He rocked back in his chair, ignored a ringing telephone, and said, “So, you want to know a little bit about stalking, right?”
“Yes. Research,” I replied.
“For a book? Or an article? Not because of some personal interest in the subject?”
“I’m not sure that I follow.”
The detective grinned. “Well, it’s a little like the guy who calls up the doctor and says, ‘I’ve got this buddy at work who wants to know what the symptoms of, ah, a sexually transmitted disease like, ah, syphilis or gonorrhea are. And how he, ah, that’s my friend, not me, might have gotten it, ’cause he’s in a lot of pain.’ ”
I shook my head. “You think that I’m being stalked and want…”
He smiled, but it was a calculating grin. “Maybe you want to stalk someone and you’re looking for tips on how to avoid arrest. That would be the crazy sort of thing a real intense stalker might try to pull off. It’s always an error to underestimate them. And what they will do when it comes time for them to do it. A really dedicated stalker makes a science of his obsession. A science and an art.”
“How so?”
“He not only studies his victim, but their world, as well. Family. Friends. Job. School. Where they like to eat dinner. Where they go to the movies or have their car serviced or buy their lottery tickets. Where they walk the dog. He uses all sorts of resources, both legal and illegal, to accumulate information. He is constantly measuring, assessing, anticipating. He devotes his every waking thought to his target—so much so that often he can think steps ahead, almost as if he is reading the victim’s mind. He comes to know them almost better than they know themselves.”
“What is all this driven by?”
“Psychologists are unsure. Obsessive behavior is always something of a mystery. A past that has, shall we say, rough edges?”
“Probably more than that.”
“Yes, probably. My guess is, scratch the surface a bit, you’ll find some pretty nasty stuff in their childhood. Abuse. Violence. You name it.”
He shook his head. “Dangerous folks, stalkers. They aren’t your ordinary type of low-rent criminal by any means. Whether you’re a trailer-park checkout girl in the local supermarket being stalked by your biker ex-boyfriend, or a Hollywood star with all the money in the world being stalked by an obsessed fan, you’re in a whole lot of danger, because, no matter what you do, if they want it enough, they will get to you. And law enforcement, even with temporary restraining orders and cyber-stalking laws, is designed to react to, not head off, an eventual crime. Stalkers know this. And the frightening thing is, they often don’t care. Not a bit. They are immune to the usual sanctions. Embarrassment. Financial ruin. Prison. Death. These things don’t necessarily frighten them. What they fear is losing sight of their target. It overcomes everything, and that single-minded pursuit becomes their entire rationale for living.”
“What can a victim do?”
He reached into his desk and brought out a pamphlet titled “Are You Being Stalked? Advice from the Massachusetts State Police.”
“We give you some material to read.”
“That’s it?”
“Until a felony is committed. And then, it’s usually too late.”
“What about advocacy groups and…”
“Well, they can help some people. There are safe spaces, secret housing, support groups, you name it. All can provide some assistance in some cases. And I would never tell someone not to contact those types—but you have to be cautious, because you might be bringing something to a confrontation that you really don’t want. But it’s usually too late, anyways. You want to know what’s really crazy?”
I nodded.
“Our state legislature has been in the forefront of passing laws to protect folks, but the dedicated stalker finds his way around them. And, what’s even worse, once you engage the authorities—like when you go file the complaint and have the case registered and obtain the court order requiring the stalker to stay away—that can just as easily trigger disaster. Force the bad guy’s hand. Make him act precipitously. Load up all his weaponry and announce, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ ”
“And…”
“Use your imagination, Mr. Writer. You know what happens when some guy shows up at a workplace or a home or wherever, dressed up like Rambo in cammy fatigues, with an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, at least two pistols, and enough ammunition strapped to his chest to hold off a SWAT team for hours. You’ve seen those stories.”
I was quiet. I had indeed. The detective grinned again.
“Here’s something you should keep in mind: as best as we can tell, both in law enforcement and forensic psychology, the closest profile we can arrive at for a truly dedicated stalker is more or less exactly the same as a serial killer.”
He leaned back. “That kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?”
20
Actions, Right and Wrong
Does anyone have any real idea what we’re dealing with here?”
Sally’s question hung in the air.
“I mean, other than what Ashley has told us, which admittedly isn’t a hell of a lot, what do we know about this fellow who’s screwing up her life?”
Sally turned toward her ex-husband. She was still nursing her way through the glass of Scotch and should have been drunk, but was far too much on edge to have lost her sobriety.
“Scott, you’re the only one of us, outside of Ashley, of course, who has even seen this guy. I imagine that you drew some conclusions during your meeting in Boston. Got some sort of feeling for the man. Maybe that’s where we can start.”
Scott hesitated. He was far more accustomed to leading the conversation in a seminar room, and suddenly being asked his opinions took him a little aback. “He didn’t seem like anyone any of us might be familiar with,” he said slowly.
“What do you mean?” Sally asked.
“Well, he was well built, good-looking, and obviously smart enough, but he was also rough, sort of what you’d expect from a guy who maybe drives a motorcycle, works a blue-collar job punching a time clock somewhere, takes night classes at a community college after high school. My impression was that he came from a pretty deprived background—not the sort of guy that you ordinarily find at my college, or at Hope’s school, either, for that matter. And not anywhere like the sort of guy that Ashley usually drags in, professes undying love for, and breaks up with four weeks later. Those guys always seem to be artistic types. Thin-chested, long-haired, and nervous. O’Connell seemed tough and street-smart. Maybe you’ve run into a few like him in your practice, but my thinking is that you’re a bit more high end.”
“And this guy…”
“Low end. But that may not be a disadvantage.”
Sally paused. “What the hell was Ashley doing with him in the first place?”
“Making a mistake,” Hope said. She had been seated quietly, her hand on Nameless’s back, seething inwardly. At first she felt unsure whether she deserved a place in the conversation, then decided that she sure as hell did. She did not understand why Sally seemed so detached. It was as if she were outside of what was happening—including their own finances being screwed up in a major fashion.
“Everyone makes bad choices every so often. Things we later regret. The difference is, we move on. This guy isn’t letting Ashley move on.” Hope looked over at Scott, then back at Sally. “Maybe Scott was your mistake. Maybe I am. Or maybe there was someone else that neither of us knows about and who you’ve kept secret for years. But regardless, you’ve moved forward. This guy is in a whole different world.”
“Okay,” Sally said cautiously, after an uncomfortable silence, “how do we proceed?”
“Well, for starters, let’s get Ashley the hell out of there,” Scott said.
“But Boston is where her studies are. That’s where her life is. What, you think we should bring her back here, like she’s some homesick camper at her first sleepaway camp?”
&nbs
p; “Yes. Exactly.”
“Do you think she’ll come?” Hope interjected.
“Do we have that right?” Sally asked, speaking rapidly. “She’s a grown-up. She’s not a little girl anymore.”
“I know that,” Scott replied testily. “But if we are reasonable—”
“Is any of this reasonable?” Hope asked abruptly. “I mean, why is it fair for Ashley to run back to her home at the first sign of trouble? She has the right to live where she wants to, and she has the right to her own life. And this guy, O’Connell, doesn’t have the right to force her to flee.”
“True. But we’re not talking about rights. We’re talking about realities.”
“Well,” Sally said, “the reality is that we will have to do what Ashley wants, and we don’t know what that is.”
“She’s my daughter. I think that if I ask her to do something, she damn well will do it,” Scott replied stiffly, an edge of anger in his voice.
“You’re her father. You don’t own her,” Sally said.
There was an unhappy silence in the room.
“We should determine what Ashley wants.”
“That seems like a pretty wishy-washy, politically correct, and generally wimpy thing to do,” Scott said. “I think we need to be more aggressive. At least until we really understand what we are up against.”
Again they were quiet.
“I’m with Scott,” Hope said abruptly. Sally spun in her direction, a look of surprise on her face.
“I think we should be, what? Proactive,” Hope continued. “At least in a modest fashion.”
“So, what are you two suggesting?”
“I think,” Scott said slowly, “we should find out a bit about Michael O’Connell, at the same time that we get Ashley away from his immediate reach. So, we do what we’re all capable of. Maybe one of us should start looking at him.”
Sally held up her hand. “We should engage a professional. I know a private investigator or two who do this sort of inquiry routinely. Moderately priced, as well.”
“Okay,” Scott said, “you hire someone and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime, we need to get Ashley physically away from O’Connell.”
“Bring her home? That seems juvenile and cowardly,” Sally said.
“It also seems to make sense. Maybe what she needs right now is someone looking over her.”
Scott and Sally glared at each other, clearly revisiting some moment from their past.
“My mother,” Hope said, interrupting.
“Your mother?”
“Yes. Ashley has always gotten along well with her, and she lives in the sort of small town where a stranger coming to ask questions would be noticed. It would be tricky for O’Connell to follow her there. It’s close enough, but far enough. And I doubt he could figure out where she was.”
“But her school…” Sally said again.
“She can always repair a screwed-up semester,” Hope said briskly.
“I agree,” Scott said. “Okay, we have a plan. Now we just need to engage Ashley in it.”
Michael O’Connell was listening to the Rolling Stones on his iPod. As Mick Jagger sang, “All your love is just sweet addiction…,” he half-danced down the street, oblivious to the stares of the occasional passerby, his feet tapping the drumbeat on the sidewalk. It was a little before midnight, but the music brought flashes of light into his path. He was letting the sounds guide his thoughts, imagining a rhythm to what his next step with Ashley would be. Something that she didn’t expect, he thought to himself, something that underscored for her just how total his presence truly was.
He did not think she fully understood. Not yet.
He had waited outside her apartment until he saw the lights all go out and he knew that she had gone to bed. Ashley didn’t understand, he thought, how it is far easier to see in the darkness. A light only carves out a specific area. Far wiser, he believed, to learn to pick shapes and movement out of the night.
The best predators work at night, O’Connell reminded himself.
The song came to an end, and he stopped on the sidewalk. Across the street, he saw a small, art-house-type cinema, showing a French film called Nid de guêpes. He slid back into a shadow and watched people come out of the theater. As he expected, they were mainly young couples. They seemed energized, not that uniquely somber, I’ve just seen something meaningful look that so often accompanies people emerging from what O’Connell contemptuously considered artsy cinema. His eyes settled on one young couple that came out arm in arm, laughing together.
They immediately irritated him. He could feel his heart rate accelerate slightly, and he watched them closely as they passed in front of a neon light on the sidewalk opposite him. His jaw clenched tightly and he had an acid taste on his tongue.
There was nothing remarkable about the couple, and yet, they were completely infuriating. He saw the young woman lean into the boy, taking his arm in hers and linking the two of them together, so that they became one walking down the street, their footsteps in unison, a moment of public intimacy. He picked up his own pace, moving parallel to the couple, assessing them more directly, as a misshapen anger within him grew unchecked.
Their shoulders rubbed together as they walked, and they were each hunched slightly toward the other. O’Connell could see that they alternated between laughter, smiles, and intense conversation.
He did not think that they had been together long. The language of their movements, their gestures toward each other, the way they listened and laughed at what each other said, spoke to a newness and an excitement, a courtship that was just taking root, where they were still coming to know each other. He saw the girl grip the boy’s arm tighter, and he told himself that they had already slept together, but probably just once. Each touch, each caress, each moment of exploration, still had the electricity of adventure and the heady drug of potential.
He hated them utterly.
It was not difficult for O’Connell to imagine the rest of their night. It was late, so they would decide against sticking their heads into a Starbucks for coffee or Baskin-Robbins for a scoop or two of ice cream, although they would pause outside each and make a show of considering the decision, when, in actuality, what they wanted to devour was each other. The boy would keep up a chatter about movies, about books, about courses at whichever of the colleges he was at, while the girl listened, occasionally interjecting a word or two, while all the time listening more to who he was, and what he might mean to her. The boy would need no more encouragement than the pressure of her arm. They will get to the apartment laughing. And, once inside, it would only be seconds before they found the bed and threw their clothes aside, any fatigue from the long day instantly gone, overcome by the freshness of their lovemaking.
He was breathing hard, but quietly.
That’s what they think will happen. That’s what is supposed to happen. That’s what is designed to happen.
He smiled. But not this night.
He moved in tandem with the couple, keeping his eye on their progress from the opposite sidewalk. At a corner, when the yellow WALK light flashed on, he instantly moved rapidly into the crosswalk, heading directly for them, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down, aiming just to their side. They started moving toward him, so that they were like a pair of ships in a channel, destined to come close, but slide past. O’Connell measured the distance, counting down the space in his head, noting that they were still conversing and not paying full attention to the surroundings.
As the space between him and the couple narrowed to only a few feet, O’Connell suddenly lurched sideways, just enough so that his shoulder came into hard contact with the boy’s. The solid thump reassured him, and he abruptly spun toward the couple and shouted, “Hey! What the hell are you doing! Watch where you’re going!”
The couple half-turned in O’Connell’s direction.
“Hey, sorry,” the boy said. “My fault. Sorry.” They continued on after only a mome
ntary glance in O’Connell’s direction.
“Asshole,” O’Connell said, loud enough for them to hear, but turning away from them rapidly. They had just gotten enough of a look.
The boy pivoted, still grasping the girl’s arm, obviously thinking of replying, then choosing against it. He didn’t want to say or do anything that might interrupt the mood and turned away. O’Connell counted to three slowly, giving the pair just enough time to put a little distance between them, their backs to him now, then he started following them. The sudden blare of a horn caused the girl to turn just barely, looking back over her shoulder and seeing him. He could see a small look of alarm on her face.
That’s it, he thought. Walk a few more feet, assessing the surprise, imagining a threat.
As soon as he reached the sidewalk and saw that the girl was speaking rapidly to the boy, O’Connell ducked into a darkened storefront, shoving himself out of their sight line. Disappearing into the small space, he wanted to laugh out loud. Again, he counted to himself.
One, two, three…
Time enough for the boy to hear what the girl was saying and stop.
Four, five, six…
Turning in his place and peering back through the shadows and arcs of neon light.
Seven, eight, nine…
Straining against the darkness and night, but not seeing him.
Ten, eleven, twelve…
Turning back to the girl.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
A second glance, just to make sure.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
They start off again.
Nineteen, twenty…
An extra, unsettled look back over the shoulder to reassure himself.
O’Connell stepped out of the shadow and saw that the young couple had picked up their pace and were nearly halfway down the block. He followed quickly, crossing the street so that once again he was parallel to them, half-running until he came abreast of the two of them.
The Wrong Man Page 20