John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

Ashley nodded.

“So, other than his presence, he didn’t do anything to you, did he, miss?”

“No,” Ashley said. The word seemed impotent.

He shook his head, closed the notebook, as he turned back toward Catherine. “What you should have said, Mrs. Frazier, is that he struck you and put you in fear for your life. Some physical contact. That would give us something to go on. You could have said that he brandished a weapon. Even that he was trespassing. But we can’t arrest someone for telling you that he loves Miss Freeman.”

The policeman smiled and tried to make a little joke. “I mean, I bet just about all the boys fall in love with Miss Freeman.”

Catherine stamped her foot. “This is useless. You say you cannot help at all?”

“Unless we’re pretty darn certain a crime has been committed.”

“What about stalking? That’s a crime!”

“Yes. But that’s not what happened here tonight, is it? But if you can prove a pattern of behavior, well, then you should have Miss Freeman here go before a judge and get a restraining order. That means that if this guy came within a hundred yards of her, we could arrest him. It would give us some ammunition, so to speak. But absent that…”

He looked over at Ashley.

“You haven’t got any such order, like in Boston, where you live?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you ought to consider it. Of course…”

“Of course what?” Catherine demanded.

“Well, I don’t like to speculate…”

“What?”

“You have to be cautious. Don’t want to trigger some real nasty behavior. Sometimes a restraining order does more harm than good. Talk to a professional, Miss Freeman.”

“We are talking to a professional!” Catherine interrupted. “After all, Sergeant, isn’t this what your job is?”

“I mean someone who is expert on these sorts of domestic issues.”

Catherine shook her head, but had the good sense not to say anything else. It would do no good to insult the local police.

“If he comes back, Mrs. Frazier, call the substation and I’ll send someone around. Day or night. That’s the least we can do. He knows there’s a cop around, he’s not likely to try much. That’s the best offer I can make.”

The policeman made a show of replacing his pencil and notebook in his shirt pocket as he turned and walked to the door. He paused and, to Ashley, seemed a little embarrassed.

“Our hands are sort of tied,” he said. “I’ll make a report about this call, in case you do go to a judge for an order.”

Catherine merely snorted again. “Well, that’s a comfort,” she said angrily. “That’s truly reassuring. This is all like saying we need to wait for the entire house to burn down before we call the fire department.”

“I wish I could be more helpful. I really do, Mrs. Frazier, because I understand these sorts of things are difficult. But, like I say, call us if he shows up again. We’ll be out here in a jiffy.”

The policeman suddenly lifted his head, listening.

“Jesus,” he said abruptly. “Someone’s going real fast.”

Both Catherine and Ashley leaned forward and heard the distant noise of an engine howling with speed. Ashley, of course, recognized the sound. As they stood there, it grew closer, louder, and they all saw headlights cutting through the nearby stands of trees.

“That’s my father,” Ashley said. She thought she should at least be relieved to see him and feel safe, because he would know what to do. But those feelings eluded her.

“I have become a student of fear,” she said. “Physiological reactions. Psychological stresses. Behavioral issues. I read psychiatric textbooks and social science treatises. I read books about how people respond under all sorts of difficult situations. I keep notes, go to lectures, whatever I can, just to try to understand it better.”

She turned away, staring back out the window at the benign suburban world beyond the glass.

“This doesn’t seem like much of a clinic,” I said. “Things seem pretty quiet and safe around here.”

She shook her head. “All illusion. Fear just takes different forms in different locations. It’s all based on what we expect to happen in the next few seconds, versus what actually occurs.”

“Michael O’Connell?”

A wry smile creased her face. “Do you ever wonder how it is that some people simply innately understand how to deliver terror? The hit man. The sexual psychopath. The religious fanatic. It just comes naturally to each of them. He was one of those types. It’s as if they aren’t tethered to life in the same way that you or I or Ashley and her family were. The ordinary emotional bonds and restraints we all feel were somehow absent in O’Connell. And they were replaced by something truly unsettling.”

“What was that?”

“He loved who he was.”

Catherine stood outside, staring up into the canopy of stars that filled the midnight sky above her house. It was cold enough to see her breath, but she was far more chilled by what had just occurred. The one place that she expected to be safe was in her own home, on land that she had occupied for better or for worse for so many years, where every tree, every shrub, every breeze that clattered through the eaves spoke to some memory. It was what was supposed to be solid about life. But this night, the safety of her home had thinned from the moment she had heard the words I will be back.

Catherine turned back toward the front door. It suddenly seemed to her that it was too cold to stand outside, trying to sort out what to do, which surprised her a little. She had often stood beneath the Vermont sky and considered many questions, in all seasons. But this night, the black sky didn’t provide clarity, just a quick chill that worked its way down her back, and she shivered. She had the terrible thought that Michael O’Connell wouldn’t feel the frost. His obsession would keep him warm.

She glanced over at the line of trees on the edge of her property, out past a flat area beside the house, where her husband had borrowed a tractor and smoothed out a section, then planted it with athletic turf grass and erected a set of goalposts, all as a birthday present when Hope turned eleven. Usually staring at the minifield recalled so many happy moments, it comforted Catherine. But this night, her eyes went past the faded white frame of the goal. She imagined that O’Connell was out there, just beyond her sight, watching them.

Catherine gritted her teeth and went back inside, but not before making a single obscene gesture to the shadowy line of trees. Just in case, she thought to herself. It was well past midnight, but there was still packing to do. Her own bag was ready, but Ashley, still shaken, was taking longer.

Scott sat in the kitchen, drinking black coffee, the old shotgun on the table in front of him. He ran a finger along the length of the barrel and thought to himself that they would be much better off if Catherine had just pulled the trigger. They could have spent the rest of the night dealing with the local police and a coroner, and hiring her an attorney, although he suspected that she wouldn’t even have been arrested. If she had just shot the bastard as O’Connell came through the front door, he thought, he would have arrived and then helped sort everything out. And life would have gone back to normal within days.

He heard Catherine come through the door and enter the kitchen.

“I think I will join you,” she said as she poured herself a cup.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Scott said.

“Already is.”

“Ashley about set?”

“She’ll be ready in a minute,” Catherine said. “She’s just pulling a few things together.”