--Why is that name familiar?||
--Mom,|| Jacob says, --he's only the most famous forensic scientist ever. He's worked on thousands of cases, like the suicide of Vince Foster and JonBenet Ramsey's murder and the O. J. Simpson trial. There's a phone number here for information.|| He starts rummaging in my purse for my cell phone.
--What are you doing?||
--Calling for tickets.||
I glance at him in the rearview mirror. --Jacob. We cannot go see Dr. Lee. You aren't allowed to leave your house, much less the state.||
--I left the house today.||
--That's different. You went to court.||
--You don't understand. This is Henry Lee. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I'm not asking to go out to a movie. There's got to be something Oliver can do to get a furlough or something for the day.||
--I don't think so, babe.||
--So you're not even going to try? You're just going to assume that the answer's no?||
--That's right,|| I tell him, --since the alternative to having you under house arrest is being thrown back in jail. And I am a hundred percent sure that the warden would not have given you a day pass to see Henry Lee speak, either.||
--I bet he would, if you told him who Henry Lee was.||
--This isn't up for discussion, Jacob,|| I say.
-- You left the house yesterday ...||
--That's completely different.||
--Why? The judge said you had to watch over me at all times.||
--Me, or another adult--||
--See, he already made exceptions for you--||
--Because I wasn't the one who--|| Realizing what I am about to say, I snap my mouth shut.
--Who what?|| Jacob's voice is tight. --Who killed someone?||
I turn in to our driveway. --I didn't say that, Jacob.||
He stares out the window. --You didn't have to.||
Before I can stop him, he jumps out of the car while I'm still pulling to a stop. He runs past Theo, who stands at the front door with his arms crossed. A strange car is parked in the driveway, with a man behind the wheel.
--I tried to get him to leave,|| Theo says, --but he said he would wait for you.|| With that information, he goes back into the house and leaves me face-to-face with a small, balding man with a goatee shaved in the shape of a W. --Ms. Hunt?|| he says. --I'm Farley McDuff, the founder of Neurodiversity Nation. Maybe you've heard of us?||
--I'm afraid I haven't ...||
--It's a blog for people who believe that atypical neurological development is a matter of simple human difference and, as such, should be celebrated instead of cured.||
--Look, this isn't a very good time right now--||
--There's no time like the present, Ms. Hunt, for those in the autism community to stand up for the respect they deserve. Instead of having neurotypicals try to destroy diversity, we believe in a new world where neurological plurality is accepted.||
--Neurotypical,|| I repeat.
--Another word for what's colloquially called normal,'|| he says. --Like you.|| He smiles at me, but he cannot hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat. He thrusts a pamphlet into my hand.
MAJORITISM--An unrecognized condition.
Majoritism is an incapacitating developmental condition which affects 99% of the population in areas of mental function, including self-awareness, attention, emotional capacity, and sensory development. The effects begin at birth and cannot be cured. Luckily, the number of those afflicted by majoritism is decreasing,as a better understanding of autism emerges.
--You've got to be kidding me,|| I say. I step around him, intent on getting inside my house.
--Why is it so delusional to think that a person who feels someone else's grief or pain isn't hampered by that excess of emotion? Or that imitating others in order to fit in to the crowd is more acceptable than doing what interests you at any given moment? Why isn't it considered rude to look a total stranger in the eye when you first meet him, or to invade his personal space by shaking hands? Couldn't it be considered a flaw to veer off topic based on a comment someone else makes instead of sticking to your original subject?
Or to be oblivious when something in your environment changes--like a piece of clothing that gets moved from a drawer to a closet?||
That makes me think of Jacob. --I really have to go--||
--Ms. Hunt, we think that we can help your son.||
I hesitate. --Really?||
--Do you know who Darius McCollum is?||
--No.||
--He's a man from Queens, New York, who has a passion for anything transit-related. He wasn't much older than Jacob the first time he took over the E train headed from the World Trade Center to Herald Square. He's taken city buses out for a spin.
He tripped the emergency brakes on an N train and impersonated a transit worker in uniform in order to fix it himself. He's posed as a railroad safety consultant. He's been convicted more than nineteen times. He also has Asperger's.||
A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. --Why are you telling me this?||
--Do you know of John Odgren? At age sixteen he stabbed a student to death at a suburban high school in Sudbury, Massachusetts. He'd previously had knives and a fake handgun confiscated at school but didn't have a history of violent behavior. He has Asperger's, and a special interest in weapons. But as a result of the stabbing, the link between Asperger's and violence was raised--when in fact medical experts say there's no known link between Asperger's and violence, and in fact kids diagnosed with the disorder are far more likely to be teased as victims than to be perpetrators themselves.|| He takes a step forward. --We can help you. We can rally the autistic community to spread the word.
Imagine all the mothers who'll stand behind you, once they realize their own autistic children might be targeted by neurotypicals once again--not just to be fixed' this time around but possibly to be charged with murder over what might otherwise be a misunderstanding.||
I want to say that Jacob is innocent, but--God help me--I can't make the words come out of my mouth. I don't want my son to be the poster child for anything. I just want my life to go back to the way it used to be. --Mr. McDuff, please get off my property, or I'll call the police.||
--How convenient that they'd already know the quickest route here,|| he says, but he moves back toward his car. He hesitates at the door, a small, sad smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. --It's a neurotypical world, Ms. Hunt. We're just taking up space in it.||
I find Jacob at his computer. --Tickets are thirty-five dollars each,|| he says, without turning to face me.
--Have you ever heard of a group called Neurodiversity Nation?||
--No. Why?||
I shake my head and sit down on his bed. --Never mind.||
--According to MapQuest, it will take three hours and eighteen minutes to get there.||
--To get where?|| I ask.
--UNH? Remember? Dr. Henry Lee?|| He pivots in his chair.
--You can't go, Jacob. Period. I'm very sorry, but I'm sure Dr. Lee will be speaking again sometime in the future.||
Will you be in prison then?
The thought jumps into my head like a cricket onto a picnic blanket, and it is equally unwelcome. I walk toward his desk and stare down at him. --I need to ask you something,|| I say quietly. --I need to ask you, because I haven't, and I need to hear your voice saying the answer. Jess is dead, Jacob. Did you kill her?||
His face collapses around a frown. --I did not. ||
The breath I have not realized I am holding rushes out of me. I throw my arms around Jacob, who stiffens in the sudden embrace. --Thank you,|| I whisper. --Thank you for that.||
Jacob doesn't lie to me. He can't. He tries, but it is so blatantly obvious that all I have to do is give a beat of silence before he caves in and admits the truth.
--You do realize that keeping me locked up in this house for weeks or months could be considered criminal behavi
or. That good parents do not treat their children like caged animals.||
--And you do realize that even if we had Oliver go before the judge to ask for an exception, Dr. Lee's speech would be over before the judge scheduled the hearing?|| I point out. --I'm sure it will be recorded. We can listen to the podcast.||
--That's not the same!|| Jacob yells.
The cords of his neck stand out in relief; he is dangerously close to losing control again. I moderate my voice so that it spreads like a balm. --Take a deep breath. Your Asperger's is showing.||
--I hate you,|| Jacob says. --This has nothing to do with my Asperger's. It's about being made a slave in my own household.|| He shoves me aside, heading for the hallway.
I use every ounce of strength I can to hold him back. I know better, but sometimes, when Jacob is being particularly supercilious, I can't help but argue back. --You walk out that door, and you'll be in jail before morning. And this time, I swear, I won't try to get you out,|| I tell him. --I may be six inches shorter than you and fifty pounds lighter, but I am still your mother, and no means no.||
He struggles against the restraint of my arms for a few seconds, and then all the fight goes out of him. Almost too easily, he sinks onto his bed and puts a pillow over his head.
Without another word, I back out of Jacob's bedroom and close the door behind me.
I lean against the wall for a moment, sagging under the weight of the relief his admission has brought me. I had been telling myself that the reason I hadn't directly asked Jacob earlier if he had murdered Jess was that I was afraid he'd be disappointed in me for even believing it was a possibility. But the real reason I'd waited so long was that I was afraid to hear his answer. How many times, after all, had I asked Jacob a question only to hope for a white lie?
Do I have too many wrinkles?
I just baked these--it's a new recipe. What do you think?
I know you're angry, but you don't really wish your brother had never been born, do you?
Even today on the witness stand, the expert Oliver had found said Aspie kids don't lie.
Then again.
Jacob told me Jess didn't talk to him that Tuesday he was supposed to meet with her, but he didn't tell me she was dead.
Jacob told me that he'd been to Jess's house, but he neglected to mention that he'd found it in a state of disarray.
And he never mentioned taking his rainbow quilt anywhere.
Technically, he had told me the truth. And at the same time, he had lied by omission.
--Mom?|| Theo yells. --I think I set the toaster on fire ...||
I hurry downstairs. By the time I am extricating the charred bagel with two knives, I've convinced myself that everything Jacob hasn't told me has been an oversight, a typical Aspie side effect of having so much information that some of it gets lost or forgotten.
I have convinced myself that this could not have been deliberate.
Jacob
The term stir-crazy comes from the early 1900s. Stir was slang for prison, based on the Gypsy word stariben. Stir-crazy was actually a play on an older expression, stir-bugs, which described a prisoner who became mentally unstable due to being locked up too long.
You can attribute my next actions to the fact that I was stir-crazy, or to the correct stimulus: the fact that Dr. Henry Lee, my idol, was going to be 188.61 miles away from me, and I was not going to be able to meet him. In spite of my mother's assertions that if I went to college I would have to go somewhere local, where I could live at home and benefit from her help and organization, I had long assumed that, one day, I'd apply to the University of New Haven (never mind that as a high school senior I was already over a month past deadline). I would get into the criminalist program he'd founded there, where I would be plucked from undergraduate obscurity by Dr. Lee himself, who would notice my attention to detail and my inability to be distracted by girls or frat parties or loud music emanating from dorm windows and would invite me to help him solve a real current case and consider me his protege.
Now, of course, I had an even more pressing reason to meet him.
Imagine, Dr. Lee, I would begin. You have set up a crime scene to point to someone else's involvement and wind up a suspect yourself. And then together we would analyze what might have been conceived differently, to prevent it from happening the next time.
My mother and I argue about the same things over and over, such as why she refuses to treat me normally. This would be a classic example, where she is taking my desire to see Dr. Lee and twisting it into a pretzel so that it seems like an unreasonable Aspie request, instead of one grounded in reality. There are many instances where I want to do things other kids my age do:
1. Get a license and drive a car.
2. Live on my own at college.
3. Go out with my friends without her having to call their parents first and explain my quirks.
a. It should be noted, of course, that this would apply to a time when I currently had friends.
4. Get a job so that I have money for the above.
a. It should be noted that she did let me get a job, and unfortunately to date the only people who've chosen to hire me were completely unreasonable asses who couldn't see the big picture, like whether being five minutes late on a shift is truly going to cause a global catastrophe.
Instead, I watch Theo sail out the door while she waves good-bye to him. Unlike me, he will be allowed to get his driver's license sooner or later. Imagine how incredibly humiliating it will be for me to be driven around by my younger brother, the same child who used his own poop to paint a mural on the garage door once.
My mother argued that I could not have it both ways. I could not ask to be treated like an ordinary eighteen-year-old and also demand clothing with the tags cut out and refuse to drink orange juice because of its name. Maybe I did feel that I could have it both ways--be disabled sometimes and normal at other times--but then again, why couldn't I? Let's say that Theo sucked at growing vegetables but was really good at bowling. My mother might treat him like a slightly remedial student if she was teaching him to grow rutabagas, but when she hit the lanes with him, she'd ditch the slow voice. Not all humans have one standard, so why should I?
At any rate, whether I have simply been cooped up too long or whether I am suffering acute mental distress from my soon-to-be missed opportunity with Dr. Lee, I do the only thing that seems justifiable at the time.
I call 911 and tell them I am being abused by my mother.
Rich
It's like one of those pictures in celebrity magazines I read at the dentist's office: --What's Different?|| The first shot shows Jess Ogilvy with a big smile on her face and Mark Maguire's arm draped over her shoulder. It's a photograph we took from her nightstand.
The second picture was taken by my CSI team and shows Jess with her eyes closed and ringed with bruises, her skin frozen a solid, pale blue. She is draped with a postage-stamp quilt that looks like a painter's color wheel.
Ironically, she is wearing the same sweatshirt in both photos.
There are obvious differences--the physical trauma being the biggest one. But there's something else about her I cannot put my finger on. Did she lose weight? Not really.
Was it the makeup? Nah, she wasn't wearing any in either shot.
It's the hair.
Not the cut, which would be easy. It's straight in the picture of Jess and her boyfriend. In the crime scene print, though, it's curled and frizzy, a cloud around her battered face.
I pick up the photo and study it at closer range. It seems likely that curls were the default setting for her hair, given that she would have gone to the trouble to style it when out with her boyfriend. Which means that her hair got wet while the body was out in the elements ... something easily assumed, except for the fact that she was protected from rain and snow by the concrete culvert where she was dumped.
So her hair was wet when she was killed.
And there was blood in the bathroom.
&n
bsp; Was Jacob a Peeping Tom, too?
--Captain?||
I look up to find one of the street cops standing in front of me. --Dispatch just got a call from a kid who says he's being abused by a parent.||
--Don't need a detective for that, do you?||
--No, Captain. It's just ... the kid? He's the one you arrested for that murder.||
The photo flutters out of my hand, onto the floor. --You gotta be kidding,|| I mutter, and I stand up and grab my coat. --I'll take care of it.||
Jacob
Immediately, I realize I've made a colossal mistake.
I begin hiding things: my computer, my file cabinet. I shred papers that are sitting on my desk and tuck a stash of journals from forensics associations in the bathtub. I figure all of these things can be used against me, and they've already taken so much of what was mine.
I don't think I can be arrested again, but I am not entirely sure. Double jeopardy only refers to the same crime, and only after an acquittal.
I will say this for the boys in blue--they are speedy. Less than ten minutes after my 911 call, there is a knock at the door. My mother and Theo, who are still downstairs trying to reinstall the fire alarm Theo set off with some abortive kitchen snack, are caught completely unawares.
It's stupid, I know, but I hide underneath my bed.
Rich
--What are you doing here?|| Emma Hunt demands.
--Actually, we received a call through 911.||
--I didn't call 91-- Jacob!|| she yells, and she turns on her heel and flies up the stairs.
I step into the house to find Theo staring at me. --We don't want to donate to the police athletic league,|| he says sarcastically.
--Thanks.|| I point up the staircase. --I'm, uh, just going to ... go ... ?|| Without waiting for him to answer, I head toward Jacob's room.
--Abusing you?|| Emma is shrieking when I reach the doorway. --You've never been abused a day in your life!||
--There's physical abuse and there's mental abuse,|| Jacob argues.
Emma whips her head in my direction. --I have never laid a hand on that boy.
Although right now, I'm incredibly tempted.||