didn’t abduct you and that you’ve just created this whole situation as a publicity stunt.”
Agent Stevenson watched Drew as he explained this to her. He was inclined to believe her version of events, and she did nearly drown. It wasn’t an easy con if she was indeed playing to the media. He was trained, like all agents, to profile and make assessments about people. It was a common misconception that the FBI had agents who were employed as profilers. There were none. The agency did have a department that worked on profiling specifically, but these techniques were part of being an agent. Profiles were something everyone used. He was profiling Drew even as she spoke. Was she capable of running a scam this cruel? Of accusing an innocent man and playing on the emotions of the families of the other missing women? He asked her if she didn’t mind telling him the story behind Boyd, especially anything that might not have been in the news or something she’d not spoken about before.
“Sure, I’ll go over it again,” she said. “I had an affair with Boyd, just like what was reported in the press. And while what happened was not exactly like he tried to portray it when he confessed, it was close enough. We’d met twice for sex and would have met again if I hadn’t found that thumb drive.”
“Tell me about that.”
“The thumb drive contained a story about a lab. It was linked to Boyd but never proved. After all that happened, the story about the lab died. Boyd lost his political career, but beyond that, I don’t know that anything else happened.”
“And you just found this drive? By chance?”
“He dropped it in the hotel. I found it. I thought it might have been one of mine and my friend, Marc, the one that got killed, he looked at it. And then everything went to shit.”
“And your friend Marc, his death was never shown to be more than an accident? But you feel it was murder?”
“I know it was murder because the guy that killed him came to get me.”
“And this man was never identified, correct?”
“That’s right. Not identified. A body was never discovered, but it’s a big forest up there, anything could have happened. Someone burnt down the Chase family cabin and it wasn’t me. And someone tried to kill me. I swear I didn’t make that up. And I’m not making this up about that pig Ryan. He did what I said. I was on his boat. I swear.”
“Okay. Don’t feel like I don’t accept that you’re telling me the truth.”
“Yes. Yes. God, I know. We had the same problems and difficulties when it came to the Genaplat Lab story and all the research that was buried. We have to have corroboration, and so forth. Yeah. I’ve heard it all before. But I’m not lying and if I have to get that fucker myself, I will.”
Agent Stevenson believed her.
He didn’t want her not to trust him, so he decided to change the conversation back to a less controversial and unsettling exchange.
“Can I get you a drink of water or a coffee? I’m going to get myself something.”
“Sure. Coffee. Black. No, a little cream if you have it. Not if it’s powder.”
“Be right back.”
He left her and thought about the situation. Her story was believable and fit with the known facts, but it wasn’t enough. As gruesome as it was, they needed a body. They needed evidence linking Ryan Mills to a body or at least to a crime scene. Darn.
When he got back with two cups of coffee, he sat and didn’t speak.
He wanted to observe.<
br />
She sipped her coffee along with him and didn’t speak.
She was observing him right back.
She was charming and beautiful, even after going through this incident she carried an air of confidence and stature. He thought she looked like she could put on a cocktail dress and go to a wedding or throw on some shorts and go hiking, all in a matter of minutes as if it was a typical day to be interviewed in the FBI offices about a serial killer and rapist.
He realized he was fantasizing about her. Not professional. She’s single. I’m single. Still not professional.
Drew smiled at him. Her eyes moved. She shifted slightly.
“You’re good at mind reading I see.” He looked through her.
“Why do you say that?” she asked in a demure voice. She looked down. Innocent. Shy.
“Because you’re playing me. Stop. We need to keep this professional.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll have to arrest you.”
“Fun.”
“Shit. Sorry. Look, I have to maintain a certain amount of professionalism here. You’re charming, and I like you, but I need to keep the lines very clear here. Okay?”
“Sure.”
She sipped again from her cup and looked up.
He thought maybe she winked, but he couldn’t tell. Damn.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Remember, the police are neutral - they hate everybody.
~ J.G. Ballard
There is no doubt about the reality of the “Damsel in Distress” syndrome. Fueled by media coverage and perhaps an unconscious drive: far greater resources will be spent trying to find a missing woman who is attractive, young, and blonde. And when it comes to the prosecution of such a case: the DA will have an unlimited budget, a loosening of the rules, and a personal stake. A beautiful blonde is everyone’s daughter, sister, or friend.
Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2) Page 22