Authors: Phillip Margolin
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense, #Mystery & Detective
“I believe you gentlemen owe Harold and me five bucks apiece,” Frank Jaffe told Grant and Kerrigan.
“I’ll pay you, Frank,” Grant grumbled as he and Kerrigan handed portraits of Abraham Lincoln to their opponents, “but I shouldn’t have to pay a penny to Harold. You carried him all day. How you made that bunker shot on seventeen I’ll never know.”
Travis laughed and clapped Grant on the back.
“To show that I’m a compassionate guy I’ll buy the first round,” the senator said.
“Now that’s the only good thing that’s happened to me since the first tee,” answered Kerrigan.
“He’s just trying to buy your vote, Tim,” Grant grumbled good-naturedly.
“What vote?” Travis asked with a sly grin.
The Westmont was the most exclusive country club in Portland. Its clubhouse was a sprawling fieldstone structure that had started in 1925 with a small central building and had grown larger and more imposing as membership in the club grew in prestige. The men were stopped several times by other members as they crossed the wide flagstone patio on their way to a table shaded by a forest green umbrella where Carl Rittenhouse, the senator’s administrative assistant, waited.
“How’d it go?” Rittenhouse asked the senator.
“Frank did all the work and I rode his coattails,” Travis answered.
“Same way you rode the president’s in your last election,” Grant joked. The men laughed.
A waitress took their order and Grant, Kerrigan, and Jaffe reminisced about the round while Senator Travis stared contentedly into space.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Jaffe told Travis.
“Sorry. I’ve got a problem with my farm bill. Two senators are threatening to keep it in committee if I don’t vote against an army-base closure.”
“Being a judge has its upside,” Grant said. “If someone gives me a hard time I can hold him in contempt and toss his butt in jail.”
“I’m definitely in the wrong business,” Travis said. “I don’t know about jail, though. Civil commitment would probably be more appropriate for some of my colleagues.”
“Being a senator is a bit like being an inmate in a fancy asylum,” Rittenhouse chimed in.
“I don’t think I could win an insanity defense for a politician, Carl,” Jaffe said. “They’re crafty, not crazy.”
“Yes,” the judge said. “Look at the way Harold tricked us into letting him partner with you.”
“I did read somewhere that not all sociopaths are serial killers,” Jaffe said. “A lot of them become successful businessmen and politicians.”
“Imagine what an asset it would be in business and politics to be free of your conscience,” Kerrigan mused.
“Do you think guilt is innate or is it taught?” Travis asked.
“Nature versus nurture,” Jaffe answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “The eternal question.”
“I believe the potential to experience guilt is part of God’s design,” Grant said. “It’s what makes us human.”
Harvey Grant was a devout Catholic. He and the Kerrigans attended the same church, and Tim knew that the judge never missed a Sunday.
“But serial killers, professional criminals and, as Frank pointed out, some politicians and businessmen, don’t seem to have a conscience. If we’re born with one, where does it go?” Kerrigan asked.
“And what if there is no God?” Travis asked.
“Hey,” Rittenhouse interjected with mock alarm, “let’s not say that too loudly. All we need is a headline in the
Oregonian
: senator travis questions the existence of god.”
But Travis wasn’t finished. “If there is no God then morality becomes relative. Whoever runs the show sets the rules.”
“The point is moot, Harold,” Frank said. “The fact that the judge missed that putt on eighteen proves beyond question that there is a God.”
Everyone laughed and Travis stood up.
“On that note, I’ll leave you gentlemen. Thanks for the game. It was a welcome break from work and campaigning.”
“Our pleasure,” Grant told him. “Let me know when you can sneak away again so I can win back my money.”
Frank Jaffe stood, too. “Thanks for inviting me, Harvey. I love the course.”
“You should think of joining the Westmont. I’ll sponsor you.”
“Hey, Harvey, I’m just a simple country lawyer. I’d be in over my head in the company of you sophisticates.”
“Get out of here, Frank, before we have to start shoveling the patio clean,” the judge answered.
Travis, Jaffe, and Rittenhouse headed for the locker room. “Harold was in a good mood,” Kerrigan observed when they were out of sight.
“Why wouldn’t he be? He’s going to be the next president of the United States.” Grant signaled the waitress for another round. “So, Tim, how have you been?”
“Overworked.”
Grant smiled. “And Megan? How is she? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“You don’t need an invitation to drop over.” Kerrigan smiled. “She asks about you.”
“Maybe I’ll come over next weekend.”
“She’s so sharp. I read to her every night. Lately it’s been
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. A few days ago I caught her sitting on the floor in her room with the book in her lap sounding out the words.”
“It’s her good genes.”
Talking about Megan made Kerrigan want to go home. For a moment, he wondered if he should desert the judge, who lived alone and who, Kerrigan imagined, must be lonely at times, despite the parties he threw and his constant round of social engagements. Then he thought about his own situation. He was married to a good woman, he had a wonderful daughter, but he still felt lonely. Maybe the judge was okay on his own. He had his work and the respect of the legal community. He also had integrity. Kerrigan stared out across the green expanse of the eighteenth fairway and wondered what that would feel like.
“Right. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“See you then.”
Rittenhouse walked to the country club entrance to wait for the valet to get his car moments before another valet parked the senator’s Range Rover near the bag drop. The valet put Travis’s clubs in the back of the Rover then jogged away after the senator tipped him generously. Travis smiled as he walked to the driver’s door. Everything was going so well. A recent CNN poll showed him fourteen percentage points up on the favorite to win the Democratic nomination in a head-to-head race, and the money for his campaign kept on pouring in.
The screech of tires tore Travis from his reverie as Jon Dupre’s Porsche squealed to a stop next to him. Dupre threw open the door and hopped out, leaving the motor running.
“Lori’s dead,” Dupre shouted.
“Lower your voice,” Travis answered, alarmed that someone might hear them.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut just like I did when I was indicted. I could have caused a lot of trouble by telling the DA what I know about you.”
“I appreciate that, Jon,” Travis said, desperate to calm down Dupre. He could not afford to be seen having an argument with a pimp.
“I bet you do. And I’m certain the DA would be very interested in knowing about your relationship with a woman who’s just turned up beaten to death.”
“Lori was fine when she left me. I don’t know what happened to her later.”
“You know goddamn well what happened to her,” Dupre said, jabbing a finger at the senator. “Look, I’ll make this simple, Harold. I need money.”
“Are you trying to blackmail
me
?” Travis asked incredulously.
“Blackmail?” Dupre answered with a smirk. “That’s illegal. I’d never do something like that. No, Harold, I’m asking you to help me out, just like I helped you. The cops are all over me. I can’t run Exotic right now. I took a huge risk bringing Lori to you and supplying those other girls.”
“This is not the place to discuss this,” Travis answered, his voice tight with anger.
“It’s the only place I can talk to you, since you’re not answering my calls.”
“Phone me tomorrow,” Travis said as he looked around anxiously. “I promise we’ll settle this.”
“You’d better, and don’t even think about siccing Manuel or another of Pedro’s boys on me.”
Dupre handed him a copy of the cassette Ally had given him when he’d delivered Lori Andrews into Travis’s hands.
“What is this?”
“A tape of your buddies talking about the biotech slush fund you used to crush the anti-cloning bill. They really loosen up with a pair of lips on their dick.”
Travis paled.
“Keep it,” Dupre said. “I’ve got copies. I want to settle this fast. If you’re not interested in this tape I’m sure
60 Minutes
will be.”
Suddenly, Travis saw Carl Rittenhouse walking toward him.
“Get out of here. That’s my AA.”
“I’m not messing around here,” Dupre said as he jumped into his car. Rittenhouse arrived as Dupre drove away.
“You okay, Senator?” he asked, watching the car as it sped down the driveway.
“I’m fine,” Travis answered, but his voice was shaky.
“Who was that?” Rittenhouse asked.
“Forget about it, Carl. It’s not important.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The incident bothered Carl, and after saying good-bye to the senator he jotted down the license number of the Porsche on the back of one of his business cards. In the meantime, Senator Travis left the Westmont. As soon as he could, he parked on a side street and punched in a number on his cell phone. He was sweating badly and his fingers trembled. When the person on the other end answered, Travis said, “We’ve got a problem.”
“It’s good to see you again. How is Alan doing?”
“Last I heard, he was working for a bank in Rhode Island,” Amanda said as she took a seat. “You really helped him.”
Dodson shook his head. “I hope I never go through a tenth of what that poor bastard suffered. So, what brings you here? Have you got someone else for me to work with?”
Amanda had practiced what she was going to say in her apartment, in her office, and during the walk to Dodson’s office, but now that she was here the words stuck in her throat. Dodson saw her distress and stopped smiling.
“Are you okay?”
Amanda didn’t know how to answer the psychiatrist. She wasn’t crazy, she felt fine most of the time. Maybe she’d made a mistake coming here.
“Pretty dumb question, huh?” Dodson said. “If you were okay you wouldn’t be here. You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
Amanda still could not look at Dodson. “It’s . . . it’s stupid, really.”
“But powerful enough for you to walk across town in the rain during your lunch hour. So, why don’t you tell me about it.”
Amanda thought about Toby Brooks and her nightmares and the flashbacks to the tunnel. It all seemed so silly in Dodson’s office. Everyone gets scared, and she certainly had a good reason for her bad dreams.
“I’m probably wasting your time.”
“I’m not doing much right now, so that’s okay.”
Amanda felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She hadn’t felt this embarrassed since she’d made a fool of herself in her first trial.
“A week or so ago, I was at the Y, the YMCA. I work out there. Anyway, I was swimming and this man came over. He . . . he was very handsome, about my age. He seemed nice.”
Amanda’s voice caught. Dodson waited patiently while she gathered herself.
“I panicked. I was terrified. I couldn’t breathe.”
She stopped, feeling utterly ridiculous.
“Has that ever happened to you before?” Dodson asked. His tone was calm and nonjudgmental, but Amanda didn’t know what to tell him.
“Do you have any idea why you became so frightened?” Dodson asked when Amanda did not answer his question. She felt panicky now. She wanted to bolt. “Amanda?”
“I might.”
“Can you tell me?” Dodson asked softly.
“How much do you know about what happened to me last year?”
“I read the stories in the papers and it was on TV. The surgeon who tortured those women attacked you.”
It felt very hot, very close in Dodson’s office, and that made her remember the tunnel. She stood up.
“I have to go.”
Dodson stood with her. “Amanda, I want to help you and I think I may have some idea about how to do it.”
Amanda froze. “How could you know anything? I haven’t told you a thing.”
“Can you sit down? Can I talk to you?”
Amanda lowered herself onto the seat. She felt dizzy.
“I’m going to get you a glass of water. Is that okay?”
Amanda nodded. Dodson stepped out for a moment and returned with a glass of water. He sat down and waited while Amanda drank half of the glass.
“Can I make a few guesses?” Dodson asked.
Amanda nodded warily.
“You approved of my work with Alan Ellis. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And you came here to talk to me because you know from Alan’s case that I can help people who are troubled.”
Amanda’s throat constricted and her eyes grew damp. She felt weak and ridiculous as she fought for composure, and she hated feeling weak and not in control of a situation.
“But most of all, you came to me because you trust me, because you know that what you tell me and what I tell you will stay between us, and because you know that I want to help you and that I will do everything I can to help you deal with this thing that’s driven you to me.”
The dam broke and Amanda started to sob. She made no sound but her head bobbed up and down. She jammed her fists in her eyes to stop the tears but she couldn’t. Dodson let her cry. When her shoulders stopped shaking, he handed Amanda a box of tissues that had been sitting on his desk.
“I want you to tell me what happened last year with the surgeon,” Dodson said when Amanda was calmer.
Amanda spoke with her head down and her eyes averted. She spoke without emotion, as if she was relating the plot of a movie she had seen a while ago. In the movie she was stripped naked, tape was placed over her mouth, her hands were secured behind her back with plastic restraints, and a hood was placed over her head. Then she was forced to run through a tunnel, her breath coming in short gasps, a sharp knife jabbing her buttocks to force her to move faster. And all that time the surgeon told her his plans for her and revealed his interest in testing how much pain a well-conditioned athlete could endure before she died or went insane.
“Before your escape, how did you feel?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Scared,” Amanda answered. The short time in Dodson’s office had exhausted her, and she wanted to curl up on his carpet and go to sleep. “I . . . I was certain that I was going to die.”
“What about physiologically?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How was your breathing?”
“I had a lot of trouble. My mouth was taped, and a hood was pulled down over my head. There were moments when I thought that I might black out.”
“What about your heartbeat?”
“It was elevated, really beating hard, and I was sweating.”
“Have there been times since the incident, after you knew that you were safe, when you’ve reexperienced these physiological responses?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What about after you escaped? How did that feel?”
“At first I didn’t know that I was free. I just ran, expecting him to catch me any second. Then the SWAT team found me. I was elated, really excited for a short time.”
“It looked like the surgeon had escaped, too, at first, didn’t it?”
Amanda nodded.
“How did you feel during that period?”
“Very frightened. I had a police guard, but I jumped at every sound and I always had the feeling that someone was watching me.”
“How did you feel when you learned that your tormentor was dead?”
“I was with Dad. Sean McCarthy, the lead detective, drove out to the house. He told us in person. I remember not hearing what he said, at first. It was like what happens in a dream sometimes, when a person is right in front of you talking but the sound doesn’t travel. I don’t think I showed any emotion. I don’t think I believed it. When I finally accepted what Sean had said, I almost collapsed from relief.”
“Did you feel safe again?”
“For a time.”
“When did that feeling of being safe fade away?”
Amanda felt anxious as she recalled the first time she’d had a flashback.
“Drink some water,” Dodson urged. “When you’re ready to talk about it, tell me what happened.”
“This is really stupid.”
“Try me,” Dodson said, encouraging her with an understanding smile.
“I was home alone watching television, some cop show. I just turned it on without knowing the plot, and it was about a serial killer.”
Amanda licked her lips nervously and took another drink of water.
“He grabbed a woman in a parking lot and locked her in the back of his van. She was screaming and pounding on the door. They were driving through the center of a big city and no one knew she was in that van. I broke out in a sweat, I panicked. It was as if I was back in the tunnel fighting for my life.”
“What did you do?”
“I think I blacked out for a minute, because suddenly I was on the floor and I wasn’t sure how I got there. I ran into the bathroom. I splashed water on my face. I took deep breaths. I was on edge all evening. I didn’t sleep for hours.”
“Have you had these feelings on other occasions?”
“Yes.” She told Dodson about her recent panic attack in the office when she had seen the autopsy photographs by accident. “I’ve had nightmares, too.”
“When you have a flashback, what is it like?”
“It’s like I’m really there. Sometimes I can even smell the damp and feel the dirt. I . . . I feel like I’m going . . . like I’m losing it.”
“Let’s go back to the incident at the pool. Tell me about that again.”
Amanda told Dodson about Toby Brooks’s attempt to recruit her for the Master’s swim team.
“My reaction was so stupid. Asking me to join the team was so normal. It was nice. Toby seemed kind. He was kind. But I was terrified.”
“How did you feel when you were talking to Toby?”
“Feel? I didn’t know him well enough to feel anything.”
“But you just told me that you panicked when he spoke to you, that you were too spent emotionally to swim anymore.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you felt that way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you trust him?”
“I . . .” Amanda stopped. “I don’t know.” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “I guess not,” she whispered.
“Are you finding it difficult to trust other people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. You have friends, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Have you seen a lot of them since the incident?”
“I guess I haven’t. I don’t feel comfortable around them anymore.”
Amanda suddenly remembered the way she’d treated Mike Greene. She felt very bad.
“There’s a man I’ve been dating a little. He’s very nice. I was supposed to go out with him the evening I saw the autopsy photographs and panicked. I was so rattled that I forgot all about the date. Then, when he showed up, I . . . I sent him away. I didn’t explain why. I’m sure I hurt his feelings, and he’s only been nice to me.”
Amanda hung her head. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
“You’ve been through a lot today and I think this is a good time to stop. But I’m going to talk a little before you go, and I want you to listen carefully and think about what I tell you—especially if you have another one of these incidents.
“First, you’re not crazy. In fact, your reactions are so common that there’s a name for them. What you are experiencing is called post-traumatic stress disorder. They used to call it shell shock in the First World War because soldiers who had been in combat manifested the problem most dramatically. We saw a lot of it in soldiers coming back from Vietnam. But it’s not just war. Individuals who live through a psychologically distressing event that is outside the range of usual human experience can have the same symptoms. They can be triggered by a plane crash, torture, an earthquake, or a kidnapping—anything that involves intense fear, terror, and helplessness. The problem seems to be more severe and last longer when the stressor is of human design, like the one you encountered.
“One of the most common symptoms of PTSD is the reexperiencing of the traumatic event through nightmares and flashbacks. The anniversary of the event can trigger feelings of panic or anxiety, and the same feelings can be triggered by something that reminds you of the event, like a movie with a serial killer or just meeting someone who reminds you of the person who caused your terror.”
“Like Toby.”
Dodson nodded. “I don’t want to get into this too much right now, but I do want you to understand that your responses are reasonable.”
“Why didn’t I have them right after I was attacked? Why did it take a while before I started having these flashbacks and the nightmares?”
“Good question. At first, when you thought the surgeon was still at large and could hurt you, you went into a survival mode with a heightened state of alert and you suppressed all of your emotions so you could deal with the danger. But once you felt safe, you relaxed and gave your doubts and fears time to surface. Your guard was down. When you came in contact with a stimulus like the autopsy photo or Toby Brooks, you were forced to recall the incident without time to prepare yourself, and you started to wonder if it could happen again.”
“What can I do to make this stop?” Amanda asked, her voice almost a whisper. “That’s why I came here. I want it to stop. I was happy before. I was a happy person.” Tears welled up in Amanda’s eyes again. She dabbed at them with a tissue. “I want to be happy again.”
Dodson leaned toward Amanda. When he spoke, he sounded confident and comforting.
“You are a very strong person, Amanda. It took strength for you to come here. I can’t guarantee that you’ll ever feel the way you did before the attack, but I can tell you that other people have fought through what you are experiencing. Right now I think it would help if you keep doing things you enjoy and are around people you like and trust. I’d also suggest that you try to avoid situations or books or movies that might trigger a reaction.”