Part 12 (2/2)
She waited and watched. His eyes glistened as he thought back.
”I helped her out of the bar and walked her down the street to my van, dropped her in back and then headed out of the city to a place I have on the sh.o.r.e.”
”You'd done this before,” she stated.
”What makes you say that, doc?”
”Call it a hunch.”
He chuckled, but neither confirmed nor denied her speculation. ”I just do what the voice tells me.”
”What was it telling you?”
”She needed to be taught a lesson.”
”How did you do that?”
He leaned into the table, ”Slowly, doc. I did it slowly. Bit by bit waiting for her to wake up. It's important that they know what's happening. The lesson has to stick, otherwise what good is it? They need to feel every piece of clothing being cut off their body, feel the knife decide whether to go through fabric or flesh. They have to feel my fingers, my tongue, and my c.o.c.k in all the places they don't want. You can't rush it. I have to see it in their eyes.”
”See what?” Barrett tried to mask her revulsion, to not think about the terror Valerie Blake must have felt in the last moments of her life.
”That they know who's the boss.”
She didn't need any more. It was clear that Walker Green's crimes had been carefully planned and executed. His psychotic sham was transparent and would never hold up; it was interesting that the court had requested two separate evaluations, but that was often the defense strategy. Get two forensic experts to disagree and it would essentially cancel out both reports. That would leave the determination to the judge and jury, and in a case like Walker's that might up his chances for avoiding prison. He'd have to improve his act, but a few more months in Croton might make that possible. She'd have to do what she could to see that didn't happen.
She spent another hour with him, letting him regale her with accounts of his crimes-all at the command of his bogus voice. She turned off her recorder and was about to call in the guard, when something Walker said caught her attention.
”There's a lot of us out there.”
”What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly thinking of Jimmy and wondering if this creep had some real insight to offer.
”You know, guys who like to be in control.”
”But they don't drug women, force them into vans, and rape them.”
”That's what you think, you're a shrink, and people aren't all that different.”
”You think so?”
”I know it. I may not have your education but I've been around. Guys act one way around women, try to come off all smooth and caring, but we're still cavemen inside. Like in the cartoons where you club some chick over the head and drag her off to your cave. And once you've done that, you can't go back.”
”So it's natural, what you did?”
”It is. Why would G.o.d make us like this if it weren't okay?”
”When you m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e is that what you think about?” she asked, clicking the recorder back on.
”All the time, but so do most guys.”
”You think that's true?”
”Swear to G.o.d, all I did was cross a line. It's not that far from fantasy to flesh-just a few short steps, a couple knockout drops, and a place to go. Easy as pie.” He laughed, ”Cherry pie.”
”How old were you when it stopped being a fantasy?”
He opened his mouth and then shut it. He shook his head and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ”Just these chickies, doc. Loose lips sink s.h.i.+ps.”
”Right,” she gathered up her pad and stuffed her recorder into her jacket pocket.
”You coming back to see me?” he asked.
”Probably not, unless you've got more to tell me.”
”There's always more,” he looked in her direction, but more through her than at her. ”Then again, after a while, it's all the same.”
___.
Barrett pa.s.sed through the security checks and exited the razor-wire perimeter of Croton. She hiked across the park-like grounds that surrounded the forensic hospital, which was part of a ten-thousand-acre complex that had once comprised one of New York State's largest mental inst.i.tutions. She thought about the interview. In many ways it was typical of s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.ts; an old story, and a central theme in her research and soon-to-be published book. A line gets crossed and then another and another, ”Better than heroin,” he'd said, and a hard habit to break.
She thought about Ralph and the line that he had crossed. And then she thought about her father. What little she remembered from Georgia and her first seven years of life in a five-room farmhouse that had belonged to her grandfather, was filled with images of her father's red and angry face, her mother sending her to her room, and the awful sounds of the fights and the beatings.
She looked up at the weathered-brick facade of Gunther Hall. It was an imposing structure that a century ago had been the very first building for the then New York Hospital for the Insane. Spread over valuable Westchester acreage, it had embraced the moral treatment-a belief that hard work, fresh air, and religious devotion could free a person from mental illness. That of course hadn't lasted long and what followed was the addition of building after building until in the 1950s Croton housed nearly 30,000 patients-the snake-pit era, with insulin-shock therapy, wet wraps, and Thorazine doled out in gram-high doses that left the sick folk drooling and shuffling through endless days and years. Then deinst.i.tutionalization and they were released into the community, and buildings like Gunther Hall were either left derelict or transformed into administrative offices for state employees displaced from their previous jobs.
She went up to the second-floor office she'd commandeered. It was nicer than what she had in Manhattan, and over the years she'd made raids on the bas.e.m.e.nt where wonderful old oak, walnut, and mahogany desks, chairs, barrister bookcases, and the like had been stored and forgotten as, one-by-one, buildings shut down and began their crumbling deterioration.
Through her window she had a view of rolling green hills, distant mansions, and the dip in the green countryside through which the Hudson River meandered on its way toward New York City. It was nearly six and the pre-dusk light splashed the landscape with a rose-colored wash.
She inserted a disc into the computer and decided to get a quick start on Green's report. As the screen flashed to life, a buzzing sound intruded. Reaching down she grabbed her vibrating pager; she didn't recognize the number in the display. She dialed.
”Barrett?” Justine's excited voice bubbled into her ear.
”What's up?”
”I got in!”
”What?”
”Harrison picked me. I can't believe it!”
”That's wonderful,” Barrett said. ”Have you told Mom?”
”Not yet, you're the first. You know, he's never picked a woman. I'll be the first.”
”You totally deserve it,” Barrett said, thrilled for her sister, and keeping her less-gracious thoughts hidden. Justine had just been accepted into a highly compet.i.tive surgical fellows.h.i.+p, in which she'd be chief resident. An incredible honor, and her sister's greatest wish. It also meant that for another two years, Justine would be working at a salary too low to support herself, and as Barrett had been doing for Justine since leaving her own residency, she'd be helping out to the tune of a grand a month.
Her other line rang, and the red light flashed. ”Hold on, Justine, I've got another call.” She pressed the b.u.t.ton for the other line.
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