Primal Fear

  “Have you seen Connerman’s column?” Danielson asked.

  “I saw it,” she said. “So?”

  “Well, he’s picked up some bull from the Keystone Cops up in Burgess and he’s speculating that Jordan and Holloway were killed by the Rushman killer and it could have been done after Rushman was killed, when Stampler was in custody.”

  “Connerman isn’t trying this case, I am,” she said slowly, with more than a touch of venom. “And anybody that read that garbage will not sit on this jury. It does not relate and it will not be mentioned in this trial, okay?”

  They spent an hour talking testimony, the witness agenda and physical evidence, but she would not get into strategy. When they left she asked Stenner to stay behind for a few minutes. The waiters cleared the table and Venable sat down behind it and gazed across the stacks of transcripts at Stenner, who sat stiffly in a straight-backed dinner chair. She lit one of her long, slender cigarettes, then remembered Stenner’s aversion to smoke and snuffed it out.

  “These aren’t just transcripts,” she said, leaning forward and patting the thick folios. “These are transcripts of Vail’s ten toughest cases. I’ve studied every one of them, Abel, looking for his Achilles’ heel.”

  “Did you find it?” he asked, his expression unchanged.

  “I think so. See, Vail not only wants to win—he wants to win it all. He’ll destroy witnesses, risk the wrath of judges, play to the press—do anything—to win big. To do that, he gambles. And when you gamble, there’s no such thing as second place. Either you win or you lose it all. Vail’s never lost it all.”

  “He’s done some plea-bargaining in his day,” Stenner said with a shrug.

  “Uh huh. The secret is, what does he want? Oh, he’ll go for the whole package—but he’s always got a compromise waiting in the wings and the compromise is what he really wants. If he settles for a plea, then the plea was always what he wanted.”

  Stenner’s eyes never strayed from hers. He did not comment; he sat quietly and listened. But he was thinking, Why did she have to read ten transcripts to figure that out? They’re exactly the same, she and Vail. They both have uncompromising sticking points. But the points are so far apart that the verdict will be a disaster for one of them.

  “What he’d like, his dream, is to walk that little psychopath out the door a free man. What he’ll settle for is guilty but insane, which means Stampler goes to Daisyland until he’s cured and then walks.”

  “What will you settle for?”

  “The chair.”

  “That’s not a compromise.”

  “Who said anything about compromising? We’ve got him, Abel. The only weak link in our case is motive. We’ve got the strongest chain of physical evidence I’ve ever seen—more than enough to burn him. With all that, the jury will buy any motive, no matter how weak it is.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “Who says I’m worried?”

  “Any lawyer is worried before a big trial.”

  “If I’m worried about anything …” she said, and hesitated, staring at the transcripts. “If I’m worried about anything, it’s the myth.”

  “Myth?”

  “The Vail myth. Fear that the son of a bitch’s got something up his sleeve. Well, this time we know he doesn’t. Oh, he’ll make a circus out of it. And I’ll stay cool. Object every time he starts performing. That’ll break his momentum. Vail’s bullish on momentum. He likes to get on a ride, so I’ll interrupt his rhythm. Distract him. Juries are intuitive about things like that. They sense when a lawyer’s grandstanding. They can tell when they’re on shaky ground.”

  “Supposing he does spring something on you? You still won’t compromise?”

  “It’s not going to happen. I mean, if I absolutely had to plea this case out, the least I’d settle for… the absolute least…”

  She tossed her lighter angrily on the table and stood up, going to the window, staring out at the city with her hands on her hips.

  “The absolute least, I guess, would be life without parole. In Rockford. Solitary confinement. Life in solitary confinement in the meanest sweatbox in the state. If I absolutely had to settle for less than max, I’d want him to be the leper of the state. I’d want him locked up so tight he couldn’t find an ant to kill.”

  She whirled around, her face clouded with anger at the thought of compromising the Rushman case.

  “But it won’t happen,” she snapped. “Aaron Stampler’s going to the chair, Lieutenant. Take it to the bank.”

  Six days to go—five until Aaron was taken back to the city. Molly had to make her move, and a dangerous move it was. Revealing the existence of Roy could traumatize Aaron—or even worse, bring Roy out permanently. But it was essential to inform Aaron now, to prepare him for the trial and the revelations that were sure to follow. How he would react was completely unpredictable.

  She returned to the tall security building after dinner. It was unusual for her to see Aaron in the evenings, but she felt the conversation should be done in a relaxed atmosphere. No heavy therapy, no delving. She would take him a piece of coconut cream pie, his favorite, and a Coke. She would try to be as calm and casual as possible as she prepared him for the shock of discovering that within his skin there was another entity—that his “lost time” was being filled by an evil, psychopathic killer.

  He was surprised to see her.

  “Sumpin’ wrong?” he asked, his startled eyes reflecting fearful anticipation.

  “No,” she said. “I just came by to say hello. Brought you a Coke and a piece of coconut cream.”

  “Awright!” he said with a smile, taking the paper plate and plastic fork and sitting on the edge of the cot and putting the Coke at his feet. “Thaink yuh.”

  “Sure.”

  “Gonna move me to th’ city Sunday,” he said.

  “Yes. Getting nervous?” she asked.

  “I reckon.” He took a bite of pie, and added, “Wha’ more kin they ask me they ain’t asked awready?”

  “It’s how and when they ask—and why,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am, I understaind all thet. I weren’t mad at Bishop Richard and I don’t remember anythin’ that happened. Saims t’ me thet ’bout says ’t all.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, trying to sound blasé.

  “What’a thet main?”

  “You know. All these lawyers have tactics. Strategies. Never know what they might come up with.”

  “What maiks a good lawyer is thet he figgers out what they’re gonna do afore they do ’t.”

  “I suppose that’s true. I’m sure Marty will do that. But you know, there’s always those unexpected things that pop up.”

  “Sech as?”

  She smiled. “Well, if I knew that, they wouldn’t be unexpected, would they?”

  He laughed as he finished his pie and washed the last bite down with his Coke. “No ma’am, not railly.”

  “Do you always know when you lose time, Aaron?”

  “Mostly, I reckon. It’s like, one eye blink I’m staindin’ hair, next blink I’m settin’ down. Worst it gets, one blink I’m hair—next, I’m a mile away ’n’ it’s four hours later, like thet.”

  “Ever wonder what happens when you lose time?”

  “ ’Course I do. But, y’know, ’tain’t sumpin’ you feel easy askin’ others ’bout. Cain’t ask somebody, ‘How’d I get hair?’ Know what ah main?”

  “Sure. Do you remember I asked you once about someone named Roy?”

  He nodded. “Don’t recall nary by thet name.”

  She realized there was no easy way to do it.

  “I do have something I want to talk to you about.”

  He stared up at her with anticipation and grinned. “Should I lay down?”

  “No, no. This is just you and me talking.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  “Aaron, I know you’ve read a lot about mental disorders. Have you ever heard of a mental disease called multiple personality
disorder?”

  He stared at her for several seconds. “Thet’s what th’ call split personality?”

  “That’s the common term for it, yes.”

  “Don’t know much ’bout it.”

  “But you do know what it means?”

  He nodded slowly, still staring at her.

  “I’ve worked with a lot of people who have multiple personalities,” she said. “It isn’t that rare.”

  He continued to stare apprehensively. She could almost feel his anxiety.

  “Supposing I told you that you have another personality, one that comes out when you lose time. How would you feel about that?”

  He still did not respond.

  “For instance, supposing you have another personality called Roy.”

  “Roy? Roy who?” he said with alarm.

  “He doesn’t use a last name.”

  “You sayin’ thet this Roy is me?” he said cautiously.

  “In a manner of speaking. He is like your alter ego. You know what that means?”

  “Like the other side of me?”

  “That’s a very good description. You see, sometimes when we suffer great pain or humiliation, the mind invents another personality—another character—to suffer that pain and humiliation. Kind of like an escape valve.”

  After a long pause, he said, “The bad side?”

  She hesitated before answering. It was moving too fast. She had hoped to approach Roy’s divergent nature more cautiously, to ease Aaron into the revelation that his soul harbored a secret killer.

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “You remember when Reverend Shackles scared you and threatened you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Did you lose time then?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “When is the first time you remember losing time?”

  He thought about that for a long time. Finally he said, “Reckon it was ’bout the time m’ paw started strappin’ me for refusin’ t’ go in the hole.”

  “Did you lose time when you went down in the hole?”

  “No ma’am,” he said emphatically. “I remember every second o’ thet, every second …”

  “Roy says the first time he came out was to cuss out Reverend Shackles.”

  “You talk t’ him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kin I talk t’ him?”

  “Maybe later. Not yet.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Y’got him on the taipe, don’t yuh?”

  “Yes. But before we get into that, I want to make sure you understand exactly what has happened to you.”

  “Is Roy me?” he demanded.

  She started to explain the ego, the id and the superego in order to define Aaron’s disorder but he was shaking his head.

  “Roy killed Bishop Richard, din’t he? Thet’s what yer tryin’ t’ tell me. I railly did it.”

  “You didn’t do it, Aaron, Roy did. And with help and time we can strengthen you and get rid of Roy.”

  He sat up very straight and stared at the wall, then his shoulders sagged for a moment and he turned slowly toward her, eyes ablaze. He stood suddenly, smashed the cot against the wall and rushed her. She fell back into the comer as his right hand grabbed her by the throat, the strong fingers digging deeply into her neck.

  “You whore bitch,” Roy bellowed, his eyes yellowing with rage. “I knew it! You lied to me. You’re trying to kill me…”

  “No, no!” She begged, her voice barely audible as his fingers continued to cut off wind and voice, “Please … listen …”

  “I already listened. You’re like all of ’em, say anything to get what the fuck you want.”

  She grabbed his hand with hers but he laughed at her, applying more pressure as she tried in vain to break his stranglehold. He backed up, holding her at arm’s length with one hand to prove his strength.

  “Roy …” Her voice was a squeezed-off whimper. “Don’t you … understand … we’re going to make … both of you well…”

  “You’re gonna get rid of me. Think I’m a fuckin’ dork? You forget, baby, I get both sides of the conversation.”

  She was getting faint. His hand was like a steel vise, crushing the life out of her. He began to diminish in size, his laughter hollow and far away, the muscles, veins and pipes in her throat numbing.

  “Aaron?” she squealed. “Help … me … Aaron …”

  “Bitch,” Roy roared, and the vise tightened. She could feel herself going, the room rushing away from her, all sense and feeling abandoning her.

  “Aaron…”

  Consciousness whooshed away from her as she plunged into darkness.

  Molly stirred. Her eyes fluttered and opened slowly. She was staring at the ceiling of the white room. Her neck throbbed with pain as she rolled over on her side. She coughed as she gasped for breath through her bruised throat. She lay still for a full minute, slowly regaining her breath as the room racked back into focus. Finally she sat up. The cot was back in place and Aaron was lying on it. She rose on unsteady legs, grasped the comer of the cot for support and slid onto it. Aaron was on his side, facing the wall.

  “Aaron?” she said. There was no response. She touched his shoulder. He was tense and curled into a semifetal position. Only his breathing appeared normal.

  “Aaron?” she demanded, a little louder. There was no response. She sat on the edge of the cot and shook him.

  Nothing. Aaron Stampler appeared to be catatonic. He had escaped to another world.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “You think he’s gone catatonic?” Vail asked.

  “I’m not sure. He could have gone into a trance. He may have been bluffing. He may have been avoiding talking to me. I just don’t know, but I gave him a shot.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to be on the safe side. He’ll be out for twelve hours. If he comes around, we’re back where we started. If he doesn’t …” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I told the guard he was nervous about the trial so I gave him a shot. Anyway, he’ll be out until morning—which gives us time to figure out what to do next.”

  Molly had taken a hundred-dollar cab ride back to the city after giving Aaron sixty milligrams of Demerol to keep him out until morning. Now Vail had gathered the team to discuss the latest crisis. Except for the discussion of the Gudheim Foundation, he had been almost reclusive for the past three days, silent and brooding, striding his office, sometimes speaking aloud, sometimes arguing silently with himself. It was an experience all of them but Molly were accustomed to, watching him prepare for battle; feeling the tension he was creating, the energy sizzling about the room. Now he was edgy, verging on anger.

  “Hell,” Goodman said, “we’re home free, Marty. It’s obvious he’s sick. We go for commitment and it’s over.”

  “And what if he comes out of it?” Vail said. “What if he sits up tomorrow morning and says, ‘Haiy, mayem, was I jest out to lunch?’”

  “That’s cruel,” Molly snapped.

  “Let me tell you what’s really cruel,” said Vail. “Dr. Bascott and his two dinosaurs have given Aaron a clean bill of mental health but… but … they also say that, uh … how did they put it, Naom?”

  “ ‘Given the stress of the situation,’” she read from the report, “‘Aaron Stampler could have committed this homicide.’”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Molly said. “Under the stress of what situation?”

  “They’re manufacturing a motive,” Vail said. “Rushman forced Aaron to leave the house, he was reduced to the Hollows, his girlfriend left him … blah, blah, blah.”

  “What’s the point?” Molly said angrily.

  “The point is, you know he’s sick and I know he’s sick, but the state’s genius head shrinkers are dancing to the tune because they don’t know shit,” Vail answered angrily. “A three-headed fucking rubber stamp.”

  “Haven’t we got enough to get a postponement?” Tom said. “Or get him committed without a trial?”

  ?
??I don’t want a postponement, Tommy,” said Vail. “We won’t be any readier than we are now, and the longer we postpone the stronger their case can get.”

  “You think you can win this trial, Marty?” the Judge asked.

  “Immaterial. Now’s the time to defend Aaron, not after he’s been lying around Daisyland in a fetal position for ten years.”

  “But he may anyway!” said Molly.

  “We’re going to proceed on the assumption that when he wakes up tomorrow we’ll be back in the ball game. Am I right, Judge?”

  The Judge shrugged. He gave the premise a lot of thought and finally nodded. “I agree with Martin. The only chance Aaron’s got is to go to trial. If Martin wins, the boy goes to Daisyland until he’s cured and he’s a free man. Otherwise it will play out just as he says.”

  Vail started pacing, grinding one fist into the palm of his other hand. His jaw was set.

  “Okay,” he said, “here’s what we’re going to do. First, we’re going to do a run-through of your testimony, Molly. We’re going to do this because if he does come around, we have to be ready, okay? Then we’re going back up to Daisyland so we can be there when the jolt wears off. And if it doesn’t wear off, he stays in Daisyland and everything goes on hold. Molly, we’re going to do this as if you’re on the witness stand. I’ll be asking the questions. Naomi and Goodman can cut in with adversarial questions by raising their hands. They can object, just like in a regular trial. The Judge will maintain order and rule on objections, if there are any. Up for it?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “If there’s a legal objection or discussion, I’ll put the video machine on pause.”

  “How come?” asked the Judge.

  “Because I feel like it” was the curt answer.

  Molly was sitting in the center of the room and Vail paced as he asked the questions, sometimes stopping to lean against the table or check his notes. He was warm but formal and his eyes never left hers as he interrogated her. The video camera rolled silently, focused on her.

  VAIL: Please state your name.