Bad Memory Page 11

  Holten looked at him now from where he sat in his own tiny dark room. Midfifties, full head of blond hair, mustache, deep summer tan complemented by a neatly pressed cream linen suit and a light-blue dress shirt. The shirt was open necked, no tie, weekend casual even though it was Monday. Holten remembered how his wife, Maggie, had spoken to Blume for around five minutes at the fund-raiser. Not long, but long enough for her to declare Dr. Ted had the look of Robert Redford about him, with the same twinkly, crinkly, bright-blue eyes as the actor. Eyes, she said, that creased at the corners and made him look like he was smiling even if you couldn’t see his lips moving under the mustache.

  Holten really didn’t like Dr. Ted Blume.

  He didn’t particularly like what the man did for a living either. Psychology. Holten snorted to himself. He’d always dismissed the whole thing as mumbo-jumbo nonsense. Fucking around with people’s heads and making them worse than they’d been to start with. The problem was, Blume had been getting results in some high-profile cases recently, and the top brass were impressed by those results.

  Holten didn’t want the man anywhere near his investigation, but when Blume had shown up, uninvited, at the station this morning, Holten had felt like he had had no choice but to accept the services on offer. He and McDonagh had gotten nowhere with Rue Hunter, and she’d been in custody for more than twenty-four hours by then. They’d questioned her gently at first, then harder, but she wouldn’t speak to them. She didn’t want to exercise her right to a free public defender, she didn’t want to talk about Devil’s Drop, she just wanted to go home.

  Holten had reluctantly agreed to let Blume have a try with the girl. He leaned back in his chair now, put his feet up on the desk, and watched what was happening on the other side of the mirrored window.

  Rue had ignored Blume’s offer of a handshake, but the man was unperturbed. He gave her his best Robert Redford smile, with the lips as well as the eyes, and clasped his hands together on top of a folder sitting on the table in front of him.

  “Okay, no handshakes,” he said. “But I should introduce myself properly. My name is Dr. Ted Blume.”

  “I don’t need a doctor,” Rue said. “I’m not sick. And I don’t like doctors.”

  “I’m not a medical doctor, Rue. I help fix people’s minds, rather than their bodies.”

  “I’m not sick in the head either.”

  He smiled. “No, of course not. I also help people who are a little sad feel better, and I help people remember things they might have forgotten. I promise, I’m not a scary doctor. In fact, most of my patients call me Dr. Ted or even just Dr. T. You know, like Mr. T off the TV? You ever watch that show?”

  Rue eyeballed him for a few seconds, but his smile never wavered.

  Finally, she said, “Sure, I’ve watched it. But you’re nothing like Mr. T. He’s black and has lots of jewelry. And he doesn’t wear linen suits. You’re more like the other one, who’s always smoking the cigars.”

  Blume chuckled. “I guess I am. But Mr. T is cooler.”

  “You scared of flying too? Like Mr. T?”

  “No, I like airplanes,” Blume said. “Some of them even give you free booze during the flight.”

  “My sister, Rose, is scared of flying. Just like Mr. T. She says it’s not normal, a machine that big moving through the air. She worries the airplane might drop right out of the sky if she ever got on one. Me? I can’t think of anything better than floating above the clouds.”

  Holten was stunned. It was the most Rue Hunter had spoken since they’d brought her in early yesterday morning.

  Blume said, “You’ll get on that airplane one day soon, Rue. I’m absolutely sure of it. But, first of all, we need to get you out of this place, and I’m going to need your help to make it happen. Okay?”

  Rue nodded. “Okay.”

  “I need you to tell me what happened at Devil’s Drop.”

  Even from where he was sitting in the other room, Holten could see the girl stiffen.

  “I already told those two cops I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I don’t remember anything.”

  Blume said, “That’s perfectly understandable, Rue. What happened to your friends was shocking, absolutely devastating. The police officers tell me there’s some evidence to suggest you were at Devil’s Drop when the murders took place, so it must have been very traumatic for you. And, sometimes, when we are subjected to violent or frightening events, the mind tries to protect us by hiding those memories from us.”

  Rue looked at Blume as though he was the one who needed a head doctor.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Okay, let me put it this way,” Blume said. “Imagine your mind has lots of different drawers where you can store different thoughts and memories. If something bad happens, you might want to put that particular memory inside one of the drawers right at the back, close it tight, and try to forget all about it. The memory isn’t gone completely. It’s still there, just hidden away in a drawer. When trying to retrieve the memory, it’s just about finding the right drawer to open. In your case, the drawer where the Devil’s Drop memories have been stored. Does that make any sense?”

  “What a load of horseshit,” Holten muttered.

  To his surprise, Rue nodded.

  “I guess so,” she said. “Like putting all your bad thoughts into a box and locking it?”

  “Exactly.” Blume beamed, looking pleased with himself. “Drawer or box. It doesn’t really matter. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

  “But what if you threw away the key, and you can’t open the box anymore?”

  “There are other ways to open the box.”

  “I’m not letting you hypnotize me, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Rue folded her arms across her chest. “I saw a show about it once on TV. The folks who were hypnotized then started stripping and dancing around the stage like chickens. No way am I doing anything like that.”

  Blume laughed. “I’m not going to hypnotize you, Rue. There are other methods we can try. But being in a more relaxed state does help. Like when you’re asleep. Sometimes memories can present themselves as dreams. Have you slept at all while you’ve been here at the station?”

  “A little. Not much.”

  “Any dreams or nightmares? Anything about Devil’s Drop?”

  Rue looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What did you dream about?” Blume asked gently. “What did you see in the dream?”

  Holten held his breath.

  “A knife,” Rue said.

  Holten breathed out slowly.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered.

  “Tell me about the knife,” Blume said.

  Rue shook her head. “I don’t remember much about it.”

  Blume opened the folder, pulled out a photograph, and placed it in front of Rue. It was a close-up shot of the murder weapon. A five-inch switchblade with an ornate wooden handle. The knife was caked in dried blood. Lucas’s and Megan’s blood.

  Rue stared at the photo.

  “Do you recognize this knife, Rue?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “From Devil’s Drop?”

  “No. I don’t know. I bought the knife for Lucas. It was a gift for our one-year anniversary.”

  This was news to Holten. Rue had refused to discuss the knife when questioned by the sheriff and his deputy. He’d check it out. Find out where she bought it, when exactly the knife had been purchased.

  “Did Lucas’s parents know about this gift?” Blume asked.

  “No,” said Rue. “They’d freak if they thought he was carrying a knife.”

  “Is this the same knife from your dream? Take another look at the photo.”

  Rue did as she was told, shrugged helplessly.

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, close your eyes and try to relax,” Blume said. “Then try to imagine the knife, this knife, in your hand. How does it feel?”

  Rue squeezed her eyes sh
ut. The silence hung heavy in the room for a full minute, then two minutes. Holten could hear deep, fast breathing, then realized it was his own.

  “It feels heavy,” Rue said eventually. “And it’s wet. I need to grip it tight to stop it from slipping from my hand.”

  “Good girl,” Blume soothed. “You’re doing great. What else do you remember?”

  Rue’s eyes opened. “Nothing. I don’t remember anything else.”

  Blume pulled some more images from the folder. Holten leaned forward for a better look. They were crime scene photos of Lucas James’s car.

  “I’m going to show you some photos taken at Devil’s Drop,” Blume said. “See if they help jog your memory, help you put yourself at the scene.”

  The first photo showed the driver’s side of the vehicle. The rear door was shut. Smears of blood stood out a darker shade of red on the car’s burgundy paint. There were red smudges on the window. The second photo was taken from the other side of the Toyota Cressida and showed a lifeless Megan Meeks hanging out of the open door.

  Rue pushed the photos away.

  “I don’t want to see them. You can’t make me look. Put them away.”

  “Okay, calm down, Rue. I’m putting the photographs away now.”

  Blume slid the crime scene photos back into the folder. Steepled his hands underneath his chin and stuck out his bottom lip. He was silent for a few moments, as though deep in thought.

  “Let’s try something else,” he said at length. “No visual aids this time. What I want you to do now is to focus on the dream. How did you feel in the dream? How did you feel when you woke up? What were your emotions?”

  Again, Rue closed her eyes.

  “I was scared,” she said in a small voice. “And angry.”

  “Let’s focus on the anger. Why are you angry? Who made you angry?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Were you angry with Megan and Lucas?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at Bloom.

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so. Why would I be angry with Megan and Lucas?”

  “Maybe they did something to make you mad?”

  “No.”

  Holten could see the girl was becoming agitated again. Blume picked up on it too and quickly changed tack again.

  He said, “Before Devil’s Drop, did you have trouble remembering things?”

  “Sure, if I have too much to drink, I don’t remember much about the night before. Hell, I might not even remember my own name, depending on how much liquor I’ve had.”

  “Any other times? What about when you were younger?”

  “Maybe,” Rue said. “I don’t know.”

  “The box you spoke about earlier? Did you ever put some bad thoughts in there and lock the box and throw away the key?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who told you about the box?”

  Rue scrunched up her face, like she was thinking hard.

  “My sister, Rose. She said if the bad stuff was locked in a box, it couldn’t hurt me anymore.”

  “What bad stuff?”

  Rue didn’t answer him.

  “Does your mom hit you, Rue?”

  “A slap now and then. No big deal. It usually happens when she’s drunk and wants to lash out at someone. Most of the time, she doesn’t even remember doing it afterward.”

  “How does it make you feel when she lashes out at you? Does it make you angry?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did your mom hit you when you were a child too?”

  “Sure,” Rue said. “Like I said, the occasional slap.”

  “Anyone else ever hit you?”

  Rue frowned. “Anyone like who?”

  “I understand your mom has a lot of, uh, male friends,” Blume said. “Maybe you called them uncles when you were younger. Have any of these men ever hit you?”

  “If you’re talking about all the guys my mother screws when she’s drunk, then no, I have never referred to them as uncles. And, no, none of them has ever hit me.”

  “Did any of them ever touch you in a way they shouldn’t have?”

  “No,” Rue said firmly. “She never brings men home with her. They go to his place, or some cheap motel, or even do it on the flatbed of his truck in the bar’s parking lot. But they never come to our house.”

  “Are you angry with your daddy for leaving you?”

  “No, why would I be? I didn’t even know him. As far as I can tell, Leonard Hunter wasn’t worth knowing anyway. We were better off without him.”

  “Were you angry with Megan and Lucas?”

  “You already asked me that question. I told you, I don’t remember.”

  “But you do remember holding the knife?”

  “Yes. It was heavy and wet. That’s all I remember.” She folded her arms in front of her chest again. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Blume nodded. “Let’s stop for a while. You’ve done great, Rue. Really, really good.”

  She looked at him. “Really? You think I did good?”

  As he’d watched the interview, Holten’s opinion of Blume hadn’t changed. He still thought the guy was an asshole. But, as much as he hated to admit it, he was impressed by how the shrink was getting Rue Hunter to open up to him. Surprised too. He decided to give Blume the benefit of the doubt awhile longer, see if the smooth-talking head doctor could come up with some real results.

  “I think you’ve done very well,” he heard Blume tell Rue. “Let’s take a break. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you try to have a little nap and see if anything else comes back to you? Maybe you’ll remember more about Devil’s Drop for me if you’re able to get some sleep.”

  “Okay,” the girl said. “I do feel pretty tired.”

  Holten jerked awake.

  He must have dozed off himself after Rue returned to her cell to nap at Blume’s suggestion. He didn’t know what was going on in the girl’s dreams, but his own were filled with the horrors of what he’d seen up at Devil’s Drop—that was for sure. Memories he wouldn’t be able to forget for a long time, no matter how many boxes or drawers he tried to shove them in. His neck ached and felt stiff, and he massaged it as he looked up to see Blume standing over him. The shrink was smiling the Robert Redford smile, with both the lips and the eyes. Hell, there were teeth as well this time. This must be big.

  “What’s happened?” Holten asked. “What time is it?”

  Blume consulted his watch. “Almost ten p.m.”

  “Jesus.” Holten sat up straighter. “I hope we’re not paying you by the hour.”

  “I think you’ll find my fee will be worth every cent, Sheriff Holten.”

  “Is that so?”

  Blume pointed to the two-way mirror where Rue Hunter was sitting slumped in the chair in the interview room. The girl looked exhausted, deflated, defeated.

  “Miss Hunter and I have had another chat after her nap,” he said. “Well, when I say nap, she was asleep for quite some time. It would appear the slumber has done her good and has shaken loose some more memories.”

  The doctor paused for dramatic effect.

  “And?” Holten snapped impatiently.

  “She says she now remembers stabbing her friends to death at Devil’s Drop,” Blume said. “And she’s ready to make a full confession.”

  17

  JESSICA

  Jessica pulled into a space in front of a 7-Eleven just off Franklin and noticed Pryce’s midnight-blue Dodge Charger was already in the lot.

  She thought about the message he’d left for her, how it had been blunt and straight to the point. The muscles in her stomach clenched. The visit to the prison in Chowchilla had been nerve racking. The prospect of a still-pissed Pryce was worse than a face to face with a double murderer.

  Jessica glanced at the clock on the dash: 9:51. Pryce was always early; she was usually late. So, she figured, she had plenty of time for a smoke before their meeting. She reached for her pack of Marlboro Ligh
ts, sunglasses, and bag and climbed out of the truck. She leaned against the Silverado and smoked a cigarette, the nicotine gradually doing its job of setting her nerves at ease. A whiskey would’ve been better, but ten a.m. on a Monday morning was too early even for her.

  She crushed the butt under the sole of her sneaker, popped a breath mint into her mouth, and slipped on the sunglasses. It was shaping up to be another glorious day. She wore a sleeveless black cotton dress, and the heat of the morning sun on her bare arms and legs felt good. The Converse had been a bad idea, though. Her feet squelched inside the high-top sneakers as she crossed the lot and turned onto North Vermont Avenue.

  It was an eclectic street with a sprinkling of trendy bars and restaurants sitting comfortably alongside an old 1930s three-screen cinema and tiny handmade-jewelry boutiques. Millennials sipped lattes and green teas as they strolled the sidewalk or relaxed at outdoor cafés.

  Bru Coffeebar was squeezed between a gym and a real estate agency. Pryce was sitting at one of the tables in the tiny, fenced-off outdoor seating area, and Jessica immediately felt the palms of her hands become as sweaty as her feet. He was wearing a black open-necked shirt, gray dress pants, and designer shades. She knew he would also have a gold badge clipped onto the waistband of the pants and a Beretta 92FS secured in a shoulder holster, but Jessica thought he would look like a cop even without the accessories.

  She had to go through the coffee shop to reach the seated area via an open patio door, and Pryce glanced up from the menu he was reading and nodded a greeting as she passed him. He then stood as she lowered herself into the seat facing him. Pissed or not, he still had manners.

  Turned out he wasn’t pissed after all. Not anymore.

  He handed her the drinks menu and said, “I’m sorry about Saturday night, Jessica. The way I spoke to you? I was way out of line.”

  “No, I’m sorry. When I agreed to take on the case, I didn’t stop to think about the repercussions for other people. For you.”

  “You didn’t know my old partner investigated the murders. You were thinking of Ed and the agency and the money.”