Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Tell me."

"Very well. Borawick was the same set of facts: hypnotically refreshed memories of child sexual abuse recovered from an adult who entered therapy for what she thought was an unrelated problem. That in itself is one factor: why the subject underwent therapy in the first place. Then the court will consider the hypnotizability of the subject, qualifications of the hypnotist, the procedures utilized, and any corroborating evidence."

"Which we have."

"Yes. In spades. But the most important issue is whether any suggestions were implanted."

"How could any court tell that?"

He templed his fingers, gazed at me over the steeple. "The key is whether there was a permanent record of the hypnosis itself."

"And…?"

"Heather," Kite said, a tone of triumph in his voice.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. I heard a cabinet being opened, the sound of snapping plastic. I felt her come up behind me. She gently placed a standard audio cassette into my lap and stepped back.

"I presume you have an adequate machine available?" Kite asked.

"Sure."

"What you have is a copy, Mr. Burke. I plan to introduce the entire history of Miss Dalton's sessions into evidence. And then I shall step back and simply say what I have waited to say all my life as a lawyer: res ipsa loquitur ."

He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't take the bait. "It's Latin," he said. "It literally means 'the thing speaks for itself.' And the tapes do. Eloquently, I assure you. And, unlike Borawick , in which the refreshed testimony was not allowed, our hypnotist is not some amateur with a high school education and no formal training who didn't keep adequate records. In our case, Mr. Burke, if you will remember, the hypnotist was a psychiatrist . And a psychiatrist who not only kept written records of his sessions; they were all preserved exactly as they occurred. If ever one searched for the classic case to rebut the so–called 'False Memory syndrome,' one could not do better than what we have."

Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often. There're plenty of well–meaning amateurs, but they run around like headless chickens on crystal meth. Private eyes? They're mostly ex–cops with some contacts. Or find–out–if–your–husband–is–cheating–on–you keyhole peepers. Or hypertech guys who know all about code–grabbers and digital scramblers but don't get the concept of tire irons and duct tape.

I don't have a license, but the humans I learned from were the best teachers in the world. You want someone to find secrets, use a man who has plenty of his own.

When games have no rules, they're only games to the players who made them up. I never made up the games, but they made me a player. When I was just a kid: ugly secrets, dark corridors, terror around every corner. I learned how to hide real good. And now it's real hard to hide from me.

Plus I was working my own city. Where I know how to find the best slip–and–slide men in the world. The Prof might have lost a step—maybe he wasn't up to bank vaults or high–security buildings anymore—but he could still go in and out of a regular apartment house like smoke through pantyhose.

"Seven G," I told him, unfolding a floor plan. "It's a two–bedroom, top floor, rear. No doorman. I'll make sure she's not around when you go in."

"She bunks alone?"

"Guaranteed," I said, relying on Wolfe.

"And the other one?"

"That's a three–room. Third floor, right off the elevator. Furnished. Six and a quarter a month, utilities included. It's not a hotel, but nobody stays there that long. Mostly studios—she's got one of the bigger units."

"Same deal?"

"Same deal. You need The Mole to take down the basement?"

"That ain't the plan, man. I figure amateur locks, right? What you want, I'll be through in a half hour tops."

"Be a ghost, Prof."

"A holy ghost, Schoolboy."

"You can't imagine what it feels like," the man said. "If you haven't been through it, you'll never understand."

"I can't be you," I said softly. "I know that. But maybe, if you'll help, I can get close."

"Mr. Kite saved my life," the man said, standing on the back porch of his Upper Westchester house, looking out over a rushing gorge. He was in his sixties, thinning brown hair neatly combed to the side over a fine–boned face. His right hand was locked over his left wrist as tight as a handcuff. "He asked me to talk to you—that's good enough for me."

"How did it…happen?"

"'Happen.' That's a good word for it. Like a train wreck. I had no warning. My son had a wonderful life. We had the…resources to give him everything a boy could want. He was a soccer star, you know. When he was small. He lost interest when he started high school, but that's common, I guess. Once puberty hits….

"He had everything, as I said. His junior year in Europe. The whole Continent, Grand Tour. A new car when he was only sixteen. A Corvette. A black convertible—just what he wanted. We did everything together. As a family. Ski trips, Disneyland, ball games…the whole nine yards. He graduated fourth in his class. Phi Beta Kappa at my alma mater. Then he got a Master's degree in English literature. And a wonderful teaching position." The man's voice trailed off, his eyes focusing somewhere out by the gorge. He never looked at me.

"Then he got married," the man said. "A wonderful girl from a fine family—we all loved her. I gave them the down payment on their house as a wedding present."

"You were very generous…"

"Oh, I had it to give," he said. "I've done very well for myself. In business. And what good is money if you can't spend it on your loved ones? It was my pleasure. Always my pleasure."

"When did…?"

"He got divorced. It was so…sudden. A very nice divorce, actually. No name calling, no public displays. She had money of her own, anyway—there was no need to….

"And teaching…well, that doesn't pay very much. He never said why they broke up but I found out later. He was gay."

"He told you?"

"No. He told his mother. That was before…"

"Before…?"

"Before it all…happened. When he was still speaking to her. To us."

"How did you…?"

"A telephone call. The most terrifying phone call a parent can ever receive. It was Tyler. Calling me from his therapist's office. He said it was time to 'confront' me. That's the exact word he used, 'confront.' God."

"What did he say?"

"He said I had molested him," the man said, so quietly I had to strain to pick up the words. "My own son. Saying that to me over the phone. He didn't want to be gay—that's where it all started."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why he went to that therapist. He was gay. Or at least he thought he was. Naturally, he was…disturbed about it. So he went for counseling. That's what he told me, that time on the phone. The therapist helped him 'unlock the memories'…"

He was quiet for a few minutes, crying soundlessly, tears on his face. But his hands didn't move, still vised together.

"'Unlock the memories,' that's what he said. Of me…molesting him. When he was a little boy. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I thought it was some kind of sick…I don't know, joke, maybe. I was in shock."

"Is that all he said?"

"No. He said…a lot. He wanted to meet with me. Face–to–face, he said. I said I had always talked to him that way. Man–to–man. And you know what he said to me? He said: 'You're not a man.' I almost died. Right there on the phone, I almost died."