All Is Not Forgotten (27 page)

Charlotte left. I considered the fire that had indeed started to burn from my little match. Sean had told Jenny about Bob being a suspect. Jenny had obsessed about Bob and immersed herself in his image and his voice until she created a false memory. Just like those subjects in the shopping mall experiment who had never really been lost. I felt like a character in a novel, the brilliant but evil professor. Dr. Frankenstein. I felt slightly pleased with myself. I had succeeded in creating a straw man to deflect the attention from my son. I could imagine it all playing out, and I drifted away in a fantasy: Bob would never be charged, but his notoriety, the race for the state legislature—all of it would lead to a media feeding frenzy. And when he was vindicated, there would be hell to pay. Lawsuits would be filed. Parsons would be reprimanded. The investigation would come to a screeching halt. No more questioning of innocent boys. No more “witch” hunts for blue sweatshirts.

When I was done with this disgusting self-indulgence, I lied to myself about what this would mean for Jenny and for Sean and for my work with them. I told myself that they would continue on with the treatment. I turned my fantasy to miraculous moments in my office. Sean jumping up from the sofa, screaming out into the universe,
I remember! I know what happened at the red door!
Then going home to his wife and his son and living in peace. And for Jenny, I could barely let myself think it. It was like dreaming that I'd cured cancer or brokered world peace. It was too much to allow into my fantasy. I let it come as a flash, and nothing more. I did not dwell in the elation of giving her back that night, that worst nightmare.

I keep returning to the same thought as I reflected on that week. The child with the matches, thinking he was old enough to handle it. I lit the match and let it fly. My fire had started. I could not possibly have predicted the strong wind that would blow in, giving it life, and a power I would not be able to contain.

 

Chapter Twenty-five

When I saw Jenny
later that day, I kept my promise to Charlotte. I did not need to be the advocate anymore. I needed to do what I would have done had I been a disinterested party.

Jenny knew her mother had told me about her memory. About Bob Sullivan. I asked her point-blank how this idea got into her head in the first place.

I don't want to tell you.

I respected her honesty. And I was grateful for it. What would I have said if she had told me the truth? That Sean had told her what he'd heard in my office? I had only two options to explain why I was discussing Bob Sullivan with Detective Parsons. One was to let Sullivan off the hook.
Sean misunderstood.… Sean heard incorrectly.…
The second was to offer an explanation as to why I suspected him, which did not exist. Jenny spared me with her refusal to come clean.

“Okay. I won't make you tell me.”

I couldn't anyway. I made a promise.

“Your mother feels, and I can't disagree with her, that it is somewhat unlikely that this memory is accurate. First—because you came across it on your own with your own kind of immersion therapy. And second because Bob Sullivan is an unlikely suspect. He's running for office. He has a lot to lose. He's been married for over thirty years with no scandals, nothing in his closet of this nature. And he's your father's boss, so there would be a high probability of you recognizing him.”

So what? Most women are raped by someone they know. Half the women in group were raped by someone they know.

Jenny's voice was different on that Monday. She was speaking to me not like I was the one person who could save her, but rather like I was an outsider who didn't understand. I didn't like it. I wanted to change it. I could not lose what we had worked so hard to create.

“You know what? You're right. I'm going to be totally honest with you. The work we're doing here is very controversial. Remember how I told you about the false memory people? How they think recalling memories can be corrupted by suggestion? And how false memories can then be formed? Like the people who were told they were lost in the mall.”

Yeah.

“So, now we have a situation where suggestions have been brought into this process. You don't have to tell me now, but at least concede that a suggestion entered and that you have bolstered that by immersing yourself in that suggestion.”

Jenny slumped down in the cushions. I could see she was conflicted.

“My fear is that if we move too quickly with this new theory, and it turns out to be a false memory, then nothing you ever remember again will be given any credibility. And even you will have trouble believing. So let's try to weed out the suggestions, do our work quietly, and make absolutely sure about this before telling anyone else.”

Like the police?

“Yes.”

And even my dad?

“I can't tell you what to do with any of this. What do you think your father will do if you tell him?”

I think he'll call the police. Or worse.

“Worse?”

He's really angry.

“That's understandable. That's his job—as your father.”

I guess. But he's more angry than I am.

“Actually, you don't seem angry at all today.”

Jenny shrugged.
I feel tired. I feel like my brain hurts. I remember hearing his voice, and now my mom, and you, are telling me it's just a mix-up. It's like someone's telling me to solve a math problem I don't understand, and I keep trying but I just can't do it. I just want to quit.

This alarmed me more than I can express.

“How did you feel before you told your mom? When you had this memory come back, the memory of Bob's voice?”

I don't know. I felt excited like I had solved the problem. I told Sean right away. I cried a little. I stared at pictures of Mr. Sullivan, watched videos. I thought about his stupid sons and how ashamed they would be of him. I thought about my dad and how he would want to kill him.

“But wait … don't you remember? Last week, when you smelled the bleach and you recalled that moment in the woods. You were distraught and despairing. You asked me why he had taken a piece of your soul. And now—when you looked at pictures of this man you think did that to you, you didn't feel any of those things?”

Jenny looked defeated. I opened my mouth to speak again, to tell her why this was so—Bob Sullivan did not rape her. She did not remember him raping her. There were no emotions attached to his voice, or even worse, positive emotions from being saved. I had the power to explain this, and yet I could not because I needed her to stay with the theory, with the false memory, even as I pretended to convince her not to. I closed my mouth and swallowed the words. The truth.

I just want it to be over.

She said this again through sniffles and tears. I wanted to shake her until she snapped out of it. What was it? Was it Sean? Was he distracting her? Had they been intimate? It didn't make any sense to me. She had only one small memory of the rape, and she knew how much it had helped her. She had told me what a relief it was. She'd talked about it in group last week, before Sean told her about Bob Sullivan, before she'd taken this turn of indifference. More memories would bring only more closure, more relief from the ghosts that roamed inside. There was more work to be done!

I felt angry then. How many times have I said this to you? This was a difficult time for me. I was angry at Jenny for wanting to give up. Angry at Sean for allowing their friendship to distract her. And angry at my son for putting me in this position, where I had to compromise my work with Jenny to save his sorry ass.

I held myself together. Jenny and I went back to that night in the woods. This time, we used the bleach and the music and I did not say the words. I did not play Bob Sullivan's commercial. I wanted things to be the way they were. I wanted another moment of pure success to happen in this office. I wanted the magic of that moment to return.

It did not. Jenny was blocked, detached. I could not do this alone. When she left, I sat at my desk and wallowed in my misery.

It was then, right then at that moment of despair, that Detective Parsons called with the wind that would ignite my little fire.

 

Chapter Twenty-six

Parsons was upset.
I could hear it in his voice. He had not believed Bob Sullivan could be a viable suspect. He had not wanted to. I couldn't blame him. This case was never going to have a “smoking gun.” Any investigation into any suspect would require a leap of faith followed by professional exposure. It was one thing when the exposure involved a man like Cruz Demarco, or even the boys who were at the party. But Bob Sullivan was Fairview's finest. And he wielded significant power throughout the middle part of the state. Parsons and his whole investigation would be under a microscope.

There was also the issue of my son and his name being on the list of boys to be interviewed. I had timed this meticulously.

“It has occurred to me that you should have my son on your list,” I said. I'd made the call the past Friday afternoon. “I'm sorry I didn't think of this sooner, but he is on the swim team and he was at the party.”

Parsons, as expected, had not looked at his list for the following week.
Really?
He said.
Let me see.… Oh yeah. We have him. He's scheduled for next Thursday. We're having to make appointments because everyone wants to come with a lawyer.

“I'm sure. My wife does as well, I'm afraid. I have no problem with any of this. You should absolutely cross every t and dot every i. I want nothing less for the Kramers.”

Parsons was quiet for a moment. He was thinking.
I suppose they know your son … uh, Jason, was there? The Kramers, I mean?

“Well, I don't really know. I try to keep my professional life separate from my personal affairs. I suppose I should tell them, or at least Tom. I'll take care of that right away.”

That had been the end of it. My wife called the station and got the appointment moved again to the following week. I mentioned the interview in passing to Tom at one of our sessions. I waited until he was worked up about the police being incompetent for not finding the blue sweatshirt.

We were now past that. We were on to Bob Sullivan. I had managed to kick the can down the road. But the road was not endless.

Alan, we did some checking into Sullivan. Do you have anything else on your end?

“Well, actually, I do, but it's really quite uncertain. I don't want to jump the gun.”

Look … I need whatever you have. Fuck … this thing is spinning out of control.

“What's happened? What did you find?”

Sometimes life just hands you a gift. You don't know when it's going to happen. You can't count on it. But when it happens, you come very close to believing there's a god.

Uh … man. I don't even want to say it. I have your word it will remain between us until I have enough to question him?

“Of course.”

Okay. Spring 1982. Fort Lauderdale. There's a file that made it to Skidmore, where Sullivan went to college. Nothing came of it. No charges. Nothing like that. But it involves a sexual incident. The victim was a sixteen-year-old. Local girl out with her friends, looking to party with college kids on their spring break. Sounds like it might have been a case of morning-after regret. There's a photo … tight little tube top, miniskirt, black eyeliner … you get the picture, right?

“Yes.”

Sullivan's parents got him a lawyer. Charges were dropped on condition his college was informed. It's nothing. And between you and me, if Tom Kramer wasn't such a loose cannon, this file would be in the shredder. This is the kind of thing that ruins a man's life. And it's apples and oranges.

Oh, what a gift, this wind!

“Well … I can see your dilemma. How can I help you?”

Parsons sighed. I could hear his exasperation with me.
I need to know why you set me out on this path. I need to know what Jenny Kramer remembers. I can't go at this guy with a thirty-three-year-old allegation that never even led to charges. It'll seem like a persecution.

“But isn't it your job to follow every lead, even if it takes you to a man like Bob Sullivan? Maybe there's more to find. He obviously has some appetites. Possibly control issues. He's an aggressive man. You can tell that from his success, his ambitions.”

You want me to go at him with that? Seriously? Well, it makes sense that you would brutally rape a local teenager—after all, you're ambitious and successful—

“Detective,” I interrupted him, “let me ask you this: Wasn't the first thing you did on this case to look for anyone in and around Fairview with a sex offense? That and the blue Civic? If this college record had been an actual charge, wouldn't you have at least asked him politely for an alibi so you could rule him out? Surely he would understand that, and gladly provide one. You've done more than that with half the teenage boys in this town, haven't you?”

It's not the same. The boys were at the party. We already knew that. How am I gonna explain my reasons for digging up his records? He'll hire his own investigators. A team of lawyers. This whole thing will be out of my hands then. And over what?

“But he's running for office. I'm shocked the press haven't already found it. Let him believe someone handed it to you.”

I don't know. Seems like a stretch. It's the state legislature. His opponent is an eighty-year-old probate judge with a couple of nickels to rub together. No … even if I don't tell him why I need the alibi, I gotta have something. Don't tell me what it is. Just tell me there's something if I need it. Tell me you didn't send me on this goose chase without a really good reason.