D.D. didn’t say anything, just continued to regard me stony faced.
“You don’t trust shrinks,” I continued briskly. “You’re not even sure you like me. And yet, of all the interventions you could’ve done for your pain today, the only one you managed was to show up at my door. Surely that must mean something to you.”
She offered a small nod of acknowledgment.
“All right, let’s build on that. Have you done your physical therapy exercises today?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m assuming at this stage of the healing process, you’re limited to pendulums?”
“You know a lot about injuries and physical therapy.”
“Yes, I do. Now I’d like to see yours. Fifteen pendulum swings. Please begin.”
D.D.’s face paled. Her chin trembled; then she seemed to catch the motion, setting her jaw. “No . . . thank you.”
“Yes, please.”
“Look, my pain is already at a twelve. You make me do PT, and that’s it. I won’t be able to drive home, not to mention I’ll probably puke all over your rug.”
“I understand. Physical therapy is extremely painful for you. You start it in distress and end it in agony.”
“Says the woman who can’t even feel pain.”
“True. I could break my arm and still do pendulums. In fact, I could break my arm and do back handsprings. I’d be destroying the rest of my bones, joints and muscles in my body, but I’d look really good doing them.”
The detective fell silent.
“Pain is good,” I stated quietly. “It’s your body’s primary technique for protecting you from harm. You can’t see that right now. You’re angry with your pain. You yell at it or try to ignore it altogether. In return, your pain growls louder because it needs your attention. It’s doing what it’s supposed to do to help you avoid further damage. Perhaps rather than curse at Melvin for speaking up, you could thank him for his efforts on your behalf. Tell him you understand what he’s trying to do, but, for the next ten, fifteen or twenty minutes, you need him to understand that you must move your arm and shoulder. Even if it inflames your injury in the short term, your exercises are necessary for long-term recovery. Talk to him. Don’t just curse.”
“Now, see, this is where it starts to sound like bullshit again.”
“Consider this: Ten years ago there was a study of major athletes and their pain thresholds. These were individuals who consistently performed at nearly inhuman levels of physical ability and had the training regimens that went with it. Now, the primary assumption of this study was that such athletes most likely had higher thresholds of pain than mere mortals—hence their ability to push their bodies to such extremes. Much to the surprise of the researchers, however, the opposite turned out to be true. In fact, most of the athletes reported significantly higher awareness of their pain, while showing more active central nervous systems than the control group. According to the athletes themselves, they felt their acute body-pain awareness actually helped them function at the levels they did. Success wasn’t being unaware of physical limitations or injuries but acknowledging the constraints, then working with their own body to push through. Not mind over matter, per se, but a mind-body connection that enabled them to register, adjust and improve upon their functioning at all times. Does that make sense?”
D.D., frowning: “I guess.”
“That’s what I’m advocating here: Don’t ignore your pain. Register, accept, then work with your own body to push through. Naming your pain . . . It’s simply a device to help you identify and focus. If calling your pain Melvin makes you feel stupid, don’t do it. Refer to it as Pain or don’t call it anything at all. But acknowledge your pain threshold. Consider how your injury feels. Then work with your body to do what you need to do. Which, I believe, is fifteen pendulum swings.” I gestured to the open space in front of my desk. “Please. Be my guest.”
D.D. thinned her lips again. For a moment, I thought she might refuse. She hadn’t been exaggerating before. I’d seen patients end PT sessions vomiting from the intensity. It wasn’t just a matter of forcing a broken arm to try to move, but given the accompanying inflammation of the nerves surrounding it . . . An avulsion fracture was one of the most painful kinds of injuries there was. Or so I’d been told.
Now Detective Warren slowly moved to the edge of her chair. She bent at the waist and allowed her left arm to hang straight down, like an elephant’s trunk, the physical therapists would say. Even that simple motion elicited an immediate hiss of pain. She breathed in, out, sweat already beading her upper lip.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Is this how you get your jollies?” she retorted harshly. “Can’t feel any pain, so you feed off of others’?”
“Detective, on a scale of one to ten, please rate your pain.”
“Fourteen!”
“Curse.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Thus far, your primary coping strategy has been to lash out. So do it. Yell at me. Call me a bitch or a pervert or a sycophant. Here I sit, having never felt even the sting of a paper cut. And there you are, drowning in waves of physical distress. Rage, D.D. Rant to your heart’s content. There is nothing you can say that I haven’t heard before.”
She did. She swore and fumed and shouted and roared. I let her go for several minutes, building to a full crescendo as she slowly but surely started swinging her left arm in small circular motions, like a dangling pendulum. More sweat beaded her brow. Between curses, she panted heavily as her fractured bone shrieked its own protest.
“Stop,” I said.
“What?” She didn’t even look up at me. Her gaze was locked on a spot on the rug, her eyes nearly glazed over from the stress of her exertions.
“On a scale of one to ten, rate your pain.”
“What do you mean? You just had me do a dozen pendulum swings. I’m at a fucking fifteen. Or eighteen. Or twenty! What the hell do you want from me?”
“So has cursing worked for you?”
“What the hell?” She glanced up, ashen faced, bewildered.
I continued steadily: “For the past two minutes you have externalized your pain and vented your rage. Do you feel better? Has that coping strategy worked for you?”
“Of course not! I’ve been doing PT and we both know PT equals agony. Of course it didn’t—”
“Stop.”
Her mouth open, closed. She glared at me.
“I would like you to swing your shoulder in the opposite direction now. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Please reverse direction, and this time, instead of yelling, I want you to breathe with me. We are going to inhale for the count of seven, hold it in our lungs for a count of three, then exhale. Please begin. . . .”
She cursed, I held up a hand.
“Detective Warren, you came to me, remember? And we have forty minutes of our appointment left.”
She continued to regard me mutinously, sweat trickling down from her hairline. Then, slowly but surely, she inhaled upon my command.
“Now,” I said briskly, “I want to you to repeat after me: Thank you, Melvin.”
“Fucking Melvin!”
“Thank you, Melvin,” I continued. “I know this hurts. I know you’re doing your job by telling me how much this hurts. I hear you, Melvin, and I appreciate you trying to help me protect my shoulder.”
D.D. muttered under her breath, including a few terms that were clearly not words of praise. Then she gritted out:
“So, Melvin. Um, thanks for letting me know how much this sucks. But, uh, the doctors have said I must do this exercise. It will help me retain mobility. So, um, even though we both agree this feels like absolute shit, please help me out. We’re in this together, right? And I gotta get through this, Melvin. I need my arm back. You need my arm back. Right?”
I had D.D. count to thirty. Then I had her change direction with her rotations for a second time and count to thirty again. We performed the exercise several cycles through. I spoke evenly, providing instructions for breathing, suggestions for words of praise. She followed more raggedly, until finally:
“Thank you, Melvin,” I intoned for her. “Thank you for your help, thank you for your care of my body. Now we’re done, and we can both rest. Job well done.”
I stopped talking. After a second, D.D. straightened at the waist, once more sitting up. She appeared uncertain.
“No more pendulums?”
“No more pendulums. Now, on a scale of one to ten, please rate your pain.”
She stared at me. Blinked several times. “It hurts.”
I remained silent.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s magically gone away. My shoulder throbs, my entire left arm aches. I don’t even think I can close the fingers on my left hand, everything’s so swollen and inflamed.”
I remained silent.
“Eight,” she said finally. “I’d rate it an eight.”
“Is that normally how you feel after your exercises?”
“No. I should be curled up on the floor right now. In the fetal position.” She frowned, touched her forehead with her right fingers. “I don’t get it,” she said flatly.
I shrugged. “You’ve been externalizing your pain. You turn it into rage, which I imagine is a far more comfortable emotion for you. Then you lash out. At which point, your heart rate accelerates, your breathing shortens, and your blood pressure spikes, ironically enough, increasing your physical distress. In contrast, I’m trying to get you to look inward. Focus on steady breathing, slowing your heart rate and lowering your blood pressure, which in turn, eases your nervous system and increases your threshold for pain. Hence, the deep-breathing techniques used for centuries by laboring mothers and yoga devotees.”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “I did natural childbirth,” she muttered. “I remember the breathing exercises. But labor is a matter of hours. This . . .”
“In addition,” I continued evenly, “by having you establish an ongoing dialogue with your pain, I’m attempting to move you beyond your current combative relationship with your own body. Acknowledging what you are feeling will lead to acceptance, which will lead to advancement. Basically, as you just experienced, when you talk with Melvin, you feel better. When you curse at him, you feel worse.”
“But I don’t like Melvin.”
“Does that mean you can’t respect him? Appreciate his role?”
“I want him to go away.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s weak. I hate weak.”
I folded my hands. “Then you must love me. I feel no pain, ergo I can have no weaknesses.”
“That’s not the same thing,” D.D. said immediately.
I waited.
“I mean, just because you can’t feel pain doesn’t mean you’re strong. Maybe that’s its own kind of weakness. You have nothing to overcome. No basis for empathy.”
I waited.
D.D. blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, bite me. You’re trying to get me to say that Melvin is actually good. Pain has its usefulness, builds character, blah, blah, blah. You’re using reverse psychology to do it, too. Is there nothing you shrinks won’t do?”
“I like to think that in addition to being painless, I am heartless,” I deadpanned. “But truthfully, does Melvin have value?”
The detective pursed her lips. “He’s trying to protect me from further injury. I get that.”
“Can you respect that?”
“Fine.”
“Can you curse him less, maybe even offer him a moment or two of appreciation?”
“I don’t know; will he send me flowers?”
“Better, he’ll whisper softly in your ear, versus screaming in your shoulder.”
“My left arm still aches.”
“Your left humerus is still broken.”
“But I don’t feel as . . .” D.D. paused, clearly looking for the right words. “I don’t feel as feral. Like I’m going to lose my ever-loving mind.”
“You feel more in control.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“As an advocate of the Family Systems model, I would say that’s because you have acknowledged the piece of yourself that you were uncomfortable with, the Exile, resulting in your true Self being once more centered and in control.”
D.D. gave me a look. “I’m going to say deep breathing is useful, and maybe talking to Melvin isn’t so bad. Acknowledge, accept, advance. Okay. If it worked for a bunch of über-athletes, why not me?”
I smiled, unclasped my hands. “It’s okay to nurture yourself, D.D. I imagine for a woman with your job and family, you often feel your attention is demanded elsewhere. But it’s all right to accept your own needs. You know, ice your own damn shoulder, instead of waiting for someone else to buy you flowers.”
D.D. finally laughed. She rose to standing just as her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number, then shot me a quick look.
“I need to take this; do you mind?”
She indicated the outer office. I nodded my permission. She was already talking as she passed through the doorway. I busied myself moving around a stack of files, shuffling more ubiquitous paperwork, but of course, I eavesdropped. I was born without pain, not without curiosity.
“ViCAP got a hit? Seriously?” The detective was talking excitedly from the waiting area. “Multiple victims, postmortem skin harvesting . . . In his own closet? Jesus, that’s sick. Wait, hang on. What do you mean the guy’s not even alive anymore?”
I felt the first shiver. My gaze falling to my desk, where the daily paper still awaited my attention. Two murders, shouted the front page, skinned in their beds. Never seen anything like it, claimed an anonymous detective. Except I had. In old crime scene photos, where the carnage had been inflicted by someone even better. Someone even badder.
Someone whose need for human skin had been passed along to both of his daughters.
I drifted to the inner doorway. I couldn’t help myself. I stood there, meeting Detective D. D. Warren’s narrow blue gaze as I whispered, a heartbeat before her, the name of the one and only person who could disturb a hardened detective so much: “Harry Day.”
Chapter 12
D.D. ENDED THE CALL. She kept her gaze locked on her doctor as she slid her cell back into her coat pocket.
“How do you know that name?” D.D. asked, already suspicious.
“He was my birth father.”
“Harry Day? The serial killer?”
“I was a year old when he died. Can’t say I ever knew the man, more like over the years I’ve come to know of him. I saw today’s paper, Detective Warren, including the article on Monday night’s murder. I couldn’t help but wonder.”
D.D. continued studying her pain specialist. Adeline stood in the doorway between the two rooms, looking as cool and composed as ever. Muted brown slacks, cranberry-colored cashmere turtleneck. Her shoulder-length brown hair was worn down today, brushed to a high gloss that nearly matched her obviously expensive leather boots. Even at forty, fit, accomplished and with a string of initials after her name, the woman appeared more likely to be an Ann Taylor model than a notorious serial killer’s daughter.
“We’re going to talk,” D.D. said, and crossed back to the office.
The doctor glanced at her watch. “You have ten minutes left.”
“Not on my time. On yours.”
Adeline merely shrugged. “Honestly, Detective, other than his name, there’s very little I can tell you about Harry Day.”
“Now, now, Doc. You have your expertise, I have mine. Shall we?”
D.D. gestured back to the inner sanctum. With another shrug of her shoulders, Adeline retreated as D.D
. followed. D.D. was thinking fast, adjusting and readjusting her expectations. Given the ritualistic nature of the two murders, she’d figured they’d get lucky with the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. But matching their current murders to a string of forty-year-old homicides, the killer long dead, was more of a complication than a true development. Perhaps they were talking a copycat; God knows serial killers seemed to rack up larger fan bases these days than most movie stars. Given the number of websites and chat rooms dedicated to glorifying psychopaths, anything was possible.
But then to have her new doctor, a pain specialist she’d seen only twice, automatically know the killer’s name, even have a personal connection to him . . . That crossed over the line of coincidental in D.D.’s book and entered the land of creepy.
D.D. didn’t take her usual seat but remained standing across from Adeline, her throbbing arm and shoulder tucked protectively against the wall.
“Tell me about your father,” D.D. said.
“Dr. Adolfus Glen,” Adeline began.
D.D. rolled her eyes, immediately holding up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got the point. You consider your adoptive father your real father. He raised you, loved you, gave you everything a daughter could need, including a golden ticket out of psycho express.”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .”
“Tell me about Harry Day.”
The shuttered look on the doctor’s face relented. She sighed and sat back, not happy but apparently resigned to her fate. “I only know what I’ve read; I was still a baby when Harry’s crime spree came to an end. The way I understand it, one of his victims, a young waitress, got away. She ran to the police station. By the time the officers mobilized and came to arrest him, Harry was already dead, multiple cuts to each wrist. My mother suffered a breakdown and was carted off to a mental hospital, while child services assumed care of my older sister and me. The police spent the next six weeks systematically dismantling our house, unearthing two bodies beneath the family room and six more beneath Harry’s woodworking shop around back. Harry was a carpenter. He had a fondness for tools.”