Piercing the Darkness (46 page)

“Just give us a minute,” said Ben. “Please.”

Marshall showed him the picture again. “Take a good look. We’ve checked around with several witnesses who have positively identified her; we have fingerprints, a rap sheet, the whole thing. Is this Sally Roe?”

He looked at the picture for a moment. “Yeah, sure it is. I remember
her. Death by strangulation. She hung herself.”

“Just checking,” said Marshall.

Parnell turned away from the door. “Now if that’s all . . .”

“Mr. Parnell,” said Marshall, “that was a picture of my sister.”

Parnell’s face went blank and suddenly pale. His hands were starting to shake.

Marshall continued, “I figured since you live here in Westhaven you probably wouldn’t know what the real Sally Roe looked like, and now it’s obvious you’ve never seen her dead either.”

Parnell was speechless. He kept looking down, then at the door, then inside the house, then at Marshall and Ben. The poor guy was acting like a cornered animal.

Ben asked, “Can you tell us who the dead woman really was?”

“I can’t tell you anything!” he finally blurted. “Just go away—get out of here!”

He slammed the door.

Marshall and Ben walked back toward their car.

“Did you see that?” asked Marshall.

“That guy is
scared
!” said Ben.

KATE’S AFTERNOON HAD
been, in a way, informative; at least she was being informed in a most frustrating way how difficult it was to ever see a bona fide copy of the
Finding the Real Me
curriculum for fourth-graders.

She stopped by the office at the elementary school to meet with Mr. Woodard, the principal, and look at the curriculum. Mr. Woodard wasn’t there. She found him down the hall, whereupon he had a sudden recollection of their appointment.

Then the curriculum was nowhere to be found, and he couldn’t understand whatever happened to it. He told her to talk to Miss Brewer. Miss Brewer was with her class and could not be disturbed, but would call her. Miss Brewer never called.

Then Kate called Jerry Mason, a member of the school board and most likely a member of LifeCircle.

“Well, I think the teacher should have a copy,” he said.

Kate was getting tired of that line. “No, she doesn’t. I’ve already
checked with her and she referred me to Mr. Woodard, who then referred me back to Miss Brewer.”

“Well, I don’t have a copy.”

“I was just wondering if you might, since you did approve the curriculum for the elementary grades.”

“But do you have a child taking that curriculum?”

“No, I’m just trying to see a copy of it.”

“Well, there aren’t that many around, and I don’t think anyone who wants to can just drop in anytime and see it. We prefer to work with only the parents. You probably should make an appointment.”

Kate ran around the mulberry bush a few more times with Jerry Mason, and then called Betty Hanover, another school board member.

“Say, listen,” Betty said, “we’ve been through all this before with the . . . the religious fringe. The community has decided they like the curriculum, and we’d just as soon have some peace now, all right?”

John Kendall was no better. “Did you ask Miss Brewer? It’s the teachers who are supposed to be in charge of it. They ought to be able to help you out.”

Kate put down the phone and checked off another name. Then she let out a mock scream.

If for no other reason, that curriculum had to be worth seeing simply because so many people were going to such great lengths to keep it hidden.

ANOTHER LETTER! IT
was just like the other ones—same envelope, same handwriting, same thick letter inside on lined notebook paper! Lucy grabbed it out of the pile of incoming mail and slipped it quickly into her pocket. Where were all these letters coming from? If this was a joke, it was certainly a long-lived joke, and not at all funny.

If it wasn’t a joke, and these letters really were from Sally Roe . . .

She didn’t want to think about that; it was easier not to consider it at all, and go on trusting all the people she now trusted.

Debbie was nearby, sorting through the mail in another mailbag. She’d stopped working, and seemed to be looking carefully at a mailing label on a magazine, but . . . To Lucy, it seemed like Debbie was watching her, but trying not to look like it.

“Something wrong?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, no . . . nothing,” Debbie answered, turning away and shoving the magazine into one of the mailboxes.

They went on sorting the mail, and nothing more was said.

But Debbie had seen the whole thing.

CHAPTER 25

WAYNE CORRIGAN HAD
read Dr. Mandanhi’s detailed report on Amber Brandon’s condition. Most of it was so technical it would take another expert to refute it, if it was refutable. One thing was clear to even a lay reader of the document: Mandanhi held the Good Shepherd Academy responsible for Amber’s troubles, and had a low opinion of Christianity. This deposition would not be easy.

Mandanhi was a gentle man, however, and not unpleasant to deal with. He was in his forties, of East Indian descent, well-dressed, well-mannered, professional. Attorneys Ames and Jefferson sat on either side of him, as they did Irene Bledsoe, but didn’t seem quite as edgy for his sake as for Bledsoe’s. Apparently they were sure Mandanhi could take care of himself.

Corrigan started with some basics. “So could you review for the record Amber’s basic symptoms of trauma?”

Mandanhi brought a few notes, but didn’t seem to need them. “Amber’s behavior is typical of any child her age who has undergone extensive emotional trauma: bed-wetting, moodiness, occasional nausea, and frequent escapes into fantasy . . . a loss of reality, paranoia, the fear of unseen enemies—spooks, bogeymen, that sort of thing.”

“And you attribute all this to the environment at the Christian school?”

He smiled. “Not entirely. There could well be other factors, but
the pervasive religious overtones of the school’s curriculum would be, in my opinion, sufficient to exacerbate Amber’s preexistent emotional turmoils. The Christian doctrines of sin and of a God of wrath and judgment, as well as Christianity’s imposition of guilt and accountability, would immediately assimilate into the child’s preestablished identity structure, producing a whole new set of reasons for her to be insecure and fearful of her world.”

“Have you discussed any of this with the pastor of the Good Shepherd Church, or with the headmaster of the school?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“So do you know for a fact that the school was imposing any kind of guilt or fear upon the child?”

“I have examined the child, and I know she went to the school. A clear connection is not hard to draw.”

Corrigan made a few marks in the margin of his copy of Mandanhi’s report. “Now . . . about this Amethyst, this little pony that Amber becomes . . . What was that term you used?”

“Dissociative disorder, or hysterical neurosis, dissociative type.”

“Uh . . . right. Could you explain just what that is?”

“Basically, it is a disturbance or alteration in the normally integrative functions of identity, memory, or consciousness.”

“I’m going to need that in simpler terms, doctor.”

He smiled, thought for a moment, and then tried again. “What Amber is displaying is what we call Multiple Personality Disorder; it’s a condition in which two or more distinct personalities exist within one person. This disorder is almost always brought on by some form of abuse, usually sexual, or severe emotional trauma. The onset is almost invariably during childhood, but often is not discovered until later in life. Statistically, it occurs from three to nine times more often in females than males.”

“I wanted to ask you about some of these complications you listed.”

Mandanhi consulted his own copy of his report. “Yes. Complications, difficulties that can arise when this disorder manifests itself.”

Corrigan scanned the list. “External violence?”

“Yes. A total break with social norms of behavior, social inhibitions. Blind rage, injury to others . . .”

“How about screaming, kicking, resisting authority?”

“Oh yes.”

“Suicide attempts?”

“Very common.”

“How about Amber?”

Mandanhi thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Her case seems rather mild in that area.”

Corrigan found another new word. “What is coprolalia?”

“Violent, obscene language, usually involuntary.”

Corrigan stopped on that one. “Involuntary?”

“The victim has no control over what he or she says; the utterance is spontaneous and can include animal noises, growls, barking, hissing, and so forth.”

“Uh . . . how about blasphemy?” Corrigan felt a need to explain that. “Uh . . . railings, obscenities, slanderous statements against a Deity?”

“Yes. Quite frequent.”

“And then there are . . . altered states of consciousness?”

“Yes, trance states.”

“And according to your experience, this sort of thing is usually—or almost always—brought on by severe emotional trauma or sexual abuse?”

“That is correct.”

“And this is your assumption regarding the Good Shepherd Academy?”

“It is.”

“But you haven’t talked to the school personnel about this?”

“No.”

“I see.” Corrigan jotted some notes and read a few more notes. “The press seems to have some firm opinions about what went on at the school, and they’ve said some pretty rough things about Tom Harris. Have they gotten any of their information from you, doctor?”

“I have not spoken to them personally, no.”

Corrigan raised an eyebrow. “But it’s reasonable to think that your opinions, in some form or another, have gotten into the hands of the press?”

He didn’t seem too happy to have to answer. “I believe so.”

“How about the Child Protection Department?”

Mandanhi looked at the lawyers. They didn’t seem too distressed. “The CPD received a complete copy of my report, and I have consulted with them on a regular basis.”

To Corrigan that was not a complete surprise, but he could still feel a tinge of anger. “So . . . they must think the Academy’s quite a dangerous place for children.”

“You would have to ask them.”

Corrigan’s voice rose just a little. “What did you tell them?”

Mandanhi balked at the question. “What did I tell them?”

“You’ve regularly consulted with them. Have you led them to believe the school is a dangerous place for children?”

“I can’t tell you what they believe.”

Corrigan let the question go. “Then I suppose by the same token you can’t explain why there hasn’t been an all-out investigation of the school and its personnel, and of every parent who has their child enrolled there?”

Mandanhi only shrugged. “That is not my responsibility to know. I don’t make the decisions.”

“Would the CPD representative you’ve regularly consulted with happen to be Irene Bledsoe?”

“Yes.”

Corrigan said nothing in response to that; he just wrote it down. “Have you ever heard of a Miss Nancy Brewer, fourth grade teacher at the Bacon’s Corner Elementary School?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever heard of the
Finding the Real Me
curriculum that Miss Brewer teaches to her fourth-grade class?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you are not aware, doctor, that Miss Brewer regularly teaches the children to relax, achieve susceptible states of consciousness, and contact inner guides?”

The question grabbed Mandanhi’s interest, but he still had to reply, “No.”

“Were you aware that, prior to Amber’s enrollment at the Christian school, she was a student in Miss Brewer’s class and went through that curriculum?”

That grabbed Mandanhi’s interest even more. His expression became
a little grim. “I was not aware of that.”

“Are you familiar with a local organization called LifeCircle?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that they regularly practice consciousness-altering techniques such as yoga, meditation, and . . .” Corrigan paused and then hit the term with emphasis. “. . . trance channeling?”