Guilt (11 page)

“So you went to the hospital?”

“Again. They put me on the machines. Doc comes in later and says I'm all clear. My heart's fine. Then what the fuck was it? Stress, he tells me.” Ravitch raised his eyebrows. “Can you believe that? And I'm wondering how many martinis this idiot had for lunch. They want to keep me for a couple more hours, just to be on the safe side. So I get to lie there, bored shitless, there's not even a TV in the room. I can't walk to the bathroom by myself because I get dizzy every time I get up.

“Finally they let me go. I'm walking out of the building and wham, it happens again.”

“Doing anything in particular at the time?”

“Nah,” he said. Peter knew what was coming next. “Just having a smoke.”

12

M
AC
R
AE CAME
by the hospital that afternoon to interview Ravitch. Afterward, Peter walked MacRae outside.

“He's just like that woman we interviewed at Annie's office. Doesn't remember a damn thing that's of any use,” MacRae said, pausing under the portico overhang outside the unit. “Is that because of the head injury?”

MacRae knew all too well about head injuries. He and Peter first met when MacRae was questioning a surviving witness who'd spent weeks in a coma after being shot in the head. After weeks of questioning, the days-long hole in her memory shrank and she claimed to remember who shot her. But was the memory genuine? Peter and MacRae had been on opposite sides of that question.

“This guy has only a minor head injury. I don't think it's affecting his memory,” Peter told MacRae. “Yes, he was unconscious, but only for a few minutes. I'll be surprised if the MRI we've got scheduled shows any significant injury to the brain. His amnesia is more likely due to emotional trauma.”

“Emotional trauma? That's good news, right?”

“I'd say. There's a fair chance that he'll recall more over time.”

“How much time? We can't afford to wait around. It was four weeks between the bombings. If there's going to be another attack, it could be in a week or two. Isn't there some way to kick-start his memory?”

Too bad MRIs didn't show memories the way they showed blood flow and tumors. But there were other ways.

“Hypnotism,” Peter said.

MacRae gave Peter a surprised look.

“What?” Peter asked.

“I don't know, you endorsing hypnosis. Seems kind of ‘out there' for, uh, someone like you.”

For a stuffy, pointy-headed academic like you
was the part MacRae didn't say.

“You're right. I'm not a big fan of hypnosis. It's too easily abused. But in this case, it's possible that Mr. Ravitch actually remembers something significant, he just doesn't know what it is. Maybe he saw the bomber, even the bomb itself, but it had no significance to him. So the memory got stored but it didn't get specially tagged, so now it's not easily accessible. If he's hypnotized, put into a relaxed, hyperalert state, allowed to rescan the entire scene without his normal inhibitions, he should remember all sorts of information, and some of it might be just what you're looking for.”

Peter didn't mention another benefit. Hypnosis was sometimes used as a treatment for panic disorders, enabling the victim to revisit the frightening event and, with help, master his own response. That was what repetitive nightmares and repetition compulsions were all about, too—nature's way of revisiting trauma.

“Good.” Peter could almost see MacRae's notions about Peter getting reshuffled. “So let's say he's hypnotized and he remembers stuff. How do we know he's not making it up on the spot? Might not even know he's doing it.”

Peter was impressed that MacRae recognized this possibility—tough, blue-collar muscle-head that he was. “Bottom line, you can't. Anyone in a hypnotic state is susceptible to suggestions. The one thing you can do is be very careful about how questions are posed. Some people are highly suggestive. You need an expert.”

“Can you do it?”

The request brought Peter up short. Despite hypnotism's sideshow reputation, there was really nothing special about it. Just another tool, another way to take advantage of the amazing capabilities of the human mind. He'd been trained in hypnosis. Still, he'd rarely used it, and then only as a therapeutic tool.

“We can pay you, if that's what you're worried about,” MacRae said. He wasn't being snide, just stating a fact. “And you won't have to testify. That stuff's not admissible in court anyway. What do you say?”

Peter had worked on plenty of cases, but he'd never assisted police in an ongoing investigation, never hypnotized a witness. But it took him barely a heartbeat to agree. All it took was reminding himself that if he and Chip and Annie had been in the courthouse lobby as scheduled, that would have brought the death toll to an even dozen.

*   *   *

“Promise you won't make me quack like a duck,” Ravitch said, giving a wary look around the treatment room, a small, pleasant space with four easy chairs and a coffee table.

Ravitch had been reluctant to be videotaped being hypnotized. Peter had talked him through it, what it would be like, how the police needed all the help they could get. What sealed it was the promise that Ravitch could see the videotape of his own session. Only then, and with his permission, would Peter give the tape to the investigators.

Ravitch rubbed the palms of his hands on his pant legs and gave a quick glance at the video camera on the tripod behind Peter. “I don't know about this,” he said, shifting in his chair as he eyed the microphone on the table as if it were an alien being.

Peter realized he'd better get started before Ravitch changed his mind. He checked the camera one last time and adjusted the lens to compensate for the backlighting from the window behind Ravitch. “You'll see. There's not much to it, really. Just pay attention to what's going on, and try to have the experiences that are suggested to you.”

Ravitch rolled his head around and the bones in his neck cracked. He resettled himself in the chair.

Peter sat facing him. “Ready? Here we go. See that bit of black tape on the wall? I'll be referring to that as ‘the target.' I'd like you to relax, look steadily at the target, and listen to my voice.”

Ravitch stared at the tape, his back stiff, hands gripping the arms of the chair. After a few moments, he gave Peter a nervous glance.

“Try to relax. Look steadily at the target,” Peter said, keeping his voice low and even. “You can be hypnotized only if you want to be. Just do your best to concentrate on the target, pay attention to my words, and let it happen. Hypnosis is perfectly normal and…” As Peter droned on, Ravitch sank back into the chair. His grip loosened. Relaxation in hypnosis was a lot like the first stages of falling asleep, only Ravitch would still be able to hear Peter's voice and direct his own thoughts.

“Now I want you to imagine you're at the beach on a warm summer day.” Ravitch did a slow blink as Peter continued painting an idyllic scene. “You're so relaxed. Your eyes will get heavy, and you will wish strongly that they were closed. Then they will close, as if by themselves. When this happens, just let it.”

Ravitch's eyelids began to lower. More, then more. Just when Peter thought he was there, his eyes startled open. It wasn't surprising that someone who worked in security would have a hard time letting down his guard.

Ravitch shifted in his seat. His gaze wavered, then anchored on the target.

Peter tried some relaxation exercises, focusing on different sets of muscles. Ravitch's eyes began to close again. This time his eyes stayed shut. His palms rested open on the chair arms.

“That's good. Now I'm going to count. You will feel yourself going down, down, farther and farther into a deep, restful sleep. One … two…” Peter counted slowly, his voice like a boat rocking gently in still water. At twenty Peter had to fight drowsiness as his own eyelids began to feel heavy. By thirty, Ravitch was slumped over, his eyes closed.

“Now I want you to realize that you can speak, move, and even open your eyes if I should ask you to do so, and still remain just as hypnotized as you are now.” Ravitch stirred in his seat. “Now open your eyes. Can you tell me your name?”

Ravitch slowly sat up and opened his eyes. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Rudy Ravitch.”

“Now I'd like you to think back to Tuesday. Three days ago. You're going to work. Can you tell me about that?”

“Damn Green Line. Nowhere to sit, as usual.” Ravitch's voice was calm, not quite a monotone.

“Who else is on the train?”

Ravitch's eyes shimmied from side to side. “Some jerk's jabbing his briefcase into my side. Old man in the corner. He's nodding off. Drooling. Girl next to him gets up. She's got a ring in her belly button.” Ravitch sniffed as he watched the imaginary girl walk by. “She smells like lemonade.”

“Okay. You're getting off the train. Tell me what happens next.”

“I'm walking down Cambridge Street. Crossing the street. The traffic is backed up going into town. I stop for a newspaper. The idiot doesn't want to break a twenty but that's all I've got.”

“Good. Okay, now you're at the courthouse.”

Peter paused, waiting for the pictures in Ravitch's head to sort themselves. Bit by bit, he took Ravitch through his day, revisiting the time when he'd arrived at work and punched in, flashing forward to his morning break, to lunch in what sounded like the same greasy spoon where Peter had gone with Chip after the explosion. Next he took Ravitch back to work after lunch. This was the start of the critical half hour during which the police thought the bomb had been planted.

“It's getting crowded,” Ravitch said. “People are backing up at the metal detector. I'm watching the new scanner. People swipe the key cards we just started using. There's a woman lawyer. She hasn't got a card yet so she shows me her driver's license and I've got to look her up.”

“Can you remember what she looked like? What she was carrying?”

Ravitch's eyes seemed to focus. “Long blond hair, short skirt. Fuck-me sandals.” He chuckled. “Legs like a pair of tree stumps.”

“Who else do you see?”

“There's a young guy with red hair, a beard, and mustache. Works for the DA. He's talking to his friend and laughing. Swipes his card.”

“The redhead. He carrying anything?”

“He's got a briefcase. Big. Leather. Bulging.”

“What about the man he's talking to? Has he got anything in his hands?”

“Coffee.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten to one. Jeez I need a smoke.” Ravitch took a sharp inhale. “I'm trying to get Leon's attention. He's confiscating someone's microcassette recorder.”

“Can you see who?”

Ravitch screwed up his face, straining for the memory. “Just a dude. Dark hair. Blue jacket. Briefcase.”

“Have you seen him before?”

“Maybe. Yeah. Looks familiar. I'm trying to talk to Leon and the guy swipes his card. First time it doesn't take. Must have put it through upside down.

“Leon won't look at me.” The cords in Ravitch's neck stood out and he grasped the arms of the chair. “There goes a court officer. A cop. A guy in pinstripes. He's a smoker, I can smell it. God, I need a cigarette.

“Line's shorter now, most everyone that's got to be in is in.
Leon?”
He pantomimed putting a cigarette to his mouth. His face relaxed. “Leon says to go ahead.”

“So where do you go?”

“Outside. To one side of the doors. I'm lighting up. My hands are shaking. Jesus Christ, I gotta cut back. This is insane.” Ravitch closed his eyes and took a long inhale and exhale. In an instant his shoulders relaxed, his face went slack. He sat back in his chair. He held his hand as if he were holding the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you see?”

“One of the secretaries up on the fifth floor. She's coming in. Low-cut sweater. Jeez, what is she, giving it away? She waves at me. Couple of people, a man and a kid, leaving the building. He's got on a tan windbreaker. Another man walks out the door. A reporter. He's got press tags around his neck.”

“You recognize him?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Now there's more people leaving. A couple of lawyers maybe? I can't see their faces. And a police officer. He's running out the door.” Ravitch inhaled sharply through pursed lips, like he was taking one final drag. “I gotta get back. I stick the butt in the sand in the container by the door and…” Ravitch's voice trailed off.

Peter waited for him to go on, but he just hung there looking perplexed, his mouth agape.

“What's the next thing you remember?”

Ravitch coughed and clutched at his throat. “The smoke. I can't breathe.” He put his palm to his temple and grimaced. “My head. Christ almighty, my head hurts.”

“Where are you?”

Ravitch's face screwed up and there was fear in his eyes. “On the ground. What the hell happened? There's a guy in an orange suit, poking at my eyelid.”

There was no point in continuing forward in time. Peter doubled back and asked Ravitch to return to the time before and during his cigarette break and focus on each of the people he saw entering and leaving the building. Then he had him go back again. Each time through there was a new detail or two, but for the most part the story was the same. Just a lot of innocuous comings and goings. And then the bomb. Who knew what was significant.

*   *   *

That next afternoon Peter brought the videotape over to MacRae at the police station. They met in a large room that looked like a deserted command post. A conference table was littered with empty coffee cups and smelled of the pepperoni pizza MacRae had sprung for. Tacked to the walls were maps and crime-scene photos, rows of mug shots of men, presumably suspects, and pictures of victims. According to a timeline drawn on the whiteboard, flyers had been noted first by witnesses in Harvard Square three days before the law school bombing, in East Cambridge two days before the courthouse went. The bombings had happened on Tuesdays, exactly four weeks apart. Peter wondered if that would turn out to be a pattern.