The Wrong Man

19

At first, Ashley was overwhelmed by rage.

Seconds after Michael O’Connell’s voice disappeared from the cell phone, she threw it across the room, where it exploded against a wall like a gunshot. She bent over at the waist, her fists clenched, her face contorted, flushed, teeth grinding. She picked up a textbook and threw it in the same direction, where it slammed on the plaster and thudded to the floor. She paced into her bedroom, seized a small throw pillow from the bed, then pummeled it, like a boxer in the last round, throwing rights and lefts recklessly. Seizing the pillow and sinking her hands into the fabric, she pulled it apart. Bits and pieces of synthetic stuffing flew into the air around her, landing in her hair and on her clothing. Her eyes were filling with tears, and she finally let out a wail of despair, sliding into a complete black depression.

Ashley threw herself down on the bed, curled into the fetal position, and cried piteously, giving in to everything that was flowing in torrents within her. Her body racked with frustration, she heaved and gasped, as if her frustration had stretched into every fiber of her body, like some errant infection.

When she had no more tears, she rolled over, staring up at the ceiling, clutching pillow shreds to her chest. She breathed in deeply. She understood that tears didn’t solve any problem, but she felt a little better nevertheless.

When she could feel her heartbeat returning to normal, Ashley sat up.

“All right,” she said out loud. “Let’s get your shit together, girl.”

She glanced over at the shattered cell phone and decided that her burst of anger was a blessing. She would have to get a new phone, and with it, a new number. One, she promised herself, that Michael O’Connell wouldn’t have. She looked over at the desk, with the landline phone. “Cancel that.”

Next to the telephone was her laptop computer. “All right,” she said, again speaking to herself in the same way she would to a young child, “Change your Web service. Change your e-mail account. Cancel all bill-paying services. Start over.”

Then she looked around the apartment. “If you have to move, you have to move.”

She sighed deeply. She could go into the graduate-school registrar’s office in the morning and get her transcripts corrected. She knew this would be a major hassle, but she had paper copies of her grades somewhere, and whatever mischief Michael O’Connell had managed, she could sort her way through it. The current courses-and the nonexistent absences-might be impossible. But it was only one class, and although it was a setback, it wasn’t fatal.

Getting fired was a bigger problem. She had no confidence that the assistant director wouldn’t prove to be an obstacle in the future. He was a rigid dilettante and a closet sexist, and she would hate to have to deal with him again. She decided that the best course of action would be to try to get one of her undergraduate professors to write the assistant director a letter, simply telling him he’d been mistaken in his assumptions about her, and that her employment record should reflect this. She was pretty sure that she could get someone to do this when she explained the circumstances. It might not correct her firing-but it might at least neutralize the damage done.

After all, she told herself briskly, it wasn’t as if the job at the museum was the only job she could get. There had to be others, filled with color and art, that would speak to who she was and who she hoped to be.

The more Ashley planned, the better she felt. The more she decided on, the more she felt in control, the more she felt like herself, the stronger and more determined she believed herself to be. After a moment or two, she got up, shook herself from head to toe, and walked into the bathroom.

She stared at herself in the mirror, shaking her head at her swollen and red-rimmed eyes. “All right,” she said as she filled the sink with steaming-hot water and started to wash her face, “no more damn tears over this son of a bitch.”

No more getting scared. No more anxiety. No more gnashing teeth and nervous frustration. She was going to get on with her life, Michael O’Connell be damned.

She was suddenly hungry, and after washing away as much of her sadness as she could, she went to the kitchen, found a single pint of Ben amp; Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream in the freezer, and scooped out a large helping, letting the sweet tastes improve her mood, before she went to her remaining telephone to call her father. As she crossed her apartment, eating the ice cream out of the container, she hesitated by the window, glancing out into the night with a twinge of uncertainty. No more staring into shadows. Ashley turned away, seized her landline phone, and began dialing, unaware what pair of eyes were searching the wan light of her home for a glimpse of her form, both satisfied and yet dissatisfied with just the merest suggestions of her presence, completely at ease with the darkness, excited by how close he felt to her at that very moment. It was something that she would never understand, he thought to himself. How every step she took to try to separate herself only made him more excited and filled him with more passion. He turned the collar up on his coat and dropped back farther into a dark shadow. He could be warm right there all night if need be.

Hope was surprised to find Sally waiting for her when she arrived home that evening. They had fallen into the stiffest of patterns, marked by long silences.

She looked across at her partner of so many years and suddenly felt a surge of exhaustion and dismay cascade through her. This is it, she thought to herself. This is where we put words to an ending. A shapeless sadness filled her as she nervously looked over to Sally.

“You’re back a little early tonight,” she said as blandly as possible. “Hungry? I can put something together quickly, but it won’t be real interesting.”

Sally barely moved. Her hand was wrapped around another Scotch. “I’m not hungry,” she said a little sloppily. “But we need to talk. We have a problem.”

“Yes,” Hope replied, slowly removing her jacket and setting down her backpack. “I would say so.”

“More than one.”

“Yes. More than one. Maybe I should get a drink, too.” Hope went into the kitchen.

While Hope poured herself a large glass of white wine, Sally tried to sort through precisely where she was going to begin, and which of the multitude of troubles she would bring forth first. Some odd conflation was in her mind, joining the assault on her client account and the threat to her career with the unsettled coolness she felt toward Hope. Who am I? Sally asked herself.

She felt as she did in the days before she and Scott had separated. A sort of black, gray gloom coloring her thoughts. It took an immense force of will for her to remain seated. She wanted to rise up and run away. For a lawyer, accustomed to the world of solving sticky issues, she felt abruptly incompetent.

When she looked up, Hope was standing in the entrance.

“I need to tell you what has happened,” Sally said.

“You’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

“No, no…”

“A man?”

“No.”

“Then another woman?”

“No.”

“You just don’t love me anymore?” Hope continued.

“I don’t know what I love. I feel as if I’m, I don’t know, but fading, like an old photo.”

Hope thought this an indulgent and overromantic statement. It made her angry, and it was all she could do, given all the tension she’d been under, to keep from bursting forth. “You know, Sally,” she said with a coldness that surprised her, “I don’t really want to discuss all the ins and outs of your emotional state. So things aren’t perfect. What is it you want to do? I hate living in this minefield of a household. It seems to me that either we split up, or, I don’t know, what? What would you suggest? But I sure as hell hate this psychological roller coaster.”

Sally shook her head. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Like hell you haven’t.” Hope felt a little guilty about how good it felt to be angry.

Sally started to say something, then stopped. “There’s another problem,” she said. “One that impacts both of us, and how we live.”

Sally quickly filled Hope in on the complaint from the state bar association and with the harsh financial reality that a good chunk of their savings had-at least for the time being-been wiped out, and that it would likely take some time for her to track down the money and file the necessary documents to get it returned.

Hope listened, aghast. “You are kidding, right?”

“I wish.”

“But that wasn’t your money, it was our money. You should have consulted me beforehand.”

“I had to move with speed to avoid a real inquiry by the bar association.”

“That’s an excuse. But not one that explains why you didn’t pick up the goddamn phone and tell me what was going on.”

Sally did not reply.

“So, we’re not only on the verge of divorce, but we’re suddenly broke?”

Sally nodded. “Well, not completely, but until we get things sorted out…”

“Well, that’s great. Just dandy. Just fucking terrific. What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Hope stood up and paced back and forth across the room. She was so angry with her partner that it seemed as if the room lights had dimmed and then brightened, like a power surge in the electricity.

Before Sally could reply, I don’t know, the telephone rang.

Hope pivoted about, stared at the phone as if it were somehow to blame for misfortune, and stomped across the room to answer it. She was muttering obscenities to herself with every step, and the words managed to mark her pace.

“Yes?” she said rudely. “Who is it?”

From her spot in the armchair, and more or less miserable from the mess her life seemed to be in, Sally saw Hope’s face abruptly freeze. “What is it?” Sally asked. “Is something wrong?”

Hope hesitated, obviously listening to the person on the other end of the line. After a moment, she nodded and said, “Jesus effing Christ. Hang on, I’ll get her for you.”

Then she turned to Sally.

“Yes. No. Here. You take it. It’s Scott. The creep is back in Ashley’s life. Big-time.”

Scott arrived at their house about an hour later. He rang the doorbell, heard Nameless bark, and looked up to see Hope opening the door. They had their usual second or two of awkward silence, then she gestured for him to enter. “Hey, Scott,” she said. “Come on in.” He was surprised that Hope looked as if she’d been crying, because he had always assumed she was the tough one in the relationship with Sally. One thing he did know for certain: his ex-wife was the moody half of any relationship.

He dispensed with any greetings when he reached the living room. “Did you speak with Ashley?”

Sally nodded. “While you were driving over. She filled me in on what she told you. Now she’s stuck with no job and a mess at school.” Sally sighed. “I guess we underestimated just how persistent Michael O’Connell might be.”

Scott lifted his eyebrows. “That would seem to be an understatement. It was a mistake we probably couldn’t have avoided. But now we’ve got to help Ashley extricate herself.”

“I thought that was what you went to Boston to do,” Sally said coldly, looking at her ex-husband with arched eyebrows. “Along with five thousand reasons in cash.”

“Yes,” Scott replied equally coolly, “I guess our bribe offer didn’t work. So, what’s the next step?”

They were all quiet for a moment, until Hope blurted, “Ashley’s in a bad situation. She clearly needs assistance, but how? And what? What is it we can do?”

“There must be laws,” Scott said.

“There are, but how do we apply them?” Hope continued. “And, so far, what law do we think this guy has broken? He hasn’t assaulted her. Hasn’t hit her. Hasn’t threatened her. He’s told her he loves her. And he’s followed her. And then what he’s done is screwed up her life with the computer. Mischief, mostly.”

“There are laws against that,” Sally said, then stopped.

“Computer mischief,” he said. “That hardly describes it.”

“Anonymous,” Sally said.

All three were thinking hard about what to say next. Then Scott leaned back and said, “I had a really sticky problem of my own the last week or so, generated anonymously by computer. I think it’s solved, but…”

Nobody spoke for a second, before Hope added, “So have I.”

Sally looked up, surprised at what she’d heard.

But before she could say anything, Hope pointed directly at her. “And so has she.”

Hope stood up. “I think everyone is going to need a drink.” She headed off in search of another bottle of wine. “Maybe more than one drink,” she threw back over her shoulder to where Scott and Sally were staring at each other in doubt.

The Massachusetts State Police detective seated across from me seemed at first like an oddly pleasant fellow, with little of the hard-bitten, world-weary appearance of a character in a police novel. He was of modest height and build, wore a blue blazer and inexpensive khaki pants, and had close-cropped sandy-colored hair with a disarming bushy mustache on his upper lip. If it weren’t for the ice-black, nine-millimeter Glock pistol riding under his arm in a shoulder holster, he would have seemed more like an insurance salesman, or a high school teacher.

He rocked back in his chair, ignored a ringing telephone, and said, “So, you want to know a little bit about stalking, right?”

“Yes. Research,” I replied.

“For a book? Or an article? Not because of some personal interest in the subject?”

“I’m not sure that I follow.”

The detective grinned. “Well, it’s a little like the guy who calls up the doctor and says, ‘I’ve got this buddy at work who wants to know what the symptoms of, ah, a sexually transmitted disease like, ah, syphilis or gonorrhea are. And how he, ah, that’s my friend, not me, might have gotten it, ’cause he’s in a lot of pain.’ ”

I shook my head. “You think that I’m being stalked and want…”

He smiled, but it was a calculating grin. “Maybe you want to stalk someone and you’re looking for tips on how to avoid arrest. That would be the crazy sort of thing a real intense stalker might try to pull off. It’s always an error to underestimate them. And what they will do when it comes time for them to do it. A really dedicated stalker makes a science of his obsession. A science and an art.”

“How so?”

“He not only studies his victim, but their world, as well. Family. Friends. Job. School. Where they like to eat dinner. Where they go to the movies or have their car serviced or buy their lottery tickets. Where they walk the dog. He uses all sorts of resources, both legal and illegal, to accumulate information. He is constantly measuring, assessing, anticipating. He devotes his every waking thought to his target-so much so that often he can think steps ahead, almost as if he is reading the victim’s mind. He comes to know them almost better than they know themselves.”

“What is all this driven by?”

“Psychologists are unsure. Obsessive behavior is always something of a mystery. A past that has, shall we say, rough edges?”

“Probably more than that.”

“Yes, probably. My guess is, scratch the surface a bit, you’ll find some pretty nasty stuff in their childhood. Abuse. Violence. You name it.”

He shook his head. “Dangerous folks, stalkers. They aren’t your ordinary type of low-rent criminal by any means. Whether you’re a trailer-park checkout girl in the local supermarket being stalked by your biker ex-boyfriend, or a Hollywood star with all the money in the world being stalked by an obsessed fan, you’re in a whole lot of danger, because, no matter what you do, if they want it enough, they will get to you. And law enforcement, even with temporary restraining orders and cyber-stalking laws, is designed to react to, not head off, an eventual crime. Stalkers know this. And the frightening thing is, they often don’t care. Not a bit. They are immune to the usual sanctions. Embarrassment. Financial ruin. Prison. Death. These things don’t necessarily frighten them. What they fear is losing sight of their target. It overcomes everything, and that single-minded pursuit becomes their entire rationale for living.”

“What can a victim do?”

He reached into his desk and brought out a pamphlet titled “Are You Being Stalked? Advice from the Massachusetts State Police.”

“We give you some material to read.”

“That’s it?”

“Until a felony is committed. And then, it’s usually too late.”

“What about advocacy groups and…”

“Well, they can help some people. There are safe spaces, secret housing, support groups, you name it. All can provide some assistance in some cases. And I would never tell someone not to contact those types-but you have to be cautious, because you might be bringing something to a confrontation that you really don’t want. But it’s usually too late, anyways. You want to know what’s really crazy?”

I nodded.

“Our state legislature has been in the forefront of passing laws to protect folks, but the dedicated stalker finds his way around them. And, what’s even worse, once you engage the authorities-like when you go file the complaint and have the case registered and obtain the court order requiring the stalker to stay away-that can just as easily trigger disaster. Force the bad guy’s hand. Make him act precipitously. Load up all his weaponry and announce, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ ”

“And…”

“Use your imagination, Mr. Writer. You know what happens when some guy shows up at a workplace or a home or wherever, dressed up like Rambo in cammy fatigues, with an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, at least two pistols, and enough ammunition strapped to his chest to hold off a SWAT team for hours. You’ve seen those stories.”

I was quiet. I had indeed. The detective grinned again.

“Here’s something you should keep in mind: as best as we can tell, both in law enforcement and forensic psychology, the closest profile we can arrive at for a truly dedicated stalker is more or less exactly the same as a serial killer.”

He leaned back. “That kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?”