Primal Fear (19 page)

“I know this is a dumb question,” said Naomi, “but why do they always lie on a couch with you sitting behind them?”

“Simply to put the subject at ease. Not being able to see the analyst minimizes distraction. It’s like they’re talking to themselves rather than conversing with someone. Removes the personal barrier.”

“What’s the ultimate objective?” Vail asked.

“Free association. Encourage the subject to concentrate on inner experiences … thoughts, fantasies, feelings … hopefully create an atmosphere in which the patient will say absolutely everything that comes to mind without fear of being censored or judged.”

“How does that help you?” Naomi asked.

“Eventually it brings on a state of regression. They remember things from the deep past—traumatic events, painful encounters—very clearly. The re-experience and the fears and feelings that go with it are all clues to the diagnosis. This first session was pretty much surface stuff, but it was an excellent beginning.”

They all watched and listened in silence until the tape ended. Nobody said anything for a few moments.

“Well, Molly, what do you think so far?” Martin asked.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap and said nothing for perhaps a minute.
What do they want to know? Did he do it and if he did, why? Is he a cold-blooded killer or is his reality an illusion? Is he puppet or puppeteer?

“I’m not sure yet,” she said finally. “As I see it, we’re all faced with the same challenge, how to save Aaron Stampler from the electric chair. The difference is, your approach involves legal strategy and tactics, mine involves scientific logic, which can sometimes take years, if it ever gets solved at all.”

“And we have fifty-one days left,” Goodman said.

“Any conclusions yet?” Vail asked.

She shook her head.

“Nothing at all?” said Vail.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“Look, we’re getting mixed signals on this kid,” said Martin. “He says he got laid when he was sixteen. The teacher says she seduced him two years earlier. He says his brother was killed in an accident, we hear differently.”

“It didn’t sound like a seduction,” said Goodman. “It sounded more like—”

“More like what, Tommy? Bottom line—a woman in her thirties balled a fourteen-year-old kid.”

“I know, I know, but she made it sound, I don’t know, very natural.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure our prosecutor won’t look at it as natural. She’ll paint this woman as a pervert and worse. We can’t even subpoena her. If she
volunteered
to testify, Venable would have her in chains for raping a juvenile before she got off the witness stand. Hell, even if her testimony could help save him, I’d advise her to take the fifth. We couldn’t let her incriminate herself.”

“Excuse me,” Molly said stiffly. “That’s tactics and that’s your problem, not mine. It’s also meaningless at this point. Perhaps he seduced her. Or maybe the event is so painful he doesn’t want to admit it. The brother and his girlfriend? It’s a local myth, why is it so odd that he should choose to perpetuate it? As far as the quotes go”—she shrugged—“they probably appealed to him. My guess is, his IQ will go off the charts. For God’s sakes, he read the Bible when he was a six-year-old. He probably should have been in Harvard med school instead of cleaning up the library.”

The Judge smiled.
Well,
he thought,
it appears we have a live one.
He said, “I take that to mean you want to get back to Daisyland?”

“Tomorrow,” she answered. “I have a lot of work to do.” She turned to Tommy. “I do want to congratulate you, Tom. You learned a great deal in two days.”

“None of which seems to matter.” There was irritation in his voice.

“In time,” she said with a smile, and then added, “I think you should try to find the girl.”

“Stampler’s girl, Linda?”

“Yes.”

“She probably split,” said Goodman. “A lot of kids clean up at Savior House and then go back where they came from.”

“To what?” Molly said. “Whatever ran them off in the first place? Do you think Aaron would have gone back to Crikside?”

“So maybe she didn’t go home,” Vail said. “Maybe she’s still around someplace. Maybe she’s hiding out.”

“Maybe she knows what really happened,” Goodman said.

“Stampler says she left three weeks ago,” said Naomi.

“Maybe he’s covering for her,” Goodman suggested.

“You think
she
killed Rushman?” said Naomi.

“Not necessarily,” said Vail. “Maybe they did it together. Or maybe she was there. Maybe he’s really afraid for her, not himself.”

“You’re reaching, Marty.”

“Did we ever have a case when we weren’t reaching?”

Tom laughed. “Well, now that you mention it…”

“The Doc says find her, Tommy,” said Vail. “Go find her.”

EIGHTEEN

The street was deserted. He could hear the rumble of traffic a few blocks away on the highway. A freezing breeze rattled the dead limbs in the trees that lined Banner Street. Otherwise it was quiet. The kids had even abandoned the brown Chevy near the comer.

When he entered Savior House, he heard the hesitating notes of a saxophone as someone upstairs picked away at “Misty.” He found Maggie in the TV room. She was pleasant, but an hour of interrogation brought him no closer to solving the riddle of Aaron Stampler.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “You got to understand, there’s a lotta trust among us here. Nobody wants to talk about anybody else. It would kind of, I don’t know, break the spell. It’s the one thing that the bishop was real good about, protecting people. That’s why we don’t give away last names or hometowns.”

“I respect their privacy, Maggie. Thanks for your help.”

“But if something comes up that might help, I’ll call you,” she said.

“What are you, the den mother?”

“I was going to be the next mascot of the altar boys,” she said with a melancholy smile.

As he approached the VW, he saw a slip of paper flapping under his windshield wiper. It was a folded paper napkin, with a message written on it in a small, delicate hand: “Alex. B Street. Batman and Robin.”

Goodman looked up and down the street but there was no one in sight. He got in his car, cranked it up and sat for a minute, waiting for the ancient heater to warm up. As he looked back at Savior House he saw the curtains moving in a second-story window.

“Shit,” he said. And headed for B Street.

In years gone by, B Street had been one of the more fashionable shopping districts of the city. Dowagers and debutantes arrived in chauffeur-driven limousines to be fawned over by eager merchants who caressed mink and ermine pelts, wafting the soft fur with their garlic breath, or flattered throats and fingers with dazzling creations described by color, point and carat. The shops had retreated to skyscrapers with breathtaking views, indoor parking lots and uniformed guards at the elevators, leaving behind four blocks of dismal storefronts, most of them boarded up, except for bars where burned-out strippers waddled dispassionately on littered runways and pawnshops whose barred windows flaunted Saturday night specials, retirement wristwatches and guitars.

The strip was convenient to a ramp leading to the main suburban four-lane and had become a popular quick stop for bisexual and homosexual businessmen on their way home from the office, a minute market of young hustlers with something for every taste and desire.

Goodman swung into the line of two-door Caddys and bottom-of-the-line Mercedes cruising the wretched street while their jittery drivers checked the meat market; nail-studded leather boys, college types in blazers and polo shirts, acned preteens, transvestites, all displaying their wares in a strolling carnival that reached its peak between the hours of six and eight. In a kind of perverse reversal of custom, some even had pimps who flashed obscene pictures of their clients and made front-end deals with the trade.

“Batman and Robin.” Pimp and hustler. Robin would have to be Alex. But who was Alex?

The procurers walked down the line of cars, flashing their pictures, making their pitches … “Hey cutie, how ’bout this? Twelve inches all for you.… Catch him while he’s hot, leaving for La La Land next week … Lookit the tongue on my boy, huh? Lookit that red banana …” to which Goodman answered, over and over, “Lookin’ for Batman and Robin…” and finally, after a half hour of degrading interrogation, pay dirt.

He was a hulking cretin; bald and bullet-headed, diamond stud in one ear; thick, black mustache waxed on the ends; heavy rings flashing from thick fingers; a black leather cape over Neanderthal shoulders; and, of course, a mask—one of those thin black papier-mâché Halloween masks.

“Batman?”

“Who else, loverboy?”

“Lookin’ for Robin.”

“Yer new, aincha?”

Goodman sighed. “What do you want, a recommendation?”

“Sensa humor, huh?” He looked over the battered VW. “I ain’t sure this peanut’s big enough fer two.”

“Why don’t we give it a try? Dinner’s waiting.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the slits in the mask. He didn’t like banter.

“It’s fi’ty, sevenee-five you do him. I ain’t sure you can bear the freight.”

Goodman held up a hundred-dollar bill in his right hand, holding it over the shotgun seat, away from the window.

“Wanna bet?”

Batman’s eyes twinkled. Money talked on B Street.

“Follow me. Next alley down. You got a heater in this thing?”

“Who needs a heater?”

Batman laughed and led the way. Goodman turned down a dark, narrow alleyway between two brick buildings, eased around an overflowing dumpster and past garbage cans bulging with trash, empty bottles and cans and refuse that reeked of maggots.

Marty, you son of a bitch, you’re gonna pay for this trip.

Batman waved him deeper into the alley, then held up a hand. Goodman stopped. The big man knocked on a sagging door and
a moment later Robin stepped out, squinting into the harsh glare of the headlights.

“Kill the lights,” said Batman.

Alex was tall and reed-thin. Dirt-matted blond hair curled down from under a dark pea hat and over the shoulders of a scarred, tan suede jacket. His shoulders were hunched against the cold and his hands were buried in the side pockets of the jacket. The beginnings of a young beard pocked his jaw like tufts of grass. Dull eyes appraised the darkness.

“We gonna do it in that?” he asked, nodding toward the VW.

Goodman got out of the car, his hands hanging loose at his sides.

“We’re not gonna do it at all,” he said. “You’re Alex, aren’t you?”

“Motherfucker,” Batman growled. The kid turned and bolted toward the door. Batman lunged toward Goodman, a fist the size of a grapefruit cocked by his ear. Goodman blocked the roundhouse punch with his right forearm and stepped in close, smacking him under the chin with the flat of his left hand. The big man was jarred, reeled back against the brick wall. Alex tried to get around Goodman but the ex-fighter lashed out with a leg and swept the skinny kid’s feet from under him. He sprawled facedown on the alley floor.

Batman grabbed a piece of pipe from a garbage can and swung it back with both hands. Before he could complete his swing, Goodman charged him and hit him under the nose with a vicious left jab, then another and another. The big man’s head snapped with each blow as he reeled backwards, trying to block the punches. Then Goodman feinted with his right, stepped in and sent him sprawling with a vicious left uppercut. Batman flew backward, knocking over a garbage can, and fell flat on his back among the debris. Blood spurted from his shattered nose. Whimpering, he rolled over on his side, holding his face with both hands to stem the blood.

“M’ nose,” he cried. “Yuh broke m’ nose.”

“You stand up again and I’ll break both your goddamn kneecaps,” Goodman growled.

He heard a crash behind him and saw Alex duck into the building. Goodman followed, darting through the door and crouching just inside. It was dark as a dungeon except here and there where light filtered through broken windows and fissures in the walls. The first floor was a mélange of disrepair. Goodman
was suddenly back in Vietnam, hunched in a dark jungle of broken-out walls, fallen joists and collapsed ceilings. He reverted back to his old training, squatting still as a statue, his ears keen for the slightest sound, his eyes scrutinizing the grim interior for signs of movement. He waited patiently. Two or three minutes passed and he heard a board creak to his left. His muscles tensed. Then he saw vague movement in a streak of light. Alex was moving stealthily through the ruined interior. He followed quietly, keeping to the shadows and closing the distance between him and his quarry. The boy suddenly saw him and bolted. Goodman charged behind him, snatched up a shattered two-by-four and skimmed it backhand toward the dodging figure. The board hit Alex behind the knees and he staggered and plunged forward through a plaster-and-plywood wall section and fell facedown in a billowing nimbus of dust. Goodman leaped through the hole, grabbed Alex by the collar, dragged him to his feet and slammed him against the brick exterior wall. The kid’s breath shushed out of him like wind rushing out of a punctured balloon. The kid stared wide-eyed at him, his eyes darting around the dismal space. Goodman grabbed the one remaining earring.

“Chill out, you little bastard, or I’ll rip your other ear off,” he snarled. He reached into his pocket, took out the earring he had torn from the boy’s ear at Aaron’s stander and held it in his palm in a sliver of light.

“No!” the kid squealed.

“We’re going to have a talk,” Goodman said. “Or we’re going to dance.
Capish,
Boy Wonder?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy whined.

Goodman jabbed a forefinger in his chest. “What were you after in Aaron’s stander?” he demanded.

“Uh, uh … I thought, y’know … maybe he had a … a radio or sumpin’ hid out…”

Goodman tugged on the earring and the boy’s face squinched up in pain.

“How’d you know I was there?”

“I live there. The first stander on the right. I heard you talking to the old crock when you come in. I figured maybe you knew sumpin’ so I followed you down there.”

“What? What did you figure I knew?”

“You know … maybe Aaron told you he had sumpin’ stashed.”

“Bullshit.” He pulled harder on the earring.

“Owww … hey, I…”

“Try again?”

“You don’t know jack shit, man,” Robin whined. “You ain’t even a cop.”

“I’ll tell you what I do know. I know your name’s Alex and I know I got one of your earrings and I’m about to take the other one.”

He pulled on the earring and Robin’s earlobe stretched a half inch. The kid screamed.

“Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” he begged.

“Then get level with me.”

“He had some books …”

Goodman pulled harder.

“Ow! God, please, man …”

“One more lie and I take off the ear.”

“It was a television tape!” he cried.

“Of what?”

“You don’t know?”

“Just answer my question, what was on the tape?”

“It was a show!”

“What kind of show?”

“Altar boy shit.”

“What do you mean, altar boy shit?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Goodman leaned very close to him, pulled hard on the earring and held it. The boy writhed with pain. “You got one more answer, Alex.”

“Porn,” he yelled.

Goodman snapped back with surprise. He eased off the ear slightly. “Porn?” he said.

“Yeah. A fuck tape.”

Goodman let go of the earring and leaned back, staring at Alex.

The boy was breathing heavily. “An altar boy special.”

Goodman could hardly suppress his shock. “Keep talking,” he said.

“We’d go to this place on Prairie, it was this old building the church owned and he had it set up with the bed and all and we’d do it and he’d direct. Like Hollywood, y’know? Do this, do that. He’d say who’d go first. Sometimes we’d all do it, sometimes
just one. Then whenever he got steamed up, he’d turn off the machine and go at it himself.”

“Who’s he?” Goodman asked.

The boy’s smile was twisted. “Who else?” he said. “The bishop.”

“Bishop
Rushman
?”

“Yeah. The Saint himself. Called it gettin’ rid of the devil. Ain’t that a crock?”

Goodman was incredulous. “And you were one of the altar boys?”

“Yeah. Me, Aaron, Billy and Peter.”

“Just four of you?”

“You don’t think we were the first ones, do you? You can bet there were others before us—but ain’t nobody gonna admit it. You think anybody’s gonna admit that? Shit, who’d believe us anyway?”

“Why would Aaron want the tape?”

“Because his girl was on it, man.”

“Linda?”

“Sure. She was the bird.”

“Let me get this straight.” Goodman’s head was spinning. “There were four of you, the bishop, and one girl?”

“That’s the way it went.”

“And you were all at the bishop’s the night he was killed?”

Fear crept into Alex’s eyes. “We didn’t have no meeting that night, man. We broke up like a month ago.”

“It’s in the bishop’s date book.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that. Maybe he was gettin’ together a new group. Look, first Aaron and Linda took a hike. Then I quit, okay? Then Peter and Billy Jordan split town about two weeks ago. Right after that, Linda bagged Aaron and took off. Maybe it was a new bunch, y’know. Shit, maybe Aaron was recruitin’ for the old bastard.”

And Maggie was going to be the next “mascot.” My God!

“So you didn’t know for sure whether Aaron had the tape?”

“All I know, the last time I seen Aaron, which was a week or so ago, he said he was goin’ up to the bishop’s pad and snatch the tape because he was worried about Linda bein’ on it.”

“There was only one tape?”

“Yeah. We’d do it and then the next meeting, he’d show the tape and we’d all get off on it.” He sneered. “The bishop was big on gettin’ rid of the devil. Then he’d erase the tape.”

“So you never had a meeting after that last time? Never actually saw that tape?”

“That’s right. Aaron moved in with Linda right after that and I figured fuck it, long ’s I was into that shit I might as well get paid for it.”

“You’re going to have to testify to all this at Aaron’s trial, you know.”

. “Bull
shit
, man. You think I’m gonna tell anybody that? I’ll say I don’t know shit. Nobody’s gonna admit that. You think Linda or Billy or Peter’s gonna own up? Think a-fuckin’-gain.”

“It could save Aaron’s life.”

“I don’t owe Aaron shit. Smart little asshole, always thought he was better’n the rest of us.”

“We’ll find somebody who will and you’ll get pegged anyway.”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do, put a fuckin’ ad in the paper? You got no last names, no hometowns. You can’t prove shit without the tape, and anyways, the bishop ain’t in the show. It was Billy Jordan, Peter and Linda that last time, and they’re long gone.”