All Is Not Forgotten(74)

First things first. I had become very intolerant of Tom and his obsession with the blue sweatshirt. I had not come to disdain or dislike the man. Quite the contrary. I looked at him like a petulant child, my petulant child, who would not obey my instructions.

I just don’t understand why they don’t have every forensic guy looking into this picture! Tom was holding the photo of my son from a yearbook. You could not see his face.

“This is from a lacrosse game? At the school?”

Yes! The spring Jenny was raped.

“And what do you think they will be able to tell with more forensics? This is a medium-sized teenage boy, nondescript body, a Fairview High School cap. I’m sure you’ve looked at it with a magnifying glass. Every inch, right?”

Tom stared at the photo. Yes. I have. I just … Look, I can identify one of the girls standing behind him, and one of the boys next to her. If they showed this to everyone who went to that game, surely someone would remember!

“Maybe. I’m sure that’s the problem. They’re talking to all the kids at the party again. Maybe they’re afraid to have this thing start looking like a witch hunt. They don’t have to come in for questioning, you know. Under the law. Right now, it’s all voluntary. That could change if people got the wrong sense of what this has become.”

Really. And what has it become?

“Well, we’ve talked about your guilt. About your parents and how they affected your self-esteem. Your sense of self. Your ‘id,’ if you will. Tom, these things will not be changed simply by finding the man who raped your daughter.”

Jesus Christ! Are we really going to talk about my id when we have this lead? Can’t I just find this f*cker, and then, I promise you, I’ll come back in and disparage my poor parents until I can stand up to my wife and my boss and anyone else you want me to. How’s that?

Two words popped into my head then. Oh shit.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you need to see this through. Maybe our work has to stop for now. But consider this before we do: This photo—all it shows is a boy with a sweatshirt. You can hardly see what the shape is on the sweatshirt from the angle it’s at. And the only reason you’re concerned with the sweatshirt is because of something a drug dealer said to reduce his sentence. Do you see my concern?”

Frankly, no. Not at all.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together and head hung to my chest. I could feel Tom’s eyes upon me, waiting for the words that I looked so pained to find. This technique is extremely effective. When I lifted my head, I wore the face of conviction.

“Over the past few months, we have dug very deep and stirred many feelings about your childhood. And in doing so, you have courageously faced your anger at your parents—and there is anger, Tom. It doesn’t matter how lovely they are, how supportive of your family. You parent your children in a way that is in complete defiance of everything they did with you and your sister. And that tells me that you know, in your heart, that they caused you harm. Emotional harm. You feel unworthy of everything in your life that’s good, like you’ve stolen it. And you have a subconscious belief that the bad things that come your way do so as retribution for your theft. You have guilt for that, Tom. Anger and guilt.”

Tom was following along, and I was gently leading him to the path I needed him to follow.

I was so f*cking sick of that blue sweatshirt.

“Where has that anger gone? Where has the guilt gone?” I took the picture from his hand. “Here, Tom! Here!” I waved the picture. “It’s all here—directed at some kid wearing a sweatshirt. You’re not seeing the big picture—for yourself or for the investigation.”

You are weary of my descriptions about my patients crying. But I assure you, I have been very judicious in this regard. Every patient I see cries at almost every session. Do the math on that.

Tom cried. If it annoys you, don’t worry. We are moving on and moving quickly.

I held Tom’s hand and then I gave him a gentle push down the path.

“Tom. Have you considered that the police have other leads? And that maybe they’re not including you, because of this blind rage you have at the moment? Maybe it’s all under control and you can just hand them the reins and let them do their job. That would be a relief, wouldn’t it?”

Tom looked at me with a new fire in his eyes. Would they do that? Would they not include me? I’ve been part of this investigation for over a year. Since it happened!

I shrugged. “I don’t know, Tom. It’s just a possibility I would like you to consider. I was hoping it would put your mind at ease. Let you lay down your sword and shield and rest for a while.”

I have to go, Alan. I’m sorry. I know I’m being a bad patient. I will deal with these things you raise. Just not now. Not now!

We both stood up. I extended my hand, and when he gave me his, I cupped my other one around it. “Tom. Please. Consider what I’ve said. Lay down your weapons. Let the professionals do their work.”

But Tom was already gone.

Now for my son.

The interview could not be put off any longer without raising suspicion. Attorney Brandino went with him. I did as well. I told my wife to stay home because she did not have the ability to hide her emotions. Two young male cops asked the questions. They were tired of all this, of Tom Kramer, of the daily calls to small-town districts, asking about old rape files, sitting on hold with the phone pinned between their ears and necks, giving them cramps and headaches and keeping them from their tweets and Snapchats and Facebook updates. This was their town as well, so in addition to the boredom, they were reluctant to ruffle feathers. It is not fun to go through one’s day being scowled at.