Self-Defence

'Living in Topanga Canyon. His career died and he moved to L.A.'

'I read him in school.'

'Everyone did.'

'She's his daughter? Unreal.'

'You can see why he'd have impact, even being absent.'

'Sure,' he said. 'He's just there, like the goddamn Ten Foot Gorilla.'

'Lucy compared it to being the President's kid. I can understand her looking for a benevolent authority figure. Maybe your thoughts about a big brother weren't all that far from the truth.'

'Great. And now I disappoint her, too… So how do I handle this? Visit or keep my distance?'

'Let's see how she does during the next few days.'

'Sure. Head in the oven… No idea what could have led her to it?'

I shook my head. 'She was upset, but nothing that pointed to suicide.'

'Upset about me.'

'That, but we'd also started to get into other things- the prostitution, feelings toward her father. And the dream she mentioned to you. That's something else I want to talk to you about.'

I described the buried girl story.

He said, 'I'm no shrink, but I hear, 'Daddy scares the shit out of me.' '

'She started having it midway through the trial, right after you testified about Carrie. I figured all that horror raised her anxiety level and released long-buried feelings toward Lowell- seeing herself as some kind of victim. His last poems are viciously anti-woman; she may have read them and had a strong reaction. And the last time we discussed the dream she said she'd felt her soul entering the dark-haired girl's body- as if she were being buried too. Explicitly identifying with the victim. But something the half brother told me in the hospital makes me wonder if there's even more. She claims she's had no contact with Lowell her entire life, but the brother said twenty-one years ago she spent the summer with him in Topanga. All four of his kids did. Lucy was four years old at the time- the age she feels in the dream. And Lowell's place has log buildings, exactly what she describes. Now, the newspapers did cover the opening of the retreat, down to the architecture; I found the clippings so she could've also. Or she could have heard about it from her brother Peter. He did some family research and filled her in. If that's the case, she's flat out denying being there. But the alternative is that she really doesn't remember. Maybe because something traumatic happened that summer.'

His jaw flexed. 'Daddy did something to her?'

'Like I said, his last poems are grossly misogynistic. If he abused her, I can see why the trial might kick in the memories- sex and violence thrown together. One thing's for sure, she's struggling with something major. The recurrent nature of the dream and its intensity- when she talks about it she actually seems to experience it- she's trancelike. Almost as if she's going into hypnosis by herself. That tells me her ego boundaries are weakening; this is something potent. So maybe I should've been more careful. But there was no profound depression, no hint she'd do this.'

'What about the other two guys in the dream?'

'Could be that part's fantasy, or maybe what happened to her wasn't a solo act. And I've got another possible participant. That summer, Lowell had a protege living with him named Terry Trafficant. Career criminal, history of attempted rape, assault, manslaughter. Locked up long-term till Lowell helped him get parole and publish his jail diary. It became a best-seller.'

'Yeah, yeah, I wasn't a cop yet, still in college, but I remember thinking how asinine.'

'So did a lot of other people. The last cop who arrested him called him a stick of dynamite waiting to go off. There was a stink about Lowell's patronage, then Trafficant disappeared. A guy like that, all those years in confinement, stick him in Topanga Canyon with a cute little girl running around, who knows.'

He grimaced. 'Trafficant's record include pedophilia?'

'I don't remember reading that, but a guy like him might very well not be repulsed by sex with a little girl.'

'Yeah. The other possibility, Alex, is that nothing happened directly to her but she saw something. And not even criminal violence- maybe wild sex, some kind of orgy. A girl and three guys- that would freak out a four-year- old, right? What if the grinding was exactly what she first thought it was and her mind ran away with it? Like you said, sex and violence are all mixed up in her head.'

I thought about that. 'It's sure possible. The half brother said the kids were at the retreat for the opening. A big party took place. The papers described it as a pretty wild scene. And in the dream, Lucy talks about noise and lights the night she leaves the cabin. She could've seen something X-rated.'

'Involving Daddy. He and a couple of buddies having their way with a girl,' he said. 'Not the kind of thing a little kid could handle easily.'

'And the trial reawakens it… On the other hand, what if she did witness violence and that's why hearing about Shwandt evoked memories of a crime? Maybe- unconsciously- she was motivated to be a juror in order to right some kind of wrong. Maybe that's the toughness the prosecutors sensed.'

'Possible,' he said.

'Trafficant was an attempted rapist, Milo. And he dropped out of sight right after the party.'

'On the lam?'

'Why else would he disappear at the height of his celebrity? All those years behind bars, then he's a best- seller; it wouldn't have made sense to quit unless he had something to hide. He and Lowell- the publicity would have been devastating. So maybe he took the money and ran. For all we know, he's on some tropical island living off his royalties.'

He rubbed his face and contemplated the table light. 'For that to make sense, there would have to be no witnesses, meaning violence taken all the way.'

'Maybe Lucy actually did witness a burial. Lowell and Trafficant and someone else getting rid of the body.'

He thought a long time. 'It's a helluva leap based on a dream. For all we know, Trafficant disappeared because he died. Blew all his dough on dope and OD'd. He was a psychopath loser. Don't they always end up doing something self-destructive?'

'Usually. But still, the idea of him and Lucy, up there at the same time, her blocking out that summer, and now she's dreaming about a dead girl… I could call Trafficant's publisher and see if they know where he is. If you feel up to it, you could run a background check.'

'Sure, why not… Best-seller.' Shaking his head. 'What is it with these intellectuals anyway? All those fools marching for Caryl Chessman as if he was a saint. Norman Mailer with his pet creep, William Buckley rooting for that asshole Edgar Smith- beat a fifteen-year-old girl to death with a baseball bat.'

I thought about that. 'I suppose artists and writers can lead a pretty insulated life,' I said. 'No freeway jams or time cards. Getting paid to make things up, you could start to confuse your fantasies with reality.'

'I think there's more to it, Alex. I think the so-called creative bunch believe they're better than everyone else, don't have to play by the same rules. I remember once, when I was first on the force, I pulled jail duty down at the Hall of Justice, and some sociology professor was leading a tour- earnest students, pens and notebooks. They walked past one asshole's cell and it was full of drawings- bloody stuff but very well done; the guy had real talent. Not that it stopped him from robbing liquor stores and pistol- whipping the owners. Prof and the kids were totally blown away. How could someone that talented be in there. Such injustice! They started talking to the guy. He's a stone psychopath, so he immediately smells an opening and plays them like guitars: Mr. Misunderstood Artist, poor baby robbed 'cause he couldn't afford paints and canvas.'

He shook his head. 'Goddamn professor actually came up to me and demanded to know who the guy's parole officer was. Letting me know it was criminal for such a gifted fellow to be shackled. That's the equation they make, Alex: If you're talented, you're entitled to privileges. Every few years you see another bullshit article, some idealistic fool setting up a program teaching inmates to paint or sculpt or play piano or write fucking short stories. Like that's going to make a damn bit of difference. Truth is, there's always been plenty of talent in jail. Visit any penitentiary, you'll hear great music, see lots of nifty artwork. If you ask me, psychopaths are more talented than the rest of us.