Yet here he is with a wife. Her name is Bette with a silent E. Her handshake is warm and firm. She guides me into a small living room crammed with throw rugs, book-lined shelves, baskets, and masks from all over the world. She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Always bring an empty suitcase with us when we travel. For souvenirs. Every one has a story. Don’t get him started.”
These aren’t souvenirs. She’s being modest. It’s a fabulous collection. Each object carefully chosen for its beautiful handiwork.
“Tea? Coffee?” I decline both. “Charles will want some. It’s his midmorning break.” She notices my expression. “He’s up at five every morning. But then again, he goes to sleep at seven thirty in the evening. Not much of a party animal anymore. Although he is immensely pleased at your visit. So am I.” She disappears into the back of the house.
Something squeaks and thumps, squeaks and thumps. Then voices, then more squeaking and thumping. Dr. Randall pushes into the room leaning on an aluminum walker. He’s grown thin and his gray hair has turned entirely white. His wardrobe is still the same and so is his smile. He opens his arms and gives me a hug.
“Dot Meyerhoff. What a pleasure to see you. Sit down, sit down.” He motions me to the couch and bumps his way across several throw rugs to a large wing chair next to a folding table. He turns, one hand on his walker, the other on the chair, and sits heavily, pulling the walker over on its side. I move to pick it up. “Damn thing, always in the way.”
“If you sat the way they showed you at the hospital, that wouldn’t happen,” Bette says from the doorway holding a tray in her hands. “Never marry a man older than you are,” she says to me and kisses him on the forehead.
“She doesn’t need a lesson from you, she already did that.” He looks at me. “Didn’t you marry Mark Edison? If you had asked me, I would have advised against it. Smart as a whip, but no staying power. Too much preening and too little teaching in front of his students.”
“We’re divorced.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Dr. Randall pulls a pair of glasses from his pocket, cleans them on his sweater, and puts them on. A tuft of white hair sticks out from one earpiece. “I’ve gotten old,” he says, “but then so have you.” Never one to mince words. He bangs his leg. “I had a little stroke a few years ago. I’m weak in the leg and one arm. Got a little foot drop. But no damage to the old brain.” He taps his head.
“Or to your big mouth,” Bette says, handing me the coffee I didn’t want. “Don’t let him wear you out.”
The morning passes quickly into afternoon. Charles—he insists I call him Charles—no longer teaches, but continues to write, and while he doesn’t travel easily anymore, he Skypes with law enforcement agencies around the world. He’s dictating another textbook. Bette is transcribing it although she’s a poet and thinks academic writing is turgid and constipated. Can’t say as I disagree. Mark and I used to argue about our books. I wanted to write like I talk. He was a slave to the dictates of the American Psychological Association’s style manual. When I tell Charles this, he laughs. “I always thought Mark was far more interested in form than substance.” My face goes hot with embarrassment at missing something so obvious to the people around me.
“Not that I was analyzing him. My field is detecting high-stakes lies and pedophilia. Mark wasn’t either. He most likely meant everything he said to you at the time.” Charles takes a sip of coffee and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He asks me about my work. I tell him about Chrissy’s murder.
“Tragic,” he says. “Absolutely tragic. You know, the mother consulted me about her photos before she agreed to show them publicly. Wanted to know if she was endangering the children. I’ve been meaning to get Bette to write a note of condolence. No one can read my handwriting.”
“Your impressions?”
“I thought she was being extremely diligent coming to see me. She’s very talented. Not to mention beautiful. I thought her photos were breathtaking. Never seen anything like them before. Are they provocative? Of course. She’s gotten a great deal of hate mail over the years. All great art pushes the boundaries. If not, it’s merely decoration. Today’s world seems to be filled with people who want to control what we read, what we say, what we do in our bedrooms and with whom we do it. Even in the Republic of Berkeley.” He laughs. It’s an old joke.
“What about pedophiles being aroused by the content of her images?”
“It’s virtually impossible to predict who will be aroused by what, and what they’ll do after. Some research suggests the majority of pedophiles do not molest, but instead spend hours looking at child pornography. I would call them passive abusers because children were victimized to make the material they find so compelling. Other studies estimate that seventy to ninety-five percent of those who view and collect child pornography are active abusers.” He shifts awkwardly in his chair and leans forward. “If we tried to avoid every possible danger in the world, no one would get out of bed in the morning. But what I think you’re really asking is do I regret downplaying the danger.” His eyes drift upward as though the answer to my question is written on the ceiling. “If I had known there was a pedophile lying in wait to kidnap and murder Ms. Juliette’s child, I would have told her to grab her daughter and run as fast and as far as she could. But to live in fear of a possibility is to turn your life over to the fearmongers who want to sell you guns and alarm systems and lock up anyone who looks vaguely suspicious, particularly if they don’t look like us.” He’s breathing hard. A sheen of sweat spreads across his forehead. “So, yes. I regret telling her not to worry as much as I regret not having X-ray vision and a crystal ball. I hope you can help her more than I did.”
Bette sticks her head in the doorway. “Everything okay in here? Anyone need anything?”
Charles asks for water.
“What is your interest in this, Dot?”
“JoAnn Juliette is a friend of my fiancé. And the department I work for has jurisdiction over the case. I thought you could help me help the investigators. Especially since you’ve met her.”
Bette walks back in with a carafe of water and two glasses on a tray.
“Don’t trust anything Charles says about JoAnn Juliette. He was absolutely mesmerized. Besotted. Couldn’t stop talking about her for days. If you want my opinion, she was a bit too nice, too spiritual, to be believed.”
“Thank you, Bette, for the water and the opinion. Only one of which I asked for. Now, can Dot and I get on with our consultation?” He peers at me over his glasses. “So, do the police have any suspects?”
“Too many.”
“Always the case. Investigating is a process of winnowing down. I’d be happy to talk to the police. I would think they’d have contacted me already. Unless Ms. Juliette never mentioned she had consulted me about her photos. Even if she did, they’re likely too busy running down other, more significant, leads. Where I think the police can use your help is figuring out who is lying and who is not, based on evidence, not intuition. Among your group of suspects, one or more of them will be lying, giving you the opportunity to compare one to the other in terms of facial and verbal clues. Forget body language. There’s nothing significant in body language although the amateurs would like you to believe that there is something deeply meaningful when a person crosses his arms over his chest. Ditto for avoiding eye contact or hesitant speech. Total garbage. People have idiosyncratic styles of communication. Words and face, that’s what counts. I have to warn you, though, facial expressions are hard to read. You’re better off looking for leakage, little micro-expressions, that betray the true content of a contradictory verbal message. Someone says they’re happy and you see tears in their eyes.” He turns to the door. “Bette, where the devil did you go?”
She’s at the door almost the moment he calls to her, hands on hips, smiling. “What now?”
“Run off a copy of the chapter on ‘Detecting High-Stakes Lies.’”
“I haven’t
finished editing it.”
“Do it anyway. Dot doesn’t care about your poetic edits. What she needs is the content.” She looks at me, shakes her head, and walks down the hall. “It’s important to remember that this theory works only when the stakes are truly high. Which they appear to be in this case. Liars are clever. Deception requires significantly more cognitive resources than truthful communication. And remember, there are all sorts of ways people evade the truth. Bald-faced lies, omitting material facts, equivocation, changing the subject, offering indirect responses.”
Bette returns and hands me a sheaf of papers held together with a large metal clip. “Don’t blame me, dear, if you can’t read this. It’s a slog.”
“You’re not the only one in this house who can write, you know.” Dr. Randall turns to me. “She only thinks she is. If you ever decide to marry again, don’t pick a poet.” He gives her a light whack on her rear as she leaves.
I start to get up. I’ve been here for nearly two hours and I can see Dr. Randall is beginning to fade.
“Not so fast, young lady, I’m fine,” he says, but I can see he is having trouble enunciating his words and one side of his face is sagging slightly, giving me an in vivo example of what he means by behavioral leakage. “You’ve got more reading to do.” He hands me one of his books. The title is Pedophilia: Monsters in our Midst. “Pedophiles are everywhere, Dot. They look like normal people. They have normal jobs. They’re married and have families. Some of them are prominent citizens. Even when they don’t act on their impulses, they most likely indulge in child pornography, supporting an industry that brutalizes children. But as horrible as pedophilia is, murder is worse. Certainly, not all pedophiles are murderers. Be careful, Dot. A person who would murder a child wouldn’t hesitate to murder you.”
It’s midafternoon before I start for home. Commuter traffic jams the road, trapping me in my car alone with my thoughts. I start to cry. Blubber actually. In full view of a busload of people who are all looking at their iPhones and couldn’t care less if I suddenly opened my car door, dashed across the road, and jumped off the bridge. Charles and Bette, in full crotchety detente, can’t hide what they really feel toward each other. I wonder if Frank and I will ever reach that same level of love and respect. And if we don’t, will it be my fault?
By the time I get home, a dismal dusk is covering my townhouse development. I pull into my garage, go inside, turn on the TV and every light on the first floor. Anything to fill the empty space. I pick up the telephone to call Frank. A stutter tone signals that I have a message. This makes me happier than it should considering the number of robo-calls I get from people trying to sell me everything from fake free vacations to electronic pendants for old women who live alone and need help when they fall.
The message is from Frank. “I talked to Anjelika’s two nanny friends. They didn’t know she left town and they don’t know where she might have gone. They’re all from Norway, but they didn’t meet each other until they got to the US.” Click. No hello, no goodbye, and no how-was-your-day. I call him back and get voice mail. “This is Frank. Can’t come to the phone. When the tone sounds, you know what to do.”
What I want to do and what I know to do are two entirely different things. I want to get into my car and drive to his house. What I do instead is hang up without leaving a message.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I HAVE A poster in my office at headquarters that reads, “If you think it’s tough being a cop, try being married to one.” It’s my not-so-subtle way to remind everyone that the job follows them home even if they don’t think it does. A cop isn’t going to tell his buddy that he can’t sleep because he’s having nightmares and he checks the locks on the doors three times a night. But his wife knows, and his kids know. While I wish it were different, he isn’t going to tell me either because he’s scared I’ll tell the chief that he’s unfit to work. Families have enough to do just dealing with the extra hours, the worry, and the public scrutiny. They’re not psychiatrists. It’s unfair to ask them to deal with a traumatized cop by themselves without giving them any help to do so. Chrissy’s abduction and death is a unique and catastrophic event that has touched everyone in the department. That’s why I’m holding a family meeting to talk about trauma, how to recognize the symptoms, what to do about it when you see it, and how to get help for yourself and your loved one. Forewarned is forearmed. And, seeing that the one book I authored by myself, not with my ex, is about supporting police families, I try to practice what I preach.
Fran and two of her friends, Irma and Lil, all veteran police spouses, are helping me with the meeting, just like they have before. They’re kind and generous women, sharing their years of experience in the hopes that young wives can avoid the mistakes they made when they were starting out. Fran, in particular, is living proof that even if your worst nightmare happens and your husband is killed in the line of duty, life still goes on. Pence isn’t fond of this program although he pays it lip service.
We’re gathering in the cafeteria at headquarters. Fran has brought a tray of small sandwiches and an enormous sheet cake. An urn of coffee bubbles on the counter. Irma is putting tiny bouquets of dried flowers on all the tables. Lil is welcoming the arrivals, giving each a name tag and directing them toward a table of handouts with information sheets about PTSD, vicarious trauma, and a list of warning signs that signal the need for professional help.
Eddie carries a second tray of sandwiches into the room. We’re expecting twenty-five, and Fran’s supplied enough food for three times that many. Eddie’s breathless with the effort and sweating.
“Am I old or out of shape, Doc? Maybe both?” He wipes his hands on his apron. “What are you going to tell these ladies about the creep who killed Chrissy? How do you explain that kind of evil shit? Could be anyone, you know. These ladies probably think it’s some tatted-up parolee who lives in a trailer park. You better tell them it could be their neighbor or their kid’s Little League coach. What are you going to say when they ask how anybody could hurt a baby? Most of them have babies. They’re gonna ask.”
“I’ve asked Police Chaplain Barnes to join us.”
“The God Squad?” He slaps me on the arm. “Smart move, Doc. Because priests sure as hell don’t know squat about molesting little children.”
I’m not religious. Whatever I am is complicated. My heritage is Jewish. My father was raised in an observant Jewish family, immigrants to the United States from Eastern Europe. His distrust of Gentiles—all of whom he suspected were anti-Semites—was matched only by his distrust of every rabbi he ever met. He left the synagogue in an anti-Semitic rage of his own after his father was barred from attending services on High Holy Days because he didn’t have enough money to buy tickets for the entire family. My mother, on the other hand, was raised in an assimilated southern Jewish family without any of my father’s paranoia or combative tendencies. Her spiritual beliefs range from Pilates to macrobiotic cooking. She is very ecumenical, loves everyone and everything equally.
I’ve kept my distance from all religious studies except for those episodic forays into Buddhist psychology. I only met Chaplain Barnes when I started working with KPD. I see how the cops relate to him without any of the apprehension they seem to feel when talking to me. And they’re grateful for his help delivering death notifications, one of the worst tasks a cop has to do.
The hum in the room dies down as Barnes stands to deliver a benediction. He’s African-American, the color of oak. Tall, slender, and athletic, he’s dressed in a class-A uniform with a clerical collar. Sharp, shiny, and official. “Let us begin.” Heads bow, hair shining under the ceiling lights. I see Manny’s wife, Lupe, sitting by herself at a table in the back. “In your own way, according to your own spiritual beliefs, take this moment of silence to express your gratitude for the opportunity to be together, to comfort yourselves in the face of tragedy, and to learn how, in this New Year that has barely begun, we can be of service to each other. Amen.”
He stays on his feet. “I expect that the question on everyone’s mind is—how could somebody harm a child? And how could God allow it? I’ll let the doctor deal with the first question. I’ll try to deal with the second.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “This is my belief. God does not cause these terrible things to happen. God is not a puppeteer, up in heaven, pulling the strings, deciding who gets to live and who doesn’t. God’s work is to help us get through the terrible things that we do to each other. He laughs with us at times of joy and cries with us when we are suffering. I believe he is here now, in this room, encouraging us to reach out to each other in peace and friendship. God bless us all.” He sits down.
I move to the front of the room. “Thank you, Chaplain Barnes. Glad you could be with us tonight.” I turn to the group. “Our purpose tonight is to talk about how you can support your officer and yourselves during this crisis. Mandatory overtime puts a strain—”
A woman with hazel eyes and short curly hair stands up before I finish the sentence. “My husband is so concerned about traffickers he won’t let our child play on the front lawn. I’m a psych nurse. He keeps asking me how anyone could do this horrid thing to a child and why. I don’t know what to say. We get sick people on my unit. Not perverts.” A murmur runs through the group and then silence. All eyes are on me. I’m not exactly sure what other horrid thing, aside from kidnapping and murder, she’s talking about. We’re barely five weeks out from the day Chrissy’s body was found. The autopsy results are not in yet and details about the way Chrissy’s face was made up have not been released to the public.
The Fifth Reflection Page 11