Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

“He said Patrick and Denise could control Ozzie. Also, that Ozzie worshipped his older brother Jacob. Seems unlikely, then, that Ozzie would turn on them, especially one by one like that.”

“That’s the problem,” Alex said. “A nine-year-old boy with a history of severe psychiatric problems could absolutely take out an entire family. In the middle of the night, armed with a shotgun or baseball bat, going from bedroom to bedroom… If that were our crime scene, I’d say the freaky son did it and Patrick was lucky to get out alive.”

“But it’s dinnertime with a kitchen knife,” D.D. said quietly. “Patrick’s not a small guy. Then you have fourteen-year-old Jacob, also athletic. Seems like the two of them would be able to wrestle a scrawny nine-year-old to the ground.”

“And you’d see more defensive wounds,” Alex said. “From the girl, everyone. Ozzie’s the smallest member of the household. They’d absolutely put up a struggle. For that matter, I’m not sure a nine-year-old would have the strength to strike the mortal blow to Mrs. Harrington. We’ll get a report back soon enough, but I’m already guessing the angle of the blow suggests someone taller than Denise, not shorter.”

“Methodology makes it tricky,” D.D. commented. “Assuming Ozzie is the perpetrator, that means he, what? Shot his father with a gun. Then grabbed a kitchen knife and killed his mother with a single blow, killed his older brother with a single blow, then chased his sister through the house before ultimately catching her and strangling her. Then, after all that, he slit his own throat? Tough way to commit hara-kiri.”

“Actually, I’ve seen it done.”

“Really?”

“Case back in ninety-seven. Depressed ad executive slit his own throat. We had our doubts, given the injury, but the ME could prove it from the angle of incision. Don’t ask me. There are times forensics seems like pure voodoo.”

“All right. So Ozzie slit his own throat. Then he carried the bodies through the house to a single location? It just doesn’t make sense. Blood tells us Ozzie’s throat was slit in the sister’s bedroom. Physical size tells us there was no way Ozzie would’ve had the strength to drag his mother or father through the house.”

“Which brings us back to Patrick,” Alex agreed. “Only logical explanation.”

D.D. pushed back her plate. “So why don’t I feel good about it?”

“Because sometimes, we never understand our neighbors, not even after the fact.”

D.D. sighed, thought he had a point. “We dig into the financials, bet we’re going to find some consumer debt, some past-due bills. We’ll see just how on edge the Harringtons were living. Then we’ll pay a visit to the kids’ school, Denise’s work, Patrick’s former employer, round out our victim profiles.”

“We should also pay a visit to the psychiatric unit where Ozzie stayed. Remember, Miss Patsy said he was hospitalized for a bit.”

“I thought we just ruled out Ozzie.”

Alex shrugged. “There’s still something we don’t know. Or, for that matter, someone.”

Lucy escaped shortly before three.

I should’ve seen it coming. She’d started the day remarkably calm. By eight a.m., she’d eaten dry Cheerios without throwing the cup at anyone passing by. At eight-thirty, she crept out of her room long enough to swipe a toy car Benny had left in the hall. She’d tucked it under her chin as she scampered on all fours to a corner of her room. Then she’d set the Hot Wheel on the floor and proceeded to bat it around like a cat toy.

Benny cried when he discovered the car gone, then stopped crying when he saw the crazy naked girl smiling over it. She caught him watching her, too, and simply went back to playing, versus throwing feces at him.

I was so pleased by this progress, I decided to make an attempt at basic hygiene.

We don’t force our kids to shower. We don’t force them to eat, brush their teeth, or even get dressed. We understand that some of these kids, because of sensory issues, feel the spray of a shower as a thousand needles stinging their skin. We understand some of these kids, because of various compulsions, can only eat frozen food, or mashed-up food, or yellow food, or prepackaged food. We understand that some of these kids, because of limited social skills, can’t walk down the hallway without picking a fight.

Hygiene’s complicated. Mealtimes are complicated. Just getting up each morning is complicated.

So we take a broad approach. This is our schedule. We’d like you to follow it, but we’re willing to work with you. Tell us what you need. Together, we can make this happen.

Some parents hate us. They view our ward as nothing but summer camp, kowtowing to their problem child’s every whim.

Of course, half of these parents are as traumatized as the kids. They’ve spent years being kicked, hit, bit, screamed at, and otherwise verbally abused by their own child. Maybe on Mother’s Day, their ten-year-old drew a picture of Mommy being stabbed to death, and signed it Die Bitch Die. Now a part of them wants to see their son finally be held accountable for his actions, or feel that their daughter is being ground to dust. We’re the professionals. We should force each child to color within the lines. But we don’t. We let the kids watch TV. We bring them Game Boys, we engage them in board games, we let them rollerblade down the hall.

We’re acute care. Our goal is to reduce agitation so a kid can finally get through the day without exploding. Then, once the child is “workable,” we hope to gain insight into that kid’s behavior that will be valuable for long-term care.

There are two questions we’re trying to answer with each child:

What’s going on in this child’s head that I wish weren’t (e.g., cognitive distortions)? What isn’t going on in this child’s head that I wish were (e.g., cognitive deficiencies)? You answer these two questions, you can learn a lot about a kid.

Twenty-four hours later, I needed to learn a lot more about Lucy.

First, I filled a giant bucket with water, then carried it to her room. I didn’t look at her when I entered, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. I set down the bucket, then gave her my back.

I counted to ten.

When she didn’t attack, I moved to phase two: I pulled a small sponge out of my pocket, dipped it into the water, and starting scrubbing the nearest wall. I still didn’t look at her. If attention is one of her triggers, then my job’s not to give her any attention.

After another minute, I started to hum. Something low and melodic. Some children respond positively to rhythmic music; I was curious about Lucy.

She still didn’t react, so I grew more serious. I scrubbed feces and blood off all four walls. Then I picked up my bucket and disappeared.

Now the moment of judgment: Will Lucy leave the space as is, or will she feel a need to trash her room again, to violate her personal space as she seems to feel a need to violate herself?

When twenty minutes passed without any drama, I brought her lunch. Cut-up vegetables, a cheese stick, some fresh bread, a cup of water. I stood in the hallway where I could monitor her reflection in the silver ceiling globe without being seen.

Lucy went after the bread first. She picked it up between her hands and squished it into a ball, then placed it on the floor and watched it slowly expand. Then she resquished it, until the bread was balled tight enough to bat around on the carpet.

She played with her food for a bit, content in her catlike alter ego. I wondered why a cat. What was it about felines that she thought would keep her safe?

After a bit, she picked up the bread ball between her cupped hands and ate it. She licked her hands afterward, then lapped up some water from the cup. The cheese suffered the same fate as the bread. She didn’t eat the vegetables but hid them under her mattress. I wasn’t surprised. Lots of kids hoarded food, maybe due to compulsion, or from a long history of going hungry. I left the vegetables for now, if only to see what she’d do with them later.