Maybe. Sean sat staring at the ground. He nodded slowly. Maybe, Doc. Guess we’ll never know.
Sean continued to see me for his anxiety, and to finish our work putting the ghosts to bed. Having found those few memories from that day in Iraq, it was a seamless task and deeply satisfying. The trauma from the blast, from the injury, found its home and stopped roaming. Sean went back to college that year. His wife had a daughter, and they named her Sara. And he remained a close friend to Jenny, the man who could hold her black bag full of garbage.
Those are the happy endings. I cannot take all the credit for what these extraordinary people did to change their lives. I will simply say that I am grateful for the small part I was able to play.
And now I must tell you the ending for Glenn Shelby.
It was seven days after the death of Bob Sullivan that the body of Glenn Shelby was found swinging from that metal bar in his apartment. The weather had turned quite warm, and he had started to smell.
When the Cranston police sorted through his things, they found the black ski mask, the black gloves, and a notebook describing in detail the rape of Jenny Kramer.
Glenn had been in property maintenance before his coworkers grew uncomfortable around him. I told you that earlier. Maybe you had forgotten. The last job he did for them was caring for two homes in Fairview. He did everything for them, weeding, lawn maintenance, tree pruning. And cleaning their pools.
Detective Parsons called me with the news.
It’s crazy, isn’t it? He’s a real sicko, this one. Two stalking convictions. Numerous complaints from coworkers. In and out of prison. Crazy bastard. Looks like he was planning to rape someone at that party. He was following several teenage boys on Instagram. Used a fake profile. Fucking idiot kids. They’re so caught up in their “likes” and “followers.” I bet they don’t know half the people they let into their world. We found the chat about the party in one of the hashtags. They started talking about it a week before. Gave him plenty of time to prepare. Looks like he was targeting a boy. We’re still trying to identify where it started, which kid let him into the circle first. That might tell us something.
I already knew the answer. I had been through Jason’s account to clean it of photos with the blue sweatshirt. I do not use Instagram. But one of my son’s “followers” kept appearing and appearing, “liking” his posts, trying to start conversations, and prodding my son to “like” things back. It’s hard to explain why it jumped out at me. This follower’s picture and posts never revealed the face of Glenn Shelby. But I just knew. The desperation oozed like a toxic chemical from the screen, page after page after page.
Shelby had taken to stalking my son.
Shelby had gone to that party to stalk my son.
Now you understand the debilitating fear that was provoked when I found out my son had been in those woods.
I did not tell Parsons.
“That is something, Detective. Really something. I have a request. You said there were writings? About the rape?”
Oh yeah. This guy kept detailed notes. They match everything we found and more. It’s sick stuff, I’ll tell you.
“I know this will sound strange. But I think I could use them to help Jenny with her memory. Do you think I could see them, or copy them?”
Jesus Christ. That is strange. Is that what she wants? To know everything he was thinking and feeling while he did those things to her?
“I will speak to her and her parents. But I don’t want to get their hopes up if we can’t get the writings.”
I can get you the writings.
“Thank you.”
Oh—and I almost forgot. That old-timer from Oregon? Remember?
I remembered.
Says he found the file. The report was from a school. A teacher saw the blood coming from the kid’s shirt. Made him go to the nurse, and she reported the cut. Said it didn’t look like an accident. It was too clean, like someone had cut him on purpose.
“Well, Detective. I guess that’s not relevant anymore, is it? Glenn Shelby would have been a child himself back then.”
Yeah. I told him we didn’t need the file anymore. Thank God. This whole thing is finally over. Think I’ll take my vacation time.
“You deserve it.” I did not mean this.
So do you, Alan. You have been a godsend for the Kramers. I know they are very grateful to you.
“Well, I was more than happy to help. I just hope I can finish the job.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Empathy is defined this way: “the ability to share and understand the feelings of another.”
Women talking for hours at a lunch. Men walking the golf course together every Sunday morning. Teenage girls glued to their phones. This is when we tell our stories, sometimes in meticulous detail, watch the expressions in others as they take in the words. We extract from them their sympathy, their joy, their understanding. We do this so we are not alone as we walk slowly toward our death. Empathy is at the very core of our humanity. Life is pain without it.