Girl in the Dark (19 page)

“He wasn't particularly outgoing before, but since his stay in solitary he's been completely uncommunicative,” Mo told me. “The only time he seems even remotely present is in a one-on-one situation.”

“How did
that
happen?” We were sitting in one of the consulting rooms. Mo had suggested giving me a rundown before my visit.

“It's probably a self-defense mechanism developed at an early age. Whenever the world around him doesn't feel safe, he retreats into his own little world.”

“But shouldn't he feel safe in here? Isn't he getting therapy and counseling and everything?”

“Believe me, I'm not happy about it, either.”

You could tell he meant it. Actually, he seemed like the sort of person who meant everything he said. It occurred to me how few of the people I knew were genuinely kind. And also how often I wasn't exactly kind myself.

“Let me explain to you how this treatment facility works so you'll have a clearer idea of what to expect. There are inmates for
whom therapy of any sort is pointless. Take the psychopaths, for instance. They are quite incapable of changing, although one does notice that they tend to mellow a bit as they grow older, thanks to a decrease in the testosterone levels.” He put his hand on mine for a second. “Not that Ray's a psychopath—far from it. Don't worry.”

I nodded. Was this normal, for him to touch me? Did he do that to all the other patients' relatives? Or was it just me? Was there some special thing between us?

“If a psychopath has a miraculous ‘turnaround,' you can bet it's to get out of his punishment; he doesn't actually understand it's wrong to hurt others. If you release him from prison, he'll just be even more careful to cover his tracks next time. Fortunately there
are
inmates who do profit from therapy. They're the ones we can see going back to their normal lives at some point.”

“I take it Ray belongs in that category.”

He was silent for a moment. It was clear the news he had to tell me was not good. “I'm not sure he's capable of dealing. There's nothing official to back this up, but from my own observation I've seen that some—not many—in here don't make it. When they arrive they're still fairly functional, but a few months later they're practically basket cases. There are units that offer more safety and structure, but it's always a while before we're able to place them there. Sometimes it's too late, I'm sorry to say.”

The last thing I wanted to hear was that Ray wouldn't make it. “So what you're saying is, this isn't the right place for him.”

“That's not what I'm saying. The problem is that there aren't many alternatives. An inmate may reach the point where he's served out his time, yet it would be irresponsible to release him. So what then?” He looked at me so intently with those lovely calm eyes of his that it got me all flustered. “Sorry, I haven't given you a chance to speak. What was your initial reaction?”

“It's hard. I feel bonded with him somehow. Maybe because my son looks so much like him . . .”

“How old is your son?”

“Three. His father and I don't live together.” Why was I telling him that?

“That's great,” said Mo. “Not that you don't live together, that's not what I mean, but I think it's great you have a little boy.”

I felt myself getting red and tried to go on as normally as possible. “I've been hearing and reading the most terrible things about Ray. But when I saw him during my visit, I couldn't imagine him being capable of such violence. He seemed so naive and innocent.”

“I do think he's basically a nice guy.”

“I think so, too. And you'll probably laugh to hear me say this, but . . . isn't it possible he's innocent?”

“You're sweet to keep asking that question.”

“See? You're not taking me seriously.”

He laughed. Nice teeth. “I take you seriously.”

I was sure my face had gone scarlet. I hoped he hadn't noticed.

“Much as I'd like, for your sake, to think Ray is innocent, you don't get placed in this kind of institution for nothing. Ray has been thoroughly evaluated by the nation's top forensic psychiatrists. If they've decided he needs to be confined in a mental institution, then you can take it there's definitely something wrong with him.”

“We know there's something wrong with Ray. I'm not saying he's completely normal. But suppose there's a miscarriage of justice, and someone is wrongly convicted. In Ray's case, that would mean he's not only sent to prison an innocent man, but lands in a mental institution later on as well.”

An amused smile hovered at the corners of Mo's mouth.

“It's possible, isn't it?” My boiling face was set to explode.

“Fine. In theory.” He glanced at his watch. “If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll go get Ray.”

Maybe I was chasing a total fantasy. A childish pipe dream in which families were reunited and everyone lived happily ever after. I already pictured myself sitting down at Christmas dinner with Ray, Aaron, and my mother. Why not?

I heard footsteps in the corridor, and sat up straight. My armpits felt clammy. I hoped I didn't smell of sweat.

Ray was the first to enter, closely followed by Mo and the guard.

I'd prepared myself for the worst, but Ray looked the same as the last time. I think he was even wearing the same outfit. He avoided my eyes, seeming more interested in the room's bare walls.

“Should we shake hands?” I asked.

“Better not,” said Mo, standing in the corner. “If both the guard and I can confirm that there wasn't any physical contact between you two, it may help Ray avoid having to get drug tested again.” His voice sounded neutral and professional. Of course.

“Okay.” I sat down.

“Take a seat, Ray,” said Mo.

Ray sat down, robotlike.

Silence.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not great.” He still wouldn't look at me, but started playing with his hands.

I glanced over my shoulder at Mo, who was sitting behind me. He gave me an encouraging nod.

“What's the matter, then?”

“They're all against me. I don't know how long they're going to keep this up. Until I'm dead?”

“I'm not against you,” I said. “Do you hear me? I'm on your side.”

He nodded, although I didn't know if it was because he understood what I was saying or because he was just acknowledging the sound of my voice.

“I want to help you. Will you let me discuss your case with you, Ray? Is that all right with you?”

He did not react, but I decided to go ahead anyway. “I've read your file. And to be honest, it's hard to find any obvious leads to help prove your innocence.”

Still no reaction. Worse, Ray no longer appeared to be aware of my presence.

“Ray? I need you to help me. I very much want to represent you as your lawyer, and to mount an appeal, but I do need your cooperation.”

“What?”

Even if it was just a monosyllable, I was happy to have him respond. “An appeal. Asking the court to reopen your case. But for that we need new evidence. Because in an appeal, the burden of proof is reversed.”

His face gave no indication that he understood any of this.
Just keep talking,
I thought. “At your first trial the prosecutor had to prove you were guilty. Now it's the other way around. Now it's up to you to prove you're
not
guilty
.
Only, we're not allowed to use any evidence that's in the existing court record. So we need a new argument, and that's what I want to start looking into. But I can't unless you help me find it.”

“Oh.” His hands started flailing all over the place again, the way I'd sometimes also see Aaron excitedly flapping his hands around. I had to stop myself from grabbing them to make them stop.

“If you really are innocent, I can help you get out of here. Do you understand?”

I couldn't stop myself from glancing at Mo. He was following our conversation intently.

“Yes.”

“What do you say?”

He looked at me and again I saw the resemblance—my mother's eyes, and Aaron's. “I want my fish.”

“I take it that's a yes.”

He nodded.

“I've brought you some more pictures of your fish. I'll give them to you later. But first we have to discuss your case. Can you do that? Can you tell me what happened the day Rosita and Anna were killed?”

I caught a look of panic in his eyes.

“We can start with some other questions, if you like.”

He nodded vehemently. Like a toddler.

“Who were Rosita's friends? Did she ever have visitors?”

“Did she
ever
.” He sounded angry suddenly.

“Who, then?”

“Anna's father.”

“Victor Asscher. It sounds to me as if you don't really like him.”

“Like him? He didn't take care of Rosita properly.” He was furious. His eyes were black with rage and he looked as though he might explode. I could just see him wielding the Börja carving knife. Hadn't Mo and I just agreed he was a softie at heart?

I took my notebook out of my handbag and wrote down the name Victor Asscher. “In what way didn't he take care of Rosita properly?”

“He wouldn't buy carpeting for her. And he wouldn't buy her a couch, either, or clothes.” He was getting more and more incensed.

“You can have a time-out if you feel yourself getting too angry, Ray. Are you okay?” asked Mo behind me.

“Yes,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows and gripped my pen, but then I realized there wasn't much for me to write. I turned to Mo. “Is it all right if I keep going?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Ray, were Victor and Rosita happy? Did they get along?”

He shrugged and repeated stubbornly, “He didn't take care of her properly.”

“What about his car? Is it correct that you slashed his tires?”

“I did.” He seemed proud of it, even.

“Why?”

“So he wouldn't come anymore.”

“Did it help?”

He didn't respond. I felt I'd reached a dead end.

“And who else? Rosita's stepdad, for instance, did he ever visit her?”

“Sometimes. He fixed things around the house for her.”

“What's he like?”

He shrugged again. “Old. And very gray. He wears his hair in a ponytail.”

“Did Rosita ever tell you anything about him? That he was aggressive, maybe? Or that he had money problems?”

“Why?”

“Because Rosita inherited a lot of money from her great-uncle.”

“So he finally died,” said Ray. Strangely enough his voice sounded kind of happy. “Rosita would have liked that.”

“I bet she would have,” I said. “But now her stepfather is the one getting all the money.”

Ray didn't seem to see the connection. In fact, he seemed very confused. I decided to let it slide.

“Did she have any friends?”

“No.”

“Surely everyone has at least a friend or two?”

“Not me.”

It occurred to me that, in fact, I didn't have many friends myself. Clearly, neither Ray nor I had inherited my mother's sociability gene. For us, there were no golf outings with friends, no clubs, no dinner parties or endless phone conversations. I had tried. I'd even joined a sorority as a student. I'd paraded around in the navy vest all my sorority sisters wore. Later, just the thought of it was enough to make me cringe. But at the time it made me look like I belonged. That should have made me feel good, but what I mainly remember is the inherent threat: one wrong step and you were out.

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Well, that makes it easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means I don't have to interview lots of people in order to get a sense of what kind of person Rosita was.”

“Oh.”

“And now what about you and her? Were you good friends?”

Ray's face darkened, and he pursed his lips.

After waiting a few seconds for him to say something, I decided to try again. “Did you ever go over to her house?”

“Yes.”

“So? What did you do when you were over there?”

“Talk.”

“What about?”

He shrugged. “All sorts of things.”

I sighed and looked at my watch. “We're not getting anywhere, Ray. I realize it must be very hard for you to talk about Rosita. But if you want me to help you, you'll just have to open your
mouth and say something once in a while.” I stuck my notebook back into my bag and thought, okay, that's it. He can yell he's innocent all he likes, but if he refuses to give me anything that will let me build a case, we're done. Otherwise what would I tell Lawrence? “He
seems
such a sweet guy”?

“I really didn't do it,” he said suddenly. “Only, I'm not good at talking about those things. About Rosita and A—” His voice broke. “Because it's about feelings. I'm not good at feelings.”

I shut my eyes. He did know how to get to me. “Are you really sure you didn't kill them? Not even by accident?”

He shook his head. “They were already dead. I promise.”

I stared at him and had the sense that he was doing his best to return my gaze. Maybe that's why I believed him. It was just a feeling, based on nothing; yet in that instant I believed he was telling the truth. “Fine,” I said. “Let's leave it there for today. I'll be back the day after tomorrow and then we really must talk about the day Rosita died. All right?”

He said yes and asked to see the photos of the fish.

“Of course,” I said, handing them to the guard. “The fish are in good shape, and Mother bought a new protein skimmer.”

“Where are Hannibal and King Kong?”