On a Quiet Street

by J. L. Doucette

  Now, a week after his sister’s death, my patient again had murder on his mind.

  We were in my office early. Outside, a brisk morning wind shook the western windows. Sunlight flickered as a band of high, thin clouds trailed erratic shadows across the desert floor. Max sat on the leather sofa across from me in full hyper-alert mode, blinking rapidly and scanning the room.

  “Detective Antelope said he talked to you and you agreed to let me speak with him about our sessions.”

  Max nodded. “If you tell him I’m not crazy, he might believe it.”

  “I have the release here, if you want to sign it.” I held up the paper.

  He beckoned for me to give it to him. I handed it over with a pen; he signed it quickly and passed it back to me.

  “So how does it work? You tell him everything, word for word?”

  “It’s more like I provide a general impression. Most likely he will have some questions and I will answer them based on my clinical impression and the work we have done together.”

  “Will he lock me up if I tell you I intend to kill whoever did this to her with my bare hands?”

  Every muscle in his body was taut and ready to fight. His wild eyes and clenched jaw were the most obvious signs of his controlled violence.

  I didn’t doubt his capacity, psychological or physical, to take a life. He’d lived for years with suppressed rage, a volcanic force waiting for a reason to erupt. Could Stacey’s murder provide that reason?

  “I understand you want revenge in this moment,” I said carefully. “But you may change your mind. So the answer is no. No one’s going to lock you up.”

  “Even if I tell you I’m looking forward to it? It keeps me going, the thought of crushing the life out of him. She didn’t deserve to die but someone took her life. Old Testament justice, right?” Max opened and closed his hands, stretched his fingers and popped his knuckles, made a white-knuckled fist he knew could do real damage.

  “When and if you find out who killed Stacey and you still want to kill him and you make a plan,” I said calmly, “I will have to act to try and stop you from killing a human being. My actions are prescribed by the ethics of my profession. The decision would be out of my hands. I would notify the Sheriff’s Department and your intended victim.” I studied Max’s face. I wanted him to understand that I took him and his feelings seriously. “I’m telling you all this because I understand you’re not making an exaggerated threat. I know what you’ve experienced and how it affected you. I know what you’re capable of.”

  Max looked up, giving me his full attention now.

  I shivered in the cold office and got up to adjust the air conditioner, set too low for the early-morning temperature. A sudden chill shook my body. Max’s treatment, always intense, might descend into dangerous depths with this new development.

  Time to return to the moment, I thought, it’s our only hope of dealing with this tragic situation.

  “I’d like to help you process what’s happened,” I said. “How did you feel when you heard about Stacey’s murder?”

  “I’m ready to commit murder myself. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re avoiding your feelings again.”

  He dipped his head. “That’s accurate.”

  After his head injury and six months in a coma, Max endured a long recovery. As he got stronger through physical rehabilitation, he decided to make personal training his life’s work.

  Yet the man in front of me looked ready for a hospital—eyes bloodshot, skin slack and pale, sweatpants baggy and T-shirt tattered.

  “How have you been managing?”

  “Booze and risky sex, my usual. I’m entitled. Some bastard killed my sister.”

  “To lose someone you love in a sudden and violent way is one of the worst things in life.”

  “I can’t sleep until I pass out drunk, I can’t keep food down . . . my body’s rebelling against being alive when Stacey is dead.”

  “Have you cried?”

  “My mother cries enough for both of us.” Max scowled. “What good will it do? Tears won’t bring her back. Last night all I could think about was her funeral and the idea of her in the ground tore me apart. I got shit-faced and passed out and woke up with just enough time to shower and change clothes before coming here.”

  “This is a big deal. Did you see the relapse coming?”

  “Hell yes! When he told me she was dead, I saw a bottle of Jameson’s in my future.”

  “You’re making light of something serious. You’ve been sober five years.”

  “Alcohol’s reliable as fuck to shut things down. You know how crazy I can get. This is not the time to get arrested for fighting. The Liquor Depot delivers.”

  “Tell me about the risky sex.”

  “Not in the usual sense—no strangers this time, no diseases. Someone from my past hit me up. What can I say? I’m easy. It worked and I’m grateful, even though I know it will come back to bite me in the ass. So yeah, emotionally risky, mess-with-my head risky. I’m not at my best here, Doc.”

  “You won’t be able to keep this up,” I warned gently.

  “Hey, if this session is a bust, at least I showered and left my room.”

  I didn’t laugh. “I’m here when you’re ready.”

  Max stretched his legs out and sank back into the cushions of the leather sofa, letting his guard down. “The night before she died, Stacey asked me to meet her at Johnny’s Tavern for a drink after work. I’ve never seen her so uptight. Planning the wedding stressed her out. Connor is useless, or so she said. But on Friday she didn’t talk about the wedding. Something else was winding her up.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it was?”

  Max ran his hands over his face and shook his head. “Okay, here goes: she asked if I thought Connor was gay.”

  “He’s a close friend. Did you have any idea he might be gay?”

  “Never. But here’s something interesting. I dreamed Connor was beside me, watching while the old priest jacked off. None of the flashbacks and memories, none of the nightmares, included Connor before. So did Stacey’s question plant the idea in my mind, or did the same thing happen to Connor? Did the abuse turn him toward guys?”

  “There’s one way to know.”

  “How?”

  “Ask him.”

  “Whoa!” Max shook his head. “Hold on, that is not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “And admit the abuse? No way. I’m not ready for anything close to self-disclosure.”

  “I understand. How did Stacey react to your answer?”

  “She ordered another glass of wine, very out of character for her. She’s a lightweight.”

  “Were you worried about her?”

  “You haven’t figured out after a year that I’m not exactly Mr. Sensitivity? I didn’t take it too seriously at the time. It’s only now, looking back, that I’m putting things together.”

  “Why did she question his sexuality?”

  “It seems Connor hasn’t been very frisky lately. I told her to give the guy a break. With his new job, he carries a shitload of responsibility and the spotlight is on all the time. He sends people to prison—people we went to school with. Women think men are always ready to do it, and when we’re not it’s because we don’t find them attractive or we’re gay. Talk about performance anxiety. Women expect sex on demand.”

  “So your friend’s lack of interest didn’t raise any red flags for you?”

  “Not at the time. Stacey and Connor have been together since college. When you only have one sexual partner, there’s nothing to compare it to. Did she expect fireworks forever?”

  “Neither one of them had other sexual partners?”

  “That’s the image they portrayed. What do I know? Connor never talked about sex, not like other guys. Even before he got with Stacey, he kept his sex life to himself.”

  I waited while Max stared off into space, lost in his thoughts—a lull in his proces
s. Outside, the day grew dark as heavy cloud cover moved in from the west. The light inside the office dimmed.

  “What are you thinking?” I finally asked.

  “Looking back, I think she was considering breaking up with Connor. About a month ago, she told me she found some financial statements indicating assets and hidden accounts he’d never told her about. It shook her up. She started to question if she could trust him. I didn’t know what to tell her. He’s my friend. I never thought of him as the kind of guy who would keep secrets about important things like big money. I told her she should talk to him, get him to open up.”

  “Do you know if she took your advice?”

  “She didn’t mention it again and I didn’t ask. We weren’t seeing each other often because she was busy with the house and wedding stuff. Friday night all she talked about was him being gay. The money didn’t come up. Then Connor got there and the conversation ended.”

  “How did they seem to get along on Friday night?”

  “Everything was cool. I didn’t hang around long.”

  Max got quiet again. I waited for him to process his thoughts. Often, it took a while for him to find the words.

  “I hate what I’m thinking right now.”

  “Why don’t you tell me? It’s better to get it out.”

  “Looking back, it seems like things were coming apart. If she tried to call off the wedding, I don’t know how Connor would handle it. His image is important to him, super important. How would it look if she called off the wedding?”

  “Do you think he could be violent if she threatened to leave him?”

  Max shrugged. “I’ve never seen the guy lose it—never seen him throw a punch or even hit a wall. Connor keeps his cool.”

  “Our time is almost up,” I said, glancing at the clock. “Next time, let’s come back to you using alcohol to cope. I’m concerned that if you keep drinking, you won’t be able to continue your work in therapy.”

  “You know I like coming here, but no matter what I do in my life, I keep getting fucked over,” Max said. “Can talking about the past really make my life better?”

  As soon as Max left the office, storm clouds released a battering rain. Bouncing hail stones drowned out the sound of his truck driving away.

  I considered Antelope’s question. Max struggled with major issues, psychological and cognitive. He suffered permanent damage from a traumatic brain injury, volatile mood swings, and problems controlling his sexual and aggressive impulses. Add in the primitive rage he felt as the result of years of sexual abuse, and it was easy to see him as a potential killer.

  CHAPTER 23

  After the appointment with Max, my schedule was open until 1:00.

  Antelope picked up on the first ring. “You got it?”

  “Hot off the press.”

  “When can we talk?”

  “My morning’s open. Give me a time and I’ll work around it.”

  “Nothing better than having a shrink on demand; I’m getting in the car now.”

  “I have an appointment at the county office at one and I need to review the file first. I’ll come to you.”

  “That works.”

  It was a ten-minute drive from the Hilltop Medical Building to Antelope’s office in the county building on C Street. I drove down College Drive and took a left onto Dewar, passing red rock cliffs so majestically gorgeous they belonged in a national park.

  The Sweetwater County Building was a three-story yellow brick building. Inside, the air was cool. I headed straight up to the Sheriff’s Department on the third floor.

  When I came to his door, Antelope smiled and stood up. The office was small and contained only a desk, two chairs, and a horizontal file cabinet, on top of which he kept his Starbucks espresso maker. He placed two small, steaming cups on the desk between us and started drumming his fingers on the steel desktop.

  “This is me being patient,” he said.

  “How do you want to do this? Shall I tell you about Max and his treatment more generally, or do you have specific questions for me?”

  “I’ve got one burning question, but I’ll hold it. Tell me about Max Hart.”

  “You met him, so you know he comes across as intense, confrontational, and combative at times. He can be impulsive and has difficulty regulating his mood—as in, he gets angry quickly. I’ve been treating him for a year. He presented with flashbacks and panic attacks. The week before he came in for the first time, a Catholic priest in Greybull, Wyoming, had been arrested on charges of sexual abuse. Max was driving home from work when he heard the news on the radio. A flashback of himself as a boy being touched by a man came out of nowhere and he pulled over, unable to drive, frightened out of his mind. Each day the following week he spent alone in his apartment; he called out sick from his job at the gym, slept, and self-medicated with alcohol.”

  “What about his accident?” Antelope prompted.

  “He was eighteen when it happened. He fell eighty feet in a climbing accident, spent three months in a coma. When he woke up he couldn’t remember anything from before the fall. The recovery was slow. He was in a rehabilitation center in Salt Lake for almost a year. His memories of people eventually came back.”

  “But he didn’t remember being molested?”

  “That’s not unusual. Many people abused as kids manage to lock the traumatizing experiences away because the mind can’t make sense of them. It’s only later, when they’re older and get triggered by something in their environment—”

  “Like a radio story.”

  “Exactly. That news report released his memories—some of them, anyway. His flashbacks are impressionistic and sensual. He remembers the black cassock, the scent of incense, and church bells chiming. He spent a lot of time at church. He was an altar boy.”

  “I’ve heard that story before,” Antelope said grimly.

  “We work on processing the memories and managing his feelings about the abuse,” I explained. “In a general way, it connects to the other issues he’ll deal with for the rest of his life, the chronic compromise in his ability to regulate and tolerate feelings. I’m trying to get him to a point where he can maintain more control over his behavior and choices.”

  Antelope shook his head. “He’s a ticking time bomb.”

  “Except an explosion is not inevitable. It’s more like many small land mines below the surface, not one huge one.”

  “Could he have killed Stacey?”

  “If we look objectively at the cognitive and regulative functions of his brain, I would say yes, it is possible,” I said cautiously. “If you asked me if Max has the personality characteristics and ego structure of a person capable of murder, I would answer no.”

  “So two parts of the same person, the brain and the mind, give different answers?”

  “You’ve got it. The brain is a physical organ and the way it functions is a critical factor in human experience at every level. The mind is separate from the brain, though it does develop in accordance with the brain’s parameters and limitations.”

  “I think I follow you.”

  “In Max’s case, the injury changed his ability to manage his emotions and behavior. He can be volatile and impulsive. But his personality structure is essentially healthy, and that compensates for the cognitive deficits.”

  “Bottom line, could he kill?”

  “Brain-wise it’s possible, historical risk factors increase the risk, while interpersonal relationship capacity mitigates the risk. So bottom line, yes. But did he kill Stacey? My best guess is no.”

  “Last night I talked to Stacey’s roommate, a former nun named Toni Atwell. She educated me about the way the Church handled the sex abuse cases here. She said the Bishop transferred the priest to another church, where he would have had access to a new parish of vulnerable children.”

  “That’s how I got experience working with sexual abuse victims,” I said. “In 2002, when the Boston Globe broke the story of rampant sexual abuse among Catholic cle
rgy, I was a graduate student interning at a community mental health center in Boston. When the Spotlight team exposed the extent of the abuse, it opened the door for hundreds of other victims to come forward and seek help. My entire experience there was counseling clients, children, adolescents, and adults who’d been sexually abused by their parish priest. After my experience there, I decided to do my doctoral dissertation on the psychological profiles of clergy who engage in sexual abuse.”

  “Educate me.”

  “First of all, they appear completely normal, but they have characteristics of both narcissistic and dependent personality disorders. They see themselves as unique and lack empathy for the young people they prey on. They tend to be socially immature. They break down kids’ resistance to sexual abuse by creating a special relationship—providing privileges and gifts and attention to kids who they see as vulnerable and in need.”

  “A power trip.” Antelope’s face darkened. “All their education and spiritual training and they don’t get how what they’re doing is screwing these kids up for life?”

  “Fifty percent of abusing priests were abused themselves. It’s not an excuse,” I said quickly. “Behavior is always a choice. But many of them do identify with the kids they groom into sex.”

  “I’m due at the church in fifteen minutes to meet with Father Bellamy.” Antelope pushed his chair back and stood up. “I plan to get his take on Stacey. She was very involved in the church. Care to join me? I’d like your take on him.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Our Lady of Sorrows Church was a stately gray stone structure with heavy wooden doors painted bright red.

  We entered through the front doors of the church and walked past a corkboard on the wall filled with announcements about upcoming trips and activities. With its strong emphasis on youth and lively social calendar, the parish still managed to retain a large membership while so many other churches were floundering.

  We found Father Bellamy outside his office behind the church vestry. When he heard our footsteps on the gravel path, he stubbed out a cigarette.