The Wrong Man (28 page)

“I thought that was what you went to Boston to do,” Sally said coldly, looking at her ex-husband with arched eyebrows. “Along with five thousand reasons in cash.”

“Yes,” Scott replied equally coolly, “I guess our bribe offer didn’t work. So, what’s the next step?”

They were all quiet for a moment, until Hope blurted, “Ashley’s in a bad situation. She clearly needs assistance, but how? And what? What is it we can do?”

“There must be laws,” Scott said.

“There are, but how do we apply them?” Hope continued. “And, so far, what law do we think this guy has broken? He hasn’t assaulted her. Hasn’t hit her. Hasn’t threatened her. He’s told her he loves her. And he’s followed her. And then what he’s done is screwed up her life with the computer. Mischief, mostly.”

“There are laws against that,” Sally said, then stopped.

“Computer mischief,” he said. “That hardly describes it.”

“Anonymous,” Sally said.

All three were thinking hard about what to say next. Then Scott leaned back and said, “I had a really sticky problem of my own the last week or so, generated anonymously by computer. I think it’s solved, but…”

Nobody spoke for a second, before Hope added, “So have I.”

Sally looked up, surprised at what she’d heard.

But before she could say anything, Hope pointed directly at her. “And so has she.”

Hope stood up. “I think everyone is going to need a drink.” She headed off in search of another bottle of wine. “Maybe more than one drink,” she threw back over her shoulder to where Scott and Sally were staring at each other in doubt.

The Massachusetts State Police detective seated across from me seemed at first like an oddly pleasant fellow, with little of the hard-bitten, world-weary appearance of a character in a police novel. He was of modest height and build, wore a blue blazer and inexpensive khaki pants, and had close-cropped sandy-colored hair with a disarming bushy mustache on his upper lip. If it weren’t for the ice-black, nine-millimeter Glock pistol riding under his arm in a shoulder holster, he would have seemed more like an insurance salesman, or a high school teacher.

He rocked back in his chair, ignored a ringing telephone, and said, “So, you want to know a little bit about stalking, right?”

“Yes. Research,” I replied.

“For a book? Or an article? Not because of some personal interest in the subject?”

“I’m not sure that I follow.”

The detective grinned. “Well, it’s a little like the guy who calls up the doctor and says, ‘I’ve got this buddy at work who wants to know what the symptoms of, ah, a sexually transmitted disease like, ah, syphilis or gonorrhea are. And how he, ah, that’s my friend, not me, might have gotten it, ’cause he’s in a lot of pain.’ ”

I shook my head. “You think that I’m being stalked and want…”

He smiled, but it was a calculating grin. “Maybe you want to stalk someone and you’re looking for tips on how to avoid arrest. That would be the crazy sort of thing a real intense stalker might try to pull off. It’s always an error to underestimate them. And what they will do when it comes time for them to do it. A really dedicated stalker makes a science of his obsession. A science and an art.”

“How so?”

“He not only studies his victim, but their world, as well. Family. Friends. Job. School. Where they like to eat dinner. Where they go to the movies or have their car serviced or buy their lottery tickets. Where they walk the dog. He uses all sorts of resources, both legal and illegal, to accumulate information. He is constantly measuring, assessing, anticipating. He devotes his every waking thought to his target—so much so that often he can think steps ahead, almost as if he is reading the victim’s mind. He comes to know them almost better than they know themselves.”

“What is all this driven by?”

“Psychologists are unsure. Obsessive behavior is always something of a mystery. A past that has, shall we say, rough edges?”

“Probably more than that.”

“Yes, probably. My guess is, scratch the surface a bit, you’ll find some pretty nasty stuff in their childhood. Abuse. Violence. You name it.”

He shook his head. “Dangerous folks, stalkers. They aren’t your ordinary type of low-rent criminal by any means. Whether you’re a trailer-park checkout girl in the local supermarket being stalked by your biker ex-boyfriend, or a Hollywood star with all the money in the world being stalked by an obsessed fan, you’re in a whole lot of danger, because, no matter what you do, if they want it enough, they
will
get to you. And law enforcement, even with temporary restraining orders and cyber-stalking laws, is designed to react to, not head off, an eventual crime. Stalkers know this. And the frightening thing is, they often don’t care. Not a bit. They are immune to the usual sanctions. Embarrassment. Financial ruin. Prison. Death. These things don’t necessarily frighten them. What they fear is losing sight of their target. It overcomes everything, and that single-minded pursuit becomes their entire rationale for living.”

“What can a victim do?”

He reached into his desk and brought out a pamphlet titled “Are You Being Stalked? Advice from the Massachusetts State Police.”

“We give you some material to read.”

“That’s it?”

“Until a felony is committed. And then, it’s usually too late.”

“What about advocacy groups and…”

“Well, they can help some people. There are safe spaces, secret housing, support groups, you name it. All can provide some assistance in some cases. And I would never tell someone not to contact those types—but you have to be cautious, because you might be bringing something to a confrontation that you really don’t want. But it’s usually too late, anyways. You want to know what’s really crazy?”

I nodded.

“Our state legislature has been in the forefront of passing laws to protect folks, but the dedicated stalker finds his way around them. And, what’s even worse, once you engage the authorities—like when you go file the complaint and have the case registered and obtain the court order requiring the stalker to stay away—that can just as easily trigger disaster. Force the bad guy’s hand. Make him act precipitously. Load up all his weaponry and announce, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ ”

“And…”

“Use your imagination, Mr. Writer. You know what happens when some guy shows up at a workplace or a home or wherever, dressed up like Rambo in cammy fatigues, with an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, at least two pistols, and enough ammunition strapped to his chest to hold off a SWAT team for hours. You’ve seen those stories.”

I was quiet. I had indeed. The detective grinned again.

“Here’s something you should keep in mind: as best as we can tell, both in law enforcement and forensic psychology, the closest profile we can arrive at for a truly dedicated stalker is more or less exactly the same as a serial killer.”

He leaned back. “That kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?”

20

Actions, Right and Wrong

D
oes anyone have any real idea what we’re dealing with here?”

Sally’s question hung in the air.

“I mean, other than what Ashley has told us, which admittedly isn’t a hell of a lot, what do we know about this fellow who’s screwing up her life?”

Sally turned toward her ex-husband. She was still nursing her way through the glass of Scotch and should have been drunk, but was far too much on edge to have lost her sobriety.

“Scott, you’re the only one of us, outside of Ashley, of course, who has even seen this guy. I imagine that you drew some conclusions during your meeting in Boston. Got some sort of feeling for the man. Maybe that’s where we can start.”

Scott hesitated. He was far more accustomed to leading the conversation in a seminar room, and suddenly being asked his opinions took him a little aback. “He didn’t seem like anyone any of us might be familiar with,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?” Sally asked.

“Well, he was well built, good-looking, and obviously smart enough, but he was also rough, sort of what you’d expect from a guy who maybe drives a motorcycle, works a blue-collar job punching a time clock somewhere, takes night classes at a community college after high school. My impression was that he came from a pretty deprived background—not the sort of guy that you ordinarily find at my college, or at Hope’s school, either, for that matter. And not anywhere like the sort of guy that Ashley usually drags in, professes undying love for, and breaks up with four weeks later. Those guys always seem to be artistic types. Thin-chested, long-haired, and nervous. O’Connell seemed tough and street-smart. Maybe you’ve run into a few like him in your practice, but my thinking is that you’re a bit more high end.”

“And this guy…”

“Low end. But that may not be a disadvantage.”

Sally paused. “What the hell was Ashley doing with him in the first place?”

“Making a mistake,” Hope said. She had been seated quietly, her hand on Nameless’s back, seething inwardly. At first she felt unsure whether she deserved a place in the conversation, then decided that she sure as hell did. She did not understand why Sally seemed so detached. It was as if she were outside of what was happening—including their own finances being screwed up in a major fashion.

“Everyone makes bad choices every so often. Things we later regret. The difference is, we move on. This guy isn’t letting Ashley move on.” Hope looked over at Scott, then back at Sally. “Maybe Scott was your mistake. Maybe I am. Or maybe there was someone else that neither of us knows about and who you’ve kept secret for years. But regardless, you’ve moved forward. This guy is in a whole different world.”

“Okay,” Sally said cautiously, after an uncomfortable silence, “how do we proceed?”

“Well, for starters, let’s get Ashley the hell out of there,” Scott said.

“But Boston is where her studies are. That’s where her life is. What, you think we should bring her back here, like she’s some homesick camper at her first sleepaway camp?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” Hope interjected.

“Do we have that right?” Sally asked, speaking rapidly. “She’s a grown-up. She’s not a little girl anymore.”

“I
know
that,” Scott replied testily. “But if we are reasonable—”

“Is any of this reasonable?” Hope asked abruptly. “I mean, why is it fair for Ashley to run back to her home at the first sign of trouble? She has the right to live where she wants to, and she has the right to her own life. And this guy, O’Connell, doesn’t have the right to force her to flee.”

“True. But we’re not talking about rights. We’re talking about realities.”

“Well,” Sally said, “the
reality
is that we will have to do what Ashley wants, and we don’t know what that is.”

“She’s my daughter. I think that if I ask her to do something, she damn well will do it,” Scott replied stiffly, an edge of anger in his voice.

“You’re her father. You don’t own her,” Sally said.

There was an unhappy silence in the room.

“We should determine what Ashley wants.”

“That seems like a pretty wishy-washy, politically correct, and generally wimpy thing to do,” Scott said. “I think we need to be more aggressive. At least until we really understand what we are up against.”

Again they were quiet.

“I’m with Scott,” Hope said abruptly. Sally spun in her direction, a look of surprise on her face.

“I think we should be, what? Proactive,” Hope continued. “At least in a modest fashion.”

“So, what are you two suggesting?”

“I think,” Scott said slowly, “we should find out a bit about Michael O’Connell, at the same time that we get Ashley away from his immediate reach. So, we do what we’re all capable of. Maybe one of us should start looking at him.”

Sally held up her hand. “We should engage a professional. I know a private investigator or two who do this sort of inquiry routinely. Moderately priced, as well.”

“Okay,” Scott said, “you hire someone and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime, we need to get Ashley physically away from O’Connell.”

“Bring her home? That seems juvenile and cowardly,” Sally said.