I could almost see the minute hand on the wall clock move as I waited for my first Alpha male client scheduled for seven p.m. I tried to remember the last good event happening prior to Bob’s awakening when my back line rang.
“I KNOW YOU WANT TO HEAR HER LAST WORDS. WHAT SHE DID FOR ME AND HOW SHE BEGGED ME TO SAVE HER PRETTY NECK,” the maniacal voice said.
I hit record on my Dictaphone and watched the tiny gray sprockets start to spin. My head followed suit as I weighed my response.
“No. You’ll change the context and twist them to suit your needs.” Please tell me, anyway.
“SHE SAID: ‘YOU’RE RIGHT, I SHOULD HAVE STAYED WITH YOU.’ HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL, SWINGER?”
A tiny light bulb sputtered to life in my mind as I listened. It flickered but disappeared like a forgotten dream. I kept telling myself that he wants to talk to me more than I him. Maybe I’d eventually believe it.
Keep him talking.
“I don’t care what you claim she said. Look, if these phone sessions continue, I’ll have to charge you double. What’d you say your name was again? I’ll need that and a copy of your insurance card.”
“VERY FUNNY, BUT YOU’RE NOT LAUGHING NOW, ARE YOU?”
“No more games. Tell me who you are or turn yourself in. You keep calling me, so it’s obvious you want to confess or be captured. Think of it, your name and picture all over the television, nothing but you on the front page for days. People will write books about you. You’ll be famous, immortal—”
“YOU HAVE NO CLUE WHAT MOTIVATES ME,” he interrupted. Then he said, “MY WORK ISN’T COMPLETE. YOU’RE THE KEY. YOU THINK YOU’RE SMARTER THAN ME. WE WILL SEE.”
How am I the key?
There are victories and defeats in the career of a therapist. In some cases working diagnoses evolve as more information is learned, some treatment decisions pan out while others don’t. The client/therapist relationship plays out in the real world. Life happens. Shit happens. Often they coincide. The human factor is the wild card that can trump the best therapeutic intentions. Therapy, like medicine, is part knowledge and part practice. There’s an intuitive aspect to therapy that takes time to learn. School can only take you so far. I know I’m a better therapist now than after I completed my training because I’ve learned from experience and mistakes. Since the killer first called, I’ve racked my brain to think of every past treatment outcome that an unstable mind could perceive as failure. There are far too many possibilities. For each contested divorce I’ve mediated, both sides usually feel screwed. For every parental psychosocial evaluation I’ve completed to help a judge rule on a child custody hearing, the losing parent could be a suspect. If my involvement ended with the evaluation, I wouldn’t even know which parent was the ultimate loser. I wouldn’t be privy to the level of parental rights lost or how they’re handling their grief and anger. Finding the killer could be like locating the right ant on a mountainside. I clung to the hope he was a recent client, that he was one of the three men I was seeing now.
“Look, this is between you and me, but you have me at a disadvantage. What have I done to you? Tell me. I’ll fix it if I can.”
“YOU CAN’T, BUT I WILL. YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE, SITTING IN YOUR SAFE CHAIR MAKING DECISIONS THAT RUIN LIVES. THAT WILL END.”
I was bargaining with the executioner. “Like you, I’m human and doing the best I can, but sometimes it isn’t enough, despite our best intentions. I can help with your pain. Tell me about it.”
There was silence on the other end that stretched out a minute. I thought he disconnected the line. Then I heard Darth Vader-like breathing through the disguising device and he said, “IT’S TOO LATE FOR THAT. TAKE YOUR PICK—LIFE IN PRISON OR DEATH.”
He wanted his pound of flesh. This was going to end badly for one of us. Or both.
“Neither. Which do you prefer, life in jail or the death penalty? See you in therapy,” I said.
More silence. Had I been too aggressive, too confrontational?
Then finally: “YOU FORGET I CAN HAVE YOU ARRESTED WITH ONE PHONE CALL. OR PERHAPS I’LL FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES WITH YOUR COMELY GROUPIE TO PUNISH YOUR ARROGANCE.”
The line went dead.
I hoped I’d thrown him off balance when I told him I’d see him in therapy. Would all three show for their sessions?
I don’t think he wants me behind bars because that would put me out of reach, and he couldn’t play his torture-by-phone game whenever the mood struck.
Lisa Carter was another story, though. I had a duty to warn that I couldn’t ignore. I called her home number and Harold picked up. He said she’d just begun a six-day duty period, shuttling between Los Angeles, Hawaii, Tahiti, and New Zealand. He didn’t know why she was a no-show for her previous appointment. I thanked him and called her cell, but it went straight to voice mail. I warned about a general threat against her voiced to me by a disturbed client. I asked her to call my office immediately, especially if she’d had any recent contact with another client, in the waiting room or anywhere. I reassured her she was safe while she was at work for the next six days, that the situation should resolve itself in the next few days. I promised to call back when it did.
‘You’re right, I should have stayed with you’ Had Kris really said that or was it a lie? Don’t let him get into your head. What grievous wrong have I done him?
Whether she knew her killer or not, Kris was smart enough to try to talk her way out of that alley first. She would have tried to mollify him, stroke his ego, and go along with whatever delusion he entertained if it helped her escape. Just long enough for him to drop his guard and give her an opening.
I should have stayed with you. Had she said that to placate him? The light bulb remained off. Not a flicker. My head battled my emotions. Was it Steven, her ex? The comment didn’t prove they knew each other. He is a master of lies and misdirection.
I replayed every taped conversation with the killer in order and made more notes. Something wanted to take shape. I reached out my hand for it, but it came back empty.
He was the house, dealing all the cards. And the house wanted its take. I had to face a cold, hard truth. I could be going to jail for a long time.
Dark clouds gathered, threatening rain, as Father James Fogerty, the first of my three Alpha males, walked into my office and placed his umbrella in the stand by the door. I knew him the least compared to my other clients, as this was only our second session. I’d reviewed his Church file in detail as well as my sparse notes from the first session, which was, for me, more of a feeling-out time and, for him, a muscle-flexing test. It seemed like that session took place a year ago, in another world, when I was someone else.
He appeared calm and relaxed as he settled into the client chair, the mirror opposite of our first session. He maintained good eye contact with no visible anxiety or tension. He even looked like he’d gotten some sun.
“Tell me about the young woman who filed the initial complaint against you, Father.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right down to business, I like that.”
“We need to make up for lost time.”
“Ah, if man only could,” he said, clearing his throat. “Jenny Marcus, a fourth generation university pledge. I was her advisor. She was a bright, inquisitive, energetic, sensitive, young woman eager to spread her wings but uncertain where she wanted to land. She longed for greater autonomy from her parents, whom she perceived as suffocating, and sought a nobler purpose in life like many idealistic young people.”
He painted a picture of an impressionable, malleable, neophyte woman desperate to enter adulthood. She was a perfect candidate for an older mentor to guide her into the uncharted territories of college and responsible adult society. She was also perfect fodder for a manipulative sociopath.
“She claims you entered her room during a freshman retreat and tried to rape her. I quote, ‘He kissed me and pinned me down on the bed, his erect penis up against me while he fought to undo my jeans. He covered my mouth but I bit his hand, drawing blood, and screamed. He ran from my room minutes before people responded to my cries.’”
The report said Miss Marcus waited over a week before she told her mother of the alleged sexual assault. Jenny and her father lodged a formal complaint, but by then there was no physical evidence of any hand injury to Father James. No one who responded that night to her cries for help saw him enter or leave the building. After the alleged attack, she was in shock and terrified. She didn’t tell the responders who attacked her, wanting to forget or deny it ever happened.
“What happened that night, Father?”
He was the poster boy for control, blocking his non-verbals. He said, “Nothing happened that night. Her story is fantasy, driven by her pathology. Earlier that day, she sought my counsel for a personal problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
“She came to me,” he said, “distraught over having to choose between her boyfriend and her parents, especially her father. For six months, she had been secretly dating a thirty-year old man. She convinced herself she was in love with him. Her father labeled Romeo a pariah and, given the age difference and other factors, made him strictly verboten to Jenny. If she chose Romeo, she would kiss her inheritance of several million dollars goodbye.”
“What other factors?”
“Differences in social class, life experiences, and skin were like night and day. She’s from a conservative, Mid-Western, Catholic, upper class, white family while Romeo hails from the inner city projects, is a dark-skinned black man with a drug-dealing father serving five to ten years in federal prison. Romeo earned a full minority ride to the university and is finishing a degree in Physical Education.” He allowed himself a wistful pause. “Not exactly what daddy envisioned for his only daughter.”
“You learned a lot from one weekend retreat,” I said.
Unfazed, he said humbly, “I try.”
“You said she sought you out. When and where did the meeting take place?”
“She asked me to meet her on a park bench that rests on a more secluded corner of the retreat grounds. She said she wanted to talk about a private matter after lunch.”
“Was there any physical contact between yourself and Miss Marcus during this meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
In a calm voice he said, “Her anxiety level was so high she had a classic panic attack. I had her hyperventilate into the brown paper bag I’d brought my lunch in until her breathing normalized. I reuse lunch bags as long as possible to pinch pennies. While she did this, I rubbed her back and reassured her that she, with God’s help, would make it through this difficult time. The tears finally slowed and she regained control. She hugged me and whispered into my shirt, ‘I feel so close to you. You know just what to say.’ The next thing I know she’s pressing her lips to mine and her tongue is in my mouth. I broke off the physical contact and told her this cannot happen.”
“How did she respond?”
“She made an agonized reference to her father fucking her again and stormed off. I called for her to come back and talk, but that made her run faster. I considered following but chose not to; frankly I was worried how it might look if someone saw the scene from one of the windows above the courtyard. It sounds petty now and I regret not catching up with her to process the transference.”
“When did you see her next?”
“I didn’t. I looked for her later that afternoon but couldn’t find her. Nor did I see her that night or for the rest of the retreat. I called her apartment the following Monday, but there was no answer. Nine days later, the Archbishop calls me into his office and I’m placed on administrative leave. I could face excommunication, forfeiture of my counseling license, and jail time. Church leaders are growing weary of paying hush money, multi-million dollar settlements for sexual abuse lawsuits, and watching members leave the Church in droves.”
It could have happened that way. ‘He said, she said’ stories are tough to sort out. “Your current attitude is quite different from a week ago….”
“When we first met, I was angry, full of self-pity, resigned to my fate. Now I’m ready to fight. What’s so frustrating is that I’m the victim here.”
OJ said the same thing.
“You don’t seem to be the self-pitying kind, Father.”
He remained silent.
“Okay. Why would Jenny Marcus make these false allegations against you?”
“When I described her earlier, I omitted the words troubled and disturbed. She confided in me about her history of sexual abuse from the ages of twelve to sixteen. During her high school years, she made a number of similar claims against male teachers to the point that a pattern emerged.”
“Knowing this, you still chose to meet with her alone?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’ve done the same in your career.”
I thought of Lisa Carter. “Who does she say abused her?”
“The driving force behind the complaint against me, the same man who happens to be a prosecuting attorney for St. Louis County. Daddy dearest.”
“I’m sure Jenny didn’t tell you of her alleged pattern of Crying Wolf. How did you learn this?”
A little muscle in his jaw worked overtime as he weighed his words. “The city has a glut of professionals, a few willing to work for peanuts if it doesn’t require too much leg or computer work. One happened to be a God-fearing Catholic who felt he owed the church a favor.”
“You hired a private detective to delve into her past?”
“After she filed the complaint, yes.”
“You are a changed man since our first session.”
He didn’t respond. Push him.
“Last week you were cavalier about your punishment, resigned to your fate. Now you’re preparing an aggressive defense that will put a troubled young woman on the witness stand and expose her abusive past. Your attorney will drag her character through the mud and try to break her.”
He remained stoic, staring blankly at me.
“After the Marcus lawsuit, other young women stepped forward to register complaints.” I referred to the Church file on the table. “Gloria VanZant, a past client; Trudy Jones, a former student in your religion class; Wanda Trudeau, another ex-client, among others. What do you say in response to the claims of these women?”
He rattled off accounts of young, damaged women who were: either in love or infatuated with him; sex addicts; in the manic, hypersexual phase of their bipolar illness; or jumping on the lawsuit bandwagon hoping for a quick, out of court, cash settlement from the Church in exchange for their silence. He provided plausible answers to every allegation.
Or he selected his victims very well.
“One particularly troubling lawsuit comes from Paula White, a former client who suddenly terminated her sessions with you. She claims you drugged and raped her during a session.”
“Miss White has multiple personality disorder. Her father sexually abused her for years. She suffers from dissociative fugue states. During that session she had a blackout episode. I did not lay a hand on her.”
According to the church file, Miss White did not seek immediate medical attention afterward.
Nothing in the file held definitive proof of his guilt. No victims remembered seeing a distinctive mole, birthmark, or other identifying physical feature on Father James. If one of them had, she wasn’t talking. Reading between the lines, these women could be living in fear of him.
The preponderance of the testimony raised big red flags, but a savvy lawyer would attack its circumstantial nature. Lacking a strong witness or incriminating physical evidence, I knew where this was headed.
I thought again of Lisa Carter and others. Of how easily I could be in his shoes. Alone with a young female client in crisis, her emotions run amok from her senses, her world in upheaval. She turns to you for help. In her eyes you’re exactly what’s missing from her life.”
Clients put their trust in us; we see them in their weakest, most naked state. Their power and control shaken and tested, they charge us to safeguard and replenish both. Trust and power, lives shatter when either is abused.
It only takes one client.
But in his case there are many.
What bothered me most was something he said earlier. I’m the victim here.
Did I believe him? No.
Could I prove it? No.
I tossed the file on the table next to me, at a loss how to proceed. “Tell me about your childhood, James.”
He looked at his plain Timex. “Aren’t we out of time?”
“Yes, but let’s push on. A Baptist minister and his wife in Iowa adopted you and your twin brother at birth. Your adoptive dad died in his sixties from complications of a stroke. Adoptive mom developed Alzheimer’s and currently lives in a special care unit near Ames. How does the son of a Baptist minister end up a Catholic priest?”
He gave a brief smile and shrug. “I traded hellfire and brimstone for ritualistic tradition and dogma. Actually, the best local schools were Catholic and Jesuit affiliated and we both showed an affinity for learning.”
He denied any history of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse; as well as any adoptive family history of alcoholism, depression, or psychosis. His biological parents were enigmas as both infant boys were left in baskets on a park bench not far from the entrance to a local hospital. He denied any personal history of depression or substance abuse treatment. He described growing up in a bucolic, Midwestern, extremely conservative, religious, sexually repressed, and somewhat guilt-focused family. He regularly dated girls, was athletic, social, and a good student who, like his father, gravitated to the study of religion.
Not knowing where to go with this, I said, “It says in the file that your twin brother is deceased. How did he die?”
He maintained a stoic exterior, but tensed. “He was the family superstar. Genius I.Q., handsome, outgoing, All-State quarterback and baseball pitcher, full ride to the major college of his choice. He existed on a higher plain than the rest of the world. He chose USC but walked away from campus his freshman year. We heard nothing from him until word of his death.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Mother received a certified letter regretting to inform the family that her son was dead and that a package containing his personal effects would arrive soon. The letter included outstanding hospital bills and a number to call the morgue to make plans to fly the body home.”
“What was in the package that came later?”
Emotion seized his face as he looked down at his hands. “A pack of Camels and a CD,” he said.
“That was it?” I asked.
“The world was his at eighteen, by thirty-three he had nothing.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“Anaphylactic shock. He was admitted for cellulitis and fever, likely from an animal bite or skin tear on his leg. He was malnourished, had lice in his hair, and maggots in his wound. Nobody knew he was severely allergic to IV Vancomycin and by the time the nurse checked him, his heart had stopped. CPR failed. His body was a human pin cushion from insect and flea bites, but they found no traces of alcohol or drugs in his lab work.”
Where am I going with this? What the hell am I doing?
“What hospital treated him when he died?”
“A community hospital somewhere between Wichita, Kansas and the middle of nowhere. It was so tiny you could pass by it if you blinked twice. I should know, I drove past it myself. I went there looking for answers, some sort of closure, especially for mother. He was admitted there as a homeless John Doe and died as one until weeks later when the hospital social worker finally tracked down his identity after a complex series of calls starting with the lone phone number in his jeans. None of the calls yielded any useful information aside from his identity. It’s as if his last fifteen years was a tabula rasa. He left the world the same way he entered, dropped off at a hospital. They killed my twin, my best friend, and that killed our mother.”
“Was the hospital found negligent?”
“No, but some of the records had been doctored to give the impression that my brother was checked more frequently than he was—additions in the margins of progress notes that pertained to nurse checks and notes ad nauseum saying that this patient couldn’t provide an accurate history of allergies. Little CYA things like that.”
“CYA as in cover your ass?”
He nodded once and lapsed into silence.
They killed my twin, my best friend, and that killed our mother.
“How did you and your mother come to terms with his death?”
“Mother never did. She isolated herself from friends and family. She no longer ventured off the farm and stopped taking care of herself and the house. She gave up on life. Her mind’s gone now.”
“And you?”
“I was mad. Mad at him for turning his back on us. My perfect other half had the world at his feet and dies a drifter. I’ll never know why. I re-dedicated my life to helping young adults stay on the right path—in therapy, guidance and career counseling, or by leading university retreats.”
It’s plausible.
We’d run thirty minutes over, and I had research to do and case histories to check before my next Alpha male client. He was eager to leave. It was time.
“One last question. How did you know Kristin Gray before you raped and killed her?”
He met my stare with one of his own. “Who’s Kristin Gray? Did she file a complaint against me, too?”
“That’s hard to do from the grave. You’re taunting me on the phone, using that disguised voice. What have I done to you?”
He rose from the chair and walked to the door. He paused for some time, hand on the door knob, seemingly lost in thought. “I have no idea what your problem is, but you’re clearly not the right person to evaluate me. I will ask the Archbishop for a new therapist. Someone less prejudiced and, frankly, more sane.”
With that, Father James was out the door and gone, likely convinced that he was in treatment with a madman.
I’m not so sure myself anymore, Father.
The Stranger within me smiled.
Strike one.