The back of this bank of eccentric buildings faces the railroad-parallel to but some thirty feet lower than Main Street-and the broad Connecticut River below that. To walk through the maze of hallways, stairwells, and assorted offices of one of these narrow, deep, brick monstrosities, and reach a window that faces this view, is to make a startling and wonderful discovery-a sylvan scene of impressive beauty lost on the rest of downtown. Apart from the lightly used railroad, the view is of trees, river, islets, and an antique metal bridge, all massively overseen by wooded Mount Wantastiquet, looming high over the neighboring New Hampshire river bank.
In addition to its hidden aesthetic advantages, this rear area provided a sense of isolation from the bustle far to the front. Megan Goss wasn’t the only therapist located along this row, and entering her office with Gail, I understood why. The built-in tranquility was as soothing as the smell of fresh bread in a country kitchen.
Megan Goss greeted us and placed Gail in a soft leather armchair near the window, opposite a comfortable but less regal office chair she took for herself. I sat at her immaculately clean desk, off to one side, and turned on the tape recorder I’d brought with me.
“How are you feeling, Gail?” she asked.
“Fine-a little tired.”
“Still not sleeping at night?”
Gail looked sharply at me, but Megan intervened. “It was a guess. I haven’t asked Joe anything about you, nor has he volunteered anything beyond the police records concerning your case.”
Gail smiled and relaxed. “I don’t know why I reacted that way. It’s hardly a secret.”
Goss waved it away with her hand. “Perfectly understandable. Among other things, your privacy has been violated. You’re inclined to hold onto everything more dearly than before.” She paused a beat before resuming, “In fact, that could be relevant to what we’re about to attempt today. Are you comfortable with the idea of being hypnotized?”
Gail nodded emphatically. “I want all this out in the open.”
“All right.” From beside her chair, Megan Goss retrieved a thick folder, which she opened on her lap. “What we’re going to try is called cooperative hypnosis. It has nothing to do with darkened rooms, or swinging watch fobs, or deep states of unconsciousness. It’s more like what happens to you sometimes when you’re on a long car trip and your mind wanders. After a while, you realize you’re not sure where you are anymore. You haven’t been driving dangerously, or been out of control, but you have been in a light hypnotic state. It’s what most people call daydreaming, and it’s the same thing that gives truth to the phrase, ‘time flies.’
“There is a reason we all do this, besides just dealing with the boredom of a long drive. We do it to clean house a little-to occasionally dig a little deeper into our subconscious state and let in some light. That’s why these little mental side trips sometimes result in great sadness, or profound self-revelation. In any case, it’s a process where a little gentle probing can be used, to pursue a specific goal.
“It will take your cooperation, however. Nothing I do can put you into this kind of hypnosis. Listening to my words will help, but only as the hum of the highway and the blurring countryside flying monotonously by helped you when you were traveling on your own.”
I blinked my eyes twice and rubbed the back of my neck, realizing that while she was laying out her procedure, Megan Goss had already begun. Her voice had slid into a soft, supportive, sedative tone, and I could see by watching Gail settling more deeply into her chair that it was already having its effect.
For that alone, I was grateful. It was now eleven o’clock in the morning. Two hours earlier, all that we’d anticipated had occurred. James Dunn, stiff with rage, had met with Tom Kelly before Judge Waterston’s bench and within seventy-five minutes had been handed a mistrial-the search warrant used to invade Bob Vogel’s trailer was invalidated, and all the evidence secured thereby ruled inadmissible. The sole consolation was that Waterston’s decision meant no immediate change of address for Vogel. The scars across my stomach were a guarantee of that.
As consolations go, however, it wasn’t much, and it did nothing to stem the explosion of anger and outrage we’d all known was going to erupt. Nor had the SA’s office and the police department done anything to help cool things off. Falling back on an understandable circle-the-wagons instinct, both offices had barred their doors to all outsiders and released a joint media communiqué-fatalistically prepared beforehand-stating that a press conference would be held shortly. Whatever deal Brandt might have forged with Stanley Katz was guaranteed to be tested to the limit immediately.
Generally, the communiqué had a predictable effect. Shortly before Gail and I entered Megan Goss’s peaceful retreat, the entire Municipal Building had been surrounded by protesters, onlookers, and a small army of newspeople, forcing Brandt and Dunn together to call on the state police and the county sheriff to help secure the place from being completely overrun. Fortunately, I’d already briefed my squad-and the additional personnel lent to me by Billy Manierre-and had put them on the streets, re-interviewing witnesses and potential suspects.
Also, although I hadn’t anticipated the extent of the public’s fury, I had assumed what its focal point would be, and had placed Gail and myself at a friend’s apartment far from the Municipal Building, near Megan’s office. When she’d called us to say she was ready to begin, it was a simple matter to walk a couple of blocks without being noticed.
Goss spent the first hour merely laying the groundwork, expanding on her “daydreaming” scenario, getting Gail more and more relaxed until her responses were almost sleep-like murmurs. I, too, became immersed in the exchange, losing track of time, finding myself slipping away from my body’s sense of shape and place. But when a train passed underneath the window in a noisy, metallic clatter, I resurfaced with a start. Not so Gail, who remained utterly motionless, her only signs of life being the slight movement of her breathing and the shaping of her lips around an occasional short sentence. Her eyes, not entirely closed, appeared lifeless and dull, the work of an apprentice puppet-maker.
Megan asked her if she was aware of the train’s passing. Gail said yes, but only as if from a vast distance. Apparently satisfied, Megan came to the point of the exercise.
“Do you feel like talking about the night of the attack?”
“Yes,” Gail answered without hesitation, but without emotion, as if she herself were on that train-a long, long way off.
Megan began by describing the evening-the two of us together, my leaving, Gail’s surrendering to sleep. Gail responded in a monotone, without anticipation.
Megan asked her, “Something wakes you up. What is it?”
“A movement-someone moving on the bed. The pillow’s gone.”
“What do you feel?”
The voice stayed flat. “Surprise. Joe’s come back. I feel the covers pull back.”
I leaned forward instinctively. We knew she’d thought it was me at first, but these extra details explained why she hadn’t woken up more quickly. We’d missed the implication that her sense of security hadn’t been disturbed.
“There’s a weight on my chest. I feel his skin against mine; his hands on my breasts, pushing them together over his penis.”
“Is this something Joe’s ever done?”