Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace said, “It was a job, not a life sentence, Wayne. The way you helped me says you probably helped a lot more kids than you’re admitting.”

His smile was broad, amused. “I can see you’re an excellent therapist, Dr. Blades — gawd, that sounds terrific. Doctor. Good for you !.. so what brings you here?”

Grace said, “You gave me your card, said if I needed anything to get in touch.”

He flinched. “Did I? You must’ve caught me in a weak moment. Trust me, by then I was effectively gone. Wondering how I was going to make ends meet. I had to start from scratch, ended up at Hastings, moved north, figuring to do family law. Work for change within the system and all that good stuff, right? By the first semester I felt so free being away from the system that I changed my orientation completely and went for the boring stuff.”

He laughed. “Boring lucrative amoral stuff. I drive a Jaguar now, Grace. Sometimes I’m cruising along and I laugh at myself.”

“I drive an Aston Martin.”

“Really.” He whistled. “Clinical psychology’s been good to you, has it? So what’s this about? A patient in a fix?”

“A therapist in a fix.”

He sat back and rested his hands on his paunch.

Grace told him only what he needed to know.

Three wild-haired children in homemade black uniforms, a probable child murder by the oldest brother, a second murder by extension.

Two decades later, reappearance by the younger brother, still burdened by terrible secrets and seeking expiation.

Likely dying because of his secrets.

She ended with two components that she hoped would evoke the feelings that had led him to treat her with kindness decades ago.

Her research leading to the Fortress Cult.

The intense personal danger she now found herself in.

No mention of the man in her garden, rolling a body into a ravine, tossing guns, a knife. Living like a fugitive.

Wayne Knutsen listened without interruption, took a moment to contemplate. “Well, Grace, this is quite... I don’t know what to say, it’s almost like something out of a movie.”

“Wish it was, Wayne. But it’s real, Wayne. And I’m scared.”

“I understand... twenty-three years ago...”

“And a few months.”

He looked at her the way a doctor examines a new patient. “We’re talking the majority of your life, Grace. A significant slice of mine... I’m rambling, this is so unexpected — you really think that older boy killed the sick one — Bobby?”

“I’m sure of it. He had all the early trappings of psychopathy and there’s no way that oxygen tube could’ve come free on its own.”

“What if Bobby experienced a seizure and yanked it hard enough — I’m just being lawyerly.”

“Bobby could barely walk, let alone muster the strength to rip loose his dressings. Ramona was careful, she taped the tube tight. I know because sometimes I was the one to untape him in the morning.”

“She used you as an aide?”

“I insisted on helping, it made me feel strong, in control. And I could tell her own strength was fading.”

“I see... this is going to be a terrible question, but I’m an attorney, I have to ask.” He shifted in his chair. “Given Ramona’s fading health, growing attached to this Bobby, is there the remotest possibility that she would have—”

“Euthanized a child?” said Grace. “No way. When she discovered Bobby dead, she was horrified. I’m certain the shock is what finished her off.”

“My God,” said Wayne Knutsen. “What a nightmare... poor Ramona. Poor child — and there was no one else who could’ve—”

“It was him, Wayne.”

“Yes, yes, you’d know. You say his name was Sam? That’s not much to go on. How old was he?”

“Thirteen, fourteen, give or take.”

“Old enough, I suppose,” he said. “What with all the crazy stuff one keeps hearing... all right, it’s a horrible thing to consider but I defer to your judgment. What happened to you after the ranch closed? Though I’m not sure I want to hear what I suspect.” His head shook; his jowls vibrated. One hand swiped clumsily at his eyes.

Grace leaned over and took his hand, comforted him the way she would any patient.

“Actually,” she said, “everything worked out fine.”

Nancy the Detective drove fast to juvenile hall and Grace knew she couldn’t wait to get the job over with. Within moments of passing through a series of locked doors, she was gone and Grace was being escorted by a huge black woman who called her “honey,” and reassured her she’d be fine.

Saying nice words, but in a tired voice, like she’d swallowed a tape recorder and pressed the Play button.

Grace’s clothes were taken away and she was given bright-orange pants and a matching shirt. A plastic band with her name misspelled “Blande” was snapped tight around her scrawny wrist. The room she was placed in was tiny and smelled of pee and poop, with crude graffiti all over the walls and bars for one wall. The only window, set high up, was black because it looked out on the night. Furniture was a cot, a dresser, and a metal toilet without a lid.

The big black woman said, “Sorry we got to use a solitary cell for you tonight, honey, but it’s for your own good, there’s no sense placing you in a dorm, you didn’t do nothing to end up here. Not like some of the kids, they’re real bad, no need for you to know, just take it as fact, okay?”

“Okay.”

“That’s why I’m going to have to lock you in, honey. For your own good. Try to get a good night’s sleep and in the morning you can ask questions, the morning people gonna answer your morning questions, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I mean, honey, you won’t be in here long anyway, it’s just until your case gets adjudicated. That means fixed up.”

I know what it means. Press Stop on your tape machine.

“Honey?” the woman repeated.

Grace walked into her jail cell.

The following morning when another black woman came by with breakfast on a tray and said, “Rise and shine, what can I get you, missy?” Grace said, “Books.”

“Books...” As if Grace had requested moon rocks. “How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Hmm, see what I can do.”

“I read adult books.”

The woman frowned. “You talking dirty stuff?”

“No,” said Grace. “Grown-up reading material — psychology, biology.”

The woman stared at her, skeptical. “You some genius?”

“I’m curious.”

“That ain’t so good around here, missy.”

Six hours later three dog-eared fifth-grade textbooks ended up in her cell. Baby math, baby English, baby science.

This was punishment, Grace decided, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She wondered where Sam, Ty, and Lily had ended up. Maybe they were right here in different prison cells. Maybe once Grace was let out, she’d see them. She hoped not.

As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about on that account. For three consecutive days she was never let out, mostly the staff seemed to forget about her. She kept quiet, thinking and sleeping, feeling more and more stupid like her brain was rotting and she was drowning in her own emptiness.

And she’d done nothing wrong. Just like the red room.

Keeping calm wasn’t always easy; it required blocking out the cries and screams of prisoners who did make noise. Sometimes big boys in orange suits, who might as well have been men, walked by loosely supervised by guards who did nothing to stop them from eyeing Grace and rubbing their crotches and saying filthy things. A couple of times, they actually pulled out their penises and stroked them hard while smirking.