Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“What’s stopping you?”

“I’d feel like I’d be running away from responsibility.”

“What would your best friend suggest?”

“My best friend? I’m not sure I have a best friend.”

“Then you’ll need to become your own.”

“Okay. And what would I tell myself?”

“Think about it. Suppose for a minute that your brother or your sister, or anyone who might fit the bill as a best friend, was driving a car, quickly approaching a T-intersection where they had to decide to turn one way or the other to avoid colliding into a house and injuring themselves. They can’t stop. They must go one way or the other. Which way would you tell them to turn for their absolute safety?”

“I don’t know if I could.”

“Why not? Remember, they can’t stop. If they don’t turn, they’re very likely to injure themselves. Perhaps fatally.”

“I wouldn’t be able to guarantee their safety because I don’t know what’s around each corner.”

“Sort of like life.”

“Right.”

“And, although you’re not sure what’s around each corner, you would suggest that they turn, correct? Remember, there’s that big house. And it’s getting closer and closer.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting this. Or how it relates.”

“You’re not necessarily supposed to. Therapy is a process. That’s why we don’t recommend the big pill. You see, you would tell them to turn. Turning right could present new challenges. Likewise, turning left is likely to present new, but different, challenges.”

Margaret looked and felt befuddled.

“I’m afraid we need to stop now.”

“Now?”

“It’d be a good time. Trust me.” Fahey cast her a huge smile. “I would like to set up future appointments. Would you be open to that?”

“I think I’d better.”

“Good. Check your upcoming tour schedule and call me. I’m here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until six. I’d like to meet once a week. Would that work for you?”

Margaret nodded and stood.

“We’re going to work at both issues together, Margaret. In the meantime, since you said you’re not sure if you have a best friend, I’d like to apply for the job.”

“That’d be nice.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

Margaret headed for the door.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. Between now and the next time we meet, think about the advice you’d give the driver. Don’t focus too much on which way you’d tell them to turn, but concentrate on why you’d instruct them to make the turn.”

“I will.” I think.

“Great! With today’s session we’re off to a good start.”

Following an exchange of smiles, Margaret disappeared out the door.

Driscoll was at his desk speaking on the phone with Susan Lenihan from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

“There’re some details of the case I want to run by you. As a behavior analyst, you’re in a position to help.”

“Be happy to.”

“When I spoke to a young lady who claimed to be at one time our teen suspect’s girlfriend, she told me a couple of things, one of which I didn’t think fit.”

“What was that?”

“She claimed he was sleeping with his sister. I’m no analyst, but I can’t see a guy forced to prostitute himself for six years wanting to have sex.”

“That would seem logical, but I’m afraid trauma victims don’t always follow the dictates of what might be considered predictable behavior.”

Driscoll was startled. “You mean he might be having sex with her?”

“It’s possible.”

“Please, make me a believer.”

“Without having him on a couch, this is pure conjecture. Children forced to prostitute themselves sometimes feel excessively guilty. They forget who the victim is. If they lean on themselves heavily enough, it could lead to raucous promiscuity and extreme hypersexuality, which may include incest.”

“So, she may have it right. Interesting. She also said he had exhibited intense mood swings. One minute he’d be flying high as a kite, the next minute he’s talking suicide.”

“Mood swings that concurrent could point to a number of things. Bipolar affective and interictal dysphoric disorders immediately come to mind. With his forced lifestyle, he’d be at a higher risk for either than, say, your average high school student furtively exploring sex under the bleachers. Not only are you chasing after a pair of homicidal maniacs. They could also be two very sick puppies, both physically and emotionally.”

“Thank you, Susan. This crash course in Behavior 101 was enlightening.”

“We only covered two paragraphs of the first chapter. But you’re welcome, just the same. If you want to fast-forward to chapter six, all you need to do is call.”

Driscoll thanked her again and hung up. He thought he detected flirtation in her last remark. Not in what she said, but in how she said it. Or was he imagining things? He was newly single, out of the game for years.

Aligante entered his office and sat.

“Uh-oh. That look on your face says you’d like to sit down with the twins and smoke their pipe,” Driscoll said. “I’m praying the gold shield in your pocket says otherwise.”

“These kids have been traumatized, John. Far worse than me. They probably killed their father believing it was the only way out of their nightmare. Hell! I thought of killing my father. Often.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, but a voice inside me cheered at his funeral and suggested I set off fireworks.”

“You call Elizabeth yet?”

“She sends her best.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Tap Cedric on the shoulder and ask him to join us. I’ll let him tell you firsthand about the nugget of gold he and his contacts in LA found in a closet.”

“One Detective Thomlinson coming up.”

When Margaret reappeared, Thomlinson was at her side. After they took their seats, Driscoll spoke. “From the top, Cedric.”

“My pleasure!” Thomlinson leaned back in his chair. Having an eager audience encouraged the man. He smiled at Driscoll, gestured to Margaret as though he were tipping his hat, and began. “The tracking of sex offenders in California falls to the responsibility of the state’s Department of Justice.”

“Why do I get the feeling I know where he’s going with this?”

“Listen and learn,” said Driscoll.

Thomlinson, amused by the chatter, continued. “Not only does the DOJ maintain the database but they also post most of it on the Internet.”

“Most of it?” Margaret griped.

“The crimes that some of these sleazebags have been convicted of aren’t considered abominable enough to warrant Web posting. They get to see their names in the registry but are spared the embarrassment of Internet stardom. Ah, California! Ya gotta love that state! Once a year, within five days of their birthday, the entire cast of misfits is required to renew their registration. A belated birthday greeting from Arnie the Governator, no doubt. As you’d expect, the offender must update his info pronto, if he moves, or, God forbid, becomes homeless. My favorite requirement is listed as penal code section two-nine-zero, subdivision f-three. It requires the degenerates to update the registry with any name change. They’ve got five days to do it or get a nastygram from the authorities.” A grin formed on Thomlinson’s smug face.

“I know that look,” said Margaret.

“June 1998. A UCLA grad student gets nailed for oral copulation with a minor. It seems the poli-sci enthusiast lured a fourteen-year-old male back to her apartment to give him an up close and personal lesson on what she had learned in the Art of Good Fellatio 101. The recipient’s name was purged from the record but our doer’s was not. Does the name Shewster ring a bell?”