The argument she was making wasn't particularly compelling. I concluded that the purpose of her call was to reveal to me the foundation for her rationalization. She was eager for me to sign up to support her psychological defenses; she didn't really expect to convince me that her hypothesis was true.
Not feeling particularly cooperative, I assaulted the rationalization I was hearing. "Had the wouldn't-it-be-cool games you overheard ever concerned Royal Peterson in any context?"
"Well, sure. Paul knows the DA's role in the plea-bargain process. Paul and Ramp talked about Peterson all the time. But Roy Peterson was one of ten wouldn't-it-be-cool targets, maybe more. Most of them were people that Ramp was angry at, by the way, not Paul."
"And since Roy Peterson was beaten and not-what?-you think it's evidence that Paul and Ramp weren't involved?"
"Bombs. The boys always joked about using a bomb."
Without any deliberation, I sat down. I had to consciously inhale a breath before I could say, "A bomb? They joked about using a bomb."
"I don't know whether it was a bomb exactly. I don't know about those things. But an explosive of some kind. It's one of Ramp's little hobbies. He talks about blowing things up all the time. He goes out to some ranch out east somewhere, Limon or someplace, and practices. Paul says that once he went out there with Ramp and they actually blew up an old truck. You know, a wreck.
"Ramp's the one who says things like, 'Wouldn't it be cool if the district attorney's house just blew up one day?' Or 'Wouldn't it be cool if so-and-so's car blew up one day?' Like that. All of that stuff comes from Ramp. Paul never talks like that when Ramp's not around."
"Blowing stuff up is a hobby of Ramp's?"
"I don't know, an outside interest, that kind of hobby."
Silently, I counted to ten. Fortunately or unfortunately, the delay didn't change what I was going to say. "I want to make sure I'm understanding you correctly. Because Royal Peterson wasn't killed by an explosive of some kind, you would like to believe that Paul and Ramp weren't involved in whatever happened at his house, even though they'd made overt threats against him."
"They never threatened him. It was just talk about what they wished would happen. When they heard he was dead, it's not like they celebrated or anything."
How nice. "So there's no chance they followed through on their fantasies?"
"Exactly. It was like they felt guilty because they were wishing for someone to die and then it happened. You know what that would be like. You'd feel guilty, responsible. Anybody would."
I considered her argument before I said, "That's a luxurious position for you to have, Naomi."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm thinking of the Klebolds and the Harrises. Over the months before that day at the high school, they probably made the same kinds of judgments about their children. Saw two here, and saw two there, but never allowed themselves to believe that the sum added up to four."
She sputtered as though she couldn't wait to respond to my words. "And, you know what? A thousand other parents-mothers like me-have done the exact same thing. We've seen things and never told the police. And our children never ended up doing a thing wrong. Not a thing. None of them. Two and two never added up. Ever. I thought you would understand."
"Understand what?"
"What it's like for parents. Aren't you a parent? Can you believe that your child is evil? Do you know how hard it is to cross that line?"
I looked down at Grace, asleep in my arms. No, I couldn't believe that my child was evil. Would ever be evil.
Not a chance.
"Not necessarily evil," I said, "but what about flawed? Troubled?" I added a bonus rationalization for Naomi's benefit. "Or what if the child is influenced by the wrong people? That happens."
"Killing someone isn't a flaw, Doctor. It's evil. And evil isn't in the air, you don't just catch it like a virus. It comes from somewhere, some injury deep inside." She paused. "And, although he's certainly been hurt badly by all that's happened, I don't believe my child has ever been to that place. I'd know it if… he had-I'm his mother."
I cushioned my voice, foaming the runway with my next words, trying to give her a soft place to land. "But you're not entirely sure, are you, Naomi? That's why we're talking."
She didn't want to come down gently. She said, "Maybe I shouldn't have called you after all. I'll see you on Friday-if I don't reconsider this whole thing."
Hurriedly, I interjected, "The reason you called tonight? Why is it important that I not misinterpret what you said today during our session? It's my impression that you're angry that I'm still able to see both sides of the coin."
"I don't want you to do anything stupid."
"I don't understand."
"I didn't want you to run off and tell anyone what I said. Send the bomb squad to my house or something. That's all."
"I couldn't reveal our conversation to anyone, Naomi. Not without your permission."
"I bet you could find a way around that."
"Are we talking about trust now?"
"I have no damn idea what we're talking about." She hung up as I was trying to figure out a discreet way to inquire about the other nine or so wouldn't-it-be-cool targets that Ramp and Paul had mentioned.
As the line went dead in my ear, I said, "Is my wife on that list, Naomi?"
CHAPTER 13
I went to bed knowing that I needed help. And I woke up the next morning knowing that I needed help.
Although I would've loved to have discussed the whole Naomi Bigg situation with Lauren, and would have welcomed her reasoned counsel, confidentiality concerns and peculiar circumstances made that impossible.
The peculiar circumstance, of course, was the possibility that Lauren was one of the potential targets of Paul and Ramp's wouldn't-it-be-cool games. And the very real possibility that the game was really only a mind game.
The way I looked at it was that my position was simple. I couldn't risk saying anything and I couldn't risk not saying anything.
What I'd decided I needed was what psychotherapists call supervision. In another profession, I suppose the same thing might be called consultation. Basically, supervision means that one psychotherapist invites another, hopefully more objective, usually more experienced professional to review and comment upon his or her work.
On those occasions when I decided I needed some objectivity with my practice, I relied on one of three different people, depending on the specifics of the case. When the issues in the case involved ethics, as this one did, my first choice was almost invariably Raymond Farley, Ph.D. Raymond's capacity to detect prevarication and rationalization was finely honed, and I knew I could count on him to help show me which side of the trees the moss was growing on in the forest where I was lost.
I called his home at seven-fifteen on Thursday morning. His youngest daughter was a junior in high school, so I figured the Farley household would already be humming along.
Raymond's wife answered.
"Cyn? It's Alan Gregory, how are you?"
"Alan, hello. How am I? Not quite as awake as you are. You want my sugar, right? I'm trying to get my daughter out the door. Let me find him. Raymond? It's for you."
A moment later I heard Raymond's baritone. "Alan. Long time. How's your new baby?"
"Grace is great, Raymond. How're your kids?"
He answered me at great length and with great patience. There was little hurry in the blood that coursed through Raymond Farley's veins. No one ever, ever took more care while finishing a story, and no one ever finished a meal after Raymond Farley finished his. "You didn't call to get an update on my kids, though, did you? What can I do for you?"