Joe Victim: A Thriller

“What key?”


Amanda goes back to interlocking her fingers. She touches her two forefingers to her lips. “Not many people would say what you just said,” she says, “about deserving to be locked away. It sounds very honest.”

“It is.”

“The problem, Joe, is that it also sounds very manipulative, which is something the prosecution psychiatrist is claiming you to be.”

I don’t say anything. I know she’s on the cusp of a very important decision. I know I could easily overdo it right now. Best to say nothing. Best to trust that I’ve already done an awesome job in convincing her.

“It’s one of those two things,” she says, “but I don’t know which.”

I don’t know what the correct response is, either in words or in emotion. I don’t know what to start faking next. Should I thank her, say something insightful, or should I start flopping around on the floor like a fish?

“The problem is you acted like you were mentally challenged,” she says.

“I didn’t act retarded,” I say. “That’s just how they saw me.”

“The problem was with them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it was with me. They all looked down on me, though. They pitied me for some reason. I always knew that, I just never knew why. Maybe they look down on all janitors the same way because we aren’t as cool as them.”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“How would that have gone? Excuse me, Detective, but why do you think I’m a moron? That wasn’t going to happen. They always made me feel inferior around them all,” I say, and Slow Joe is gone now, and Fast Joe is here, Smart Joe, and Smart Joe is on a roll. “Maybe that’s why they saw me like that.”

“That’s another big insightful take on things,” Ali says.

I don’t answer. The problem with Smart Joe is that sometimes he can be too smart for his own good.

“I want to learn more about you,” she says. “We have the weekend. Everything you say to me is confidential. I’m working for you and your lawyer, not for the prosecution.”

“Okay.”

“But if you say something that makes me believe you’re lying, then the session ends and I don’t come back, and I get up in court and I tell the jury exactly that. So basically, Joe, though I’m working for you, I’m also working for the truth. You have three days in which to be honest.”

Three days in which to not get caught out lying. I can manage that. Or, if things go to plan with Melissa, I won’t need it. “Okay,” I tell her, knowing as far as honesty goes, we’re not really off to a great start. “So where do we begin?”

“I want to talk about your past.”

“My past? Why?”

“In this dream you have, do you ever take off the mask? Does your mother ever recognize you?”

I think about it. In the dream sometimes I’m drinking beer or sometimes Coke, sometimes I’m driving a blue car or a red car, other times the house is different too, my house or her house or one of many other houses I’ve been in. My mom can be wearing a nightgown or a dress. Sometimes my goldfish are there and I’m sprinkling crumbs of meat loaf into the water for them. The ways I kill her are different. Only thing that never changes is me. I always wear the mask. Even when I put rat poison into her coffee I’m still wearing the mask.

“No,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?”

“Not really. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“And your mother? Does she know who you are?”

I think about it. Then half nod, then half shake my head. “She might do. She looks shocked. She’s wearing her Christmas look.”

“Her Christmas look?”

“Yeah. That’s what I call it. Her look of surprise. It’s a long story.”

“Well, we need to start somewhere,” Ali says. “How about we start with that?”

And that’s what we do.





Chapter Twenty-Four