False Allegations

'I don't know,' she said softly. 'It's a delicate probe, going in like this. If I was still on the job…'

'I may know someone,' I told her. 'A cop.'

'Do I know him?'

'Morales.'

'Oh yes, I know him,' she smiled. 'The only difference between him and a dinosaur is he's not stupid.'

'He likes you too,' I said.

We killed an hour or so just walking around the airport, Wolfe's hand on my arm. I told her I had to make a phone call. Went and bought her a white rose at the florist shop. She gave me a kiss and boarded her flight, not looking back.

I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. I got a shoeshine, prowled through a bookstore, just walked around. Then I worked the pay phones.

Every line I'd thrown out was reeling in the same kind of fish. Every tile dropped onto the mosaic was different, but I already knew what picture was going to appear when it was done. So when I met with Perry for the last time the next morning, I wanted it without the frills.

'Bottom line, doctor: Is she telling the truth?'

'Well, she signed the release, so…First of all, let me start by saying that whatever you do, encourage your client—Jennifer—to get some help. I can give you some names of good therapists in her community. I discussed this with her and she seemed somewhat resistant…she said she's already in therapy, but judging from the test results, I…'

'I'll talk to her about it,' I said, guiding him back to what I needed to know.

'All right. Good. Anyway, she has a set of primary symptoms—anxiety, dissociation, dysphoria, profound sleep problems, increased startle response, recurring intrusive ideations about specific humiliating experiences, poor self–esteem—all consistent with any number of DSM–Four diagnostic labels. But the most important aspect of her symptoms is that they do appear to be cue–specific. And in this regard, she would meet diagnostic criteria for PSTD. And for a dissociative disorder as well—a whole host of apparently benign cues produce dramatic heart rate increases, which are followed by classic dissociative responses.'

Poor little bitch, I thought. Hung out to dry, trained to dance so hard she kept it up even when the music stopped. But every time she heard that music again…'Sure,' I said, 'but is she—?'

'With regard to her hair–pulling,' he rolled on, refusing to be derailed, 'both in her reporting to me and in her projective testing, she had confusion about intimacy, sexuality, and pain. Hair pulling—we have some on tape—was associated with the same decrease in heart rate that a dissociative response was. In other words, she does it because it soothes her. For Jennifer, it's like taking a little hit of morphine every time. The confusion about what is soothing and what is arousing, of course, makes her vulnerable to sexual exploitation. I'm sure you've seen that before.'

'I've seen it cut both ways,' I told him.

'It can,' he agreed. He leaned back in his chair, rotating his head slightly as if he was working out some kinks in his neck. Then leaned forward, elbow on the desk, cupping his chin in his hand. 'With regard to trauma…it's clear from both her history and the corroborating neurophysiological reactivity—and her symptom constellation—that she has been exposed to multiple trauma at different times in her childhood, certainly some coming prior to adolescence.'

He took a deep breath, looking me full in the face. 'I'm told that you have considerable investigative experience in this area, Mr. Burke. What's your gut instinct?'

'That it happened,' I told him flat out. 'That she's telling the truth. That she was a damaged little girl. That this Brother Jacob sniffed her out like a shark spotting a belly–up fish. And that he had sex with her when she was a kid.'

'Me too,' he said, holding out his hand to shake, telling me we were done talking.

I couldn't think of another rock to turn over. Truth is, I believed her the first time I heard her. It was only Kite who kept me going, following every spot of blood on the tracks. It wasn't the money. I know how to go through the motions without actually doing anything. And I know more about killing time than a Peeping Tom knows about backlighting.

Later, when I was thinking about it—when I was trying not to think about it—I snapped to what had been going on, why I had been working so hard. I was finding the truth. Truth doesn't mean much to a con man. It's all presentation, not substance. Kite showed me what he had, put it right on the table. When it started, all I wanted was to get him off my back. And take his money. That's what I told myself.

He was an evangelist, I knew that. I didn't realize I'd become the congregation until I was down too deep.

And by the time I came out the other side, there was nothing to do but go with what I really knew.

'Please don't do that,' Kite said.

'Do what?'

'Stare so deeply into my eyes—it's not polite. I suffer from nystagmus, and your staring makes me uncomfortable.'

'Sorry,' I lied, sitting in that butterscotch armchair. 'Anyway, it's the real deal. It checks out every way there is.'

'You're sure?' he asked softly. 'There's no mistake?'

'Unless there's some more evidence lying around, I got it all,' I told him.

His eyes flared behind the pink glasses. 'Do you believe there might be some?'

'Might have been,' I said. 'But this Brother Jacob character won't be stupid enough to hold on to it. I'm done digging—there's no pay dirt left.'

'Is there anything else? Anything you haven't turned over?' he asked, one long finger tapping a thick stack of documents on the little round table to his right.

'Just this,' I said, pulling a list of names and addresses out of my jacket pocket. 'It's not the coffin, but, with everything else, it's damn sure another nail.'

I handed it over. He scanned the list, shaking his head. 'I don't see what this—'

'Third page, fourth name from the top,' I told him.

''Russell J. Swithenbrecht.' A post office box in Erie, Pennsylvania. What does that have to do with—?'

'That's him,' I said. 'Brother Jacob. He keeps the box under that name. Drives over about once a month. Only takes about an hour and a half, two hours tops. Always the same way. Drives there on a Friday night, stays over, hits the box Saturday morning—the branch is only open until noon. Then he drives back to Buffalo in time for his regular sessions on Saturday afternoon. Been doing it for years.'

'And that proves…?'

'What you have in your hands is a printout of a subscription list,' I said. 'For a little magazine called Unique Yearnings.'

Kite's eyebrows lifted into a question.

'Girl–lovers, they call themselves,' I told him. 'Little girls.'

'We have found the truth,' Kite said, looking up directly into my eyes.

I could feel Heather standing behind me—feel the heat coming off her.

I met Morales in Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library, a block from where the heart of Times Square would be if it had one.

'This guy I'm looking at for Kite. If you ever hear anything—'

'What you got so far?' the cop asked.

It took another six weeks to assemble the ingredients. Then Kite dropped the bomb. Jennifer Dalton sued Brother Jacob in New York County Supreme Court. For twenty–five million dollars. Her complaint alleged sexual abuse, statutory rape, sodomy, extortion, intentional infliction of emotional distress, assault, battery, pastoral malpractice, and half a dozen other charges. The Psalmists were not named in the lawsuit—it was all Brother Jacob.

I caught it on the news, a thirty–second clip from a press conference called to announce the litigation. 'Yes,