All Is Not Forgotten(83)

Shelby had gone to that party to stalk my son.

Now you understand the debilitating fear that was provoked when I found out my son had been in those woods.

I did not tell Parsons.

“That is something, Detective. Really something. I have a request. You said there were writings? About the rape?”

Oh yeah. This guy kept detailed notes. They match everything we found and more. It’s sick stuff, I’ll tell you.

“I know this will sound strange. But I think I could use them to help Jenny with her memory. Do you think I could see them, or copy them?”

Jesus Christ. That is strange. Is that what she wants? To know everything he was thinking and feeling while he did those things to her?

“I will speak to her and her parents. But I don’t want to get their hopes up if we can’t get the writings.”

I can get you the writings.

“Thank you.”

Oh—and I almost forgot. That old-timer from Oregon? Remember?

I remembered.

Says he found the file. The report was from a school. A teacher saw the blood coming from the kid’s shirt. Made him go to the nurse, and she reported the cut. Said it didn’t look like an accident. It was too clean, like someone had cut him on purpose.

“Well, Detective. I guess that’s not relevant anymore, is it? Glenn Shelby would have been a child himself back then.”

Yeah. I told him we didn’t need the file anymore. Thank God. This whole thing is finally over. Think I’ll take my vacation time.

“You deserve it.” I did not mean this.

So do you, Alan. You have been a godsend for the Kramers. I know they are very grateful to you.

“Well, I was more than happy to help. I just hope I can finish the job.”





Chapter Thirty-five

Empathy is defined this way: “the ability to share and understand the feelings of another.”

Women talking for hours at a lunch. Men walking the golf course together every Sunday morning. Teenage girls glued to their phones. This is when we tell our stories, sometimes in meticulous detail, watch the expressions in others as they take in the words. We extract from them their sympathy, their joy, their understanding. We do this so we are not alone as we walk slowly toward our death. Empathy is at the very core of our humanity. Life is pain without it.

These are the last few strands of sugar.

Detective Parsons gave me Glenn Shelby’s writings. The Kramers discussed my plan and agreed that it was worthwhile. So one evening in early summer, just over a year after the rape, Jenny Kramer came to my office to finally learn, one way or another, exactly what had happened in those woods behind Juniper Road.

She wore the clothes from that night—the duplicates we had been working with at the office. She wore the same perfume and makeup. Her hair was down except for one small braid on the right side.

Jenny had taken the events of the past two weeks extremely well. She said it was comforting to her that the man responsible was not Bob Sullivan, but instead a man with a serious mental illness. I facilitated this with a very generous description of Glenn’s condition. I know if she had met him and seen how normal he presented to the world, she would have felt differently. Given his conditions, she said it felt more like an accident, like she had gotten in the way of a wild animal in the jungle, or a shark. Or that powerful wave in the ocean. It was not about whether she forgave Glenn Shelby for raping her. It was about her ability to understand, and to place what happened into a context that made life possible to live. Some things are not like that. Some things are so incomprehensible that they rip out our floor, our foundation, and we hobble through life with fear of falling through with each step taken. That was how it would have been with Bob Sullivan—the man who smiled at her when she went to her father’s work, who could have any woman he wanted. To think that he could have done those things to her would have left her devoid of reason, and incapable of trusting anyone ever again.

“Where do you want to start?” I asked her.

She was nervous and, I think, a little embarrassed.

I don’t know. Should I be on the ground? Or should I just sit here and close my eyes?

“Why don’t you sit and close your eyes. Let’s see if that’s enough.”

I let her smell the bleach disk. I played the music. I had a Baggie with some debris from the woods, and I opened that as well. Jenny took a long breath and exhaled slowly. Then she closed her eyes. I pulled out the writings that Detective Parsons had given me. I began to read the words of Glenn Shelby.

I parked several blocks away and walked to Juniper Road. From the woods, I could see everything. The house was lit up in every room. Kids were drinking and laughing. Some of them went to be alone in bedrooms. They met the drug dealer by the back door. I saw the boy inside. I knew it was only a matter of time. I could see his car parked in the driveway. It was near the edge of the woods. I knew I would take him from there.

I looked from the pages to Jenny. She was concentrating. There was no emotion yet.

The boy left, but he did not go to his car. He kept walking down the driveway and out to Juniper Road. I lost sight of him, and this made me angry. The girl came then. I heard the ground crackle as she ran. I heard her tears. I was easily distracted by her. She was so sad.

I could hear Jenny’s breathing quicken. I wanted to know what was happening, but I didn’t want to interrupt it, whatever it was. I knew these words were leading her back. I could sense it.