It took two weeks, but, working both ends, Slidell and Ramsey managed to patch together the story. Most of it came from Owen Lee and Fatima Teague, some from Cora’s out-of-state sisters, Veronica and Marie. Some from medical personnel treating Cora.
According to Fatima, Cora had her first “fit” at age fourteen, a few months before Eli died. She recalled that after her son’s death her daughter became increasingly temperamental and started “taking on airs.” As the older sisters moved away from the home, Cora’s moodiness intensified. For a while John allowed her to see a doctor, but, in Daddy’s enlightened view, medication made her worse.
Veronica stated that Cora was frequently anxious and afraid of ridiculously harmless things. Frogs. Coat hangers. A tree behind their house. Marie said Cora was often depressed, had trouble sleeping and a lousy memory.
The professional assessment, based on intense and ongoing psychiatric evaluation, beat the hell out of devils and demons. I had no doubt the diagnosis would stand.
—
I was lugging my sixth box to the curb when a familiar Taurus pulled into my drive. I straightened and waited for Slidell to lower his window.
“Riveting look.” Taking in my head scarf and dingy denim. “But Rosie already got the part.”
“I’m cleaning out the attic.”
“Converting to a nursery?”
“An office.”
“Face looks good.”
It didn’t. “Thanks.”
Slidell chin-cocked my haphazardly stacked trash. “You know those douchebags on the trucks won’t take big stuff.”
“I bribe them.”
“I’m a cop. Don’t tell me that.” Gruff, but with a level of civility that let me know he was no longer angry. “When are you leaving?”
“The eight-twenty flight tonight. Renovations start on the attic on Monday.”
“You got a minute?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
We settled at the kitchen table. Slidell declined a beer in favor of unsweetened iced tea. While delivering his drink, I did a discreet appraisal. Though a long way from buff, Skinny had definitely lost more weight. Workouts? Stress? The lovely Verlene?
“I gotta admit. I can’t get my head around the arse end of this shrinky gobbledygook.”
“Shrinky gobbledygook?” As usual, I anticipated the need of an interpreter for the conversation.
“The kid killed three, maybe four people, yet she’s at some candy-ass hospital whining about her problems.”
“Cora has been deemed mentally incompetent.”
That drew a head wag and a whistly snort.
“She’s unable to understand the charges against her or to aid in her own defense.”
“She’s nuts, I get that, but—”
“She has dissociative identity disorder. DID.”
“That’s what I mean.” In his “pointing finger” voice. “You sound just like the shrinks. So, what? They saying she’s schizophrenic?”
“No. Schizophrenia is a mental illness involving chronic or recurrent psychosis. People hear or see things that aren’t there, think or believe things that have no basis in reality.”
“Yeah, yeah. The kid don’t have hallucinations or delusions. That’s what they been spinning. How about you explain what it is she does have?”
“Multiple personalities.”
“I thought that was just cheesy Hollywood movie crap.”
“It’s real. Dissociative identity disorder used to be called multiple personality disorder. It’s a condition in which a person’s identity fragments into two or more different ones. Each identity exists independently of the others, and each identity is distinct in specific ways. Tone of voice, vocabulary, mannerisms, posture, handedness—all the things we think of as making up a personality.”
“How many identities we talking?”
“A person with DID can have as few as two or three, or as many as a hundred or more. Statistically, the average is fifteen.” I’d spent hours researching the subject. “The usual age of onset is early childhood, so new identities can accumulate throughout life.”
“Who runs the show?”
“Psychiatrists call the main personality the host. That identity acts as a sort of gatekeeper. The others are called alters, and the transitions are called switches. Switching can take seconds to minutes to days. Alters can be imaginary people, animals, historic or fictional figures, and can vary by age, race, or gender.”
“So a guy can have a chick alter and a chick can have a guy?”
“Yes.”
“That why the kid sounded like a goddamn drill sergeant down in that basement?”
“Exactly. And on the audio recording. The voice we thought was a second man was actually Cora speaking as Elizabeth.”
“Jesus bouncing Christ. This is too fucked up.”
“Dissociation is a coping mechanism—the person simply disconnects from situations that are too violent, traumatic, or painful to assimilate with the conscious self. The condition is thought to result from prolonged childhood trauma.”
“So, what? The bastards beat her? Or raped her?”
“The abuse doesn’t have to be physical. Or sexual. It can be psychological. In Cora’s case, the severe isolation imposed because of her epilepsy combined with extreme religious fanaticism.”
Slidell watched a droplet break free and roll down his glass, swiped the track, then licked his thumb. “This shrink I been talking to thinks maybe Cora didn’t kill Eli, or maybe didn’t kill him on purpose. Either way, he thinks Eli’s death jump-started her flipping out or fragmenting or whatever the hell you call it.”
“Then the older sisters started leaving home.” I picked up the narrative. “Eventually Cora went to work for the Brices. She’d never been on her own before, had hardly met anyone outside the family or church, had never even seen TV. She couldn’t handle the freedom, the responsibility. She was completely overwhelmed. She or an alter killed River Brice.”
“I’ve been talking to Owen Lee. Hoke some. Their stories track with that.”
“John?”
“The arrogant prick keeps hand-jobbing the idea that the kid is controlled by Satan.”
“What do Hoke and Owen Lee say?”
“Cora offed the baby because she was possessed by a demon.”
“So their treatment was to lock her in their spanking-new kennel and shake crucifixes at her.” I’d meant to keep my voice neutral, but a note of bitterness now crept in. The thought of Cora in that place still sickened me. “Mason loved her. He guessed they had her, but didn’t know where they’d taken her.”
“Scared shitless of being next on the hymn list, he split for Johnson City. When Susan Grace mentioned seeing Cora, he figured it out, bought the recorder, came back to Avery and slipped the thing to her.”
“Mason probably planned to expose Hoke by giving the audio to the cops or the media. Maybe to a legit priest.” I’d thought this through. Over and over.
“You think Cora made the tape on purpose?” Slidell asked.
“We may never know. The device was voice-activated.” I took a sip of tea. “Have you learned how Mason got to her?”
“According to Owen Lee, he had a key.” At my surprised look. “During the church renovation they’d send him on supply runs to the store and the kennel.”
Birdie strolled in, paused to consider, decided to join us. We watched him work maneuvers around Slidell’s ankle, both picturing the scene when Mason returned to Cora’s little cell. Slidell spelled it out.
“So the kid goes back to collect the recorder. Cora snaps, kills and dismembers him. When Owen Lee shows up she’s covered with blood and Mason’s head’s in a bucket. He calls Daddy. Daddy says deal with it. And pray.”
“So Owen Lee chucks the body parts from the overlooks. Did he choose the locations because of Brown Mountain?”
Slidell shook his head. “No voodoo there. He knew them from hiking.”
“The DNA results came back yesterday,” I said. “It was Mason’s hair caught in the concrete. The olive oil and incense must have transferred to him from Cora.”