Q: Don’t all mothers of accused murderers think their children are innocent? I mean, Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother probably thought he was innocent, too.
A: I only have a passing familiarity with Dahmer’s case, so I can’t really speak to that. In general, though, I’d agree: most mothers probably believe—or at least want to believe—that their sons are incapable of gunning down the neighbors. When Melanie first contacted me, I’d assumed it was a case of maternal delusion. It wasn’t long, however, before I got the sense that she was onto something. There’s more to this case than meets the eye.
Q: Like what? Give us some examples.
A: Listen to the podcast! I don’t hold anything back.
Q: All right, that’s fair. How did this project turn into the podcast?
A: In the past, I’ve worked for Werner Entertainment Company as a consultant on some of their crime programs. I was having lunch with someone I met in that capacity, and I happened to mention my research. I had always envisioned the final product as an article, but my friend got really excited about it, and, before I knew it, the podcast was born.
And aren’t we all glad to have it? The next installment of Reconsidered will be available for download tomorrow. Until then, I’ll be stalking Parnell’s Twitter account for additional clues. Leave your conspiracy theories in the comments, where they belong.
The article was dated yesterday, meaning that a new episode was now available for download. Seemingly of their own volition, my fingers navigated to the Reconsidered website and clicked the Download Now button before I came to my senses. I regretted listening to the first two episodes; I hated the seeds of doubt that she had planted in my mind. Warren Cave is guilty, I reminded myself sternly. Do not listen to that podcast.
Instead, I clicked back to the article and began skimming the comments before deciding that was an even worse idea. Emboldened by anonymity, the commenters had disgusting, hateful things to say about my mother, about my sister, things that far exceeded anything I had ever thought about them, and my anger toward both was legitimate and intense.
Setting my phone to airplane mode, I told myself that I had been right not to involve Caleb in this mess. He could never understand my complicated family. How could he? The stark difference between Caleb’s family and mine had been obvious from the moment I met them, when Caleb and I had traveled to the South Island for Christmas. They were admirable people, all of them: his mother was a pediatrician, his father a carpenter, both earnest and dedicated to their jobs. His older sister Molly, a sleek, whip-smart barrister, had an amiable husband and two adorable, apple-cheeked children.
I had been nervous about meeting Caleb’s family, especially on a religious holiday. I had long ago given up on organized religion, as my father being murdered and my mother joining a cult led me to believe there was no grand design and certainly no benevolent God. In contrast, the Perlmans took the birth of Jesus Christ quite seriously. It surprised me to see Caleb, a man who I had never known to attend church and who I had often heard rail against Christian ministries in Africa, go through the stand-sit-kneel motions of a Catholic mass, the prayers and responses tumbling from his mouth without hesitation. I worried my lack of faith embarrassed him, but neither he nor his family seemed bothered by my apathetic brand of atheism.
It wasn’t until evening, after the third bottle of wine had been opened and Molly had beaten us all at rummy four times, that I began to loosen up, and fast on the heels of that relaxation came a pang of sadness. I would never have an adult relationship with my parents. My father had been taken from me when I was still a teenager; my mother had abandoned us and made it abundantly clear that she did not want to be found. For the remainder of the holiday, anything that Mrs. Perlman did that reminded me vaguely of my own mother—baking cookies, reciting a poem, laughing a certain way—sent me into an internal tailspin.
On the trip home to Auckland, I almost confessed. I was one breath away from telling Caleb everything, from the sudden, violent death of my father to the painful fading of my mother, even the heartache that Lanie had caused. But then I had recalled the warm hugs Caleb exchanged with his family, the clear love they shared, and I kept my mouth shut. He would never understand.
When we were finally permitted aboard the airplane, I found myself seated between a man who had already staked his claim to the shared armrest and a cheerful young woman with a drooling infant on her lap. I squeezed into my seat and immediately commenced battle for a portion of the armrest, which the man ceded with a grunt. As I buckled my seat belt, the woman handed me an index card with a miniature organza sack of jelly beans stapled to it.
Hello! the card greeted me in pink bubble letters. My name is Rosie and this is my first time on an airplane! I am very excited about flying, but I might get scared or uncomfortable and I might cry. I don’t mean to disturb your flight! I hope you like these jelly beans!
“Thanks,” I mumbled, forcing my tired, overstressed face into the approximation of a smile. “Jelly beans. Yum.”
“If you don’t like those flavors, I have other options,” the woman said, opening her purse to reveal a collection of similar note cards.
“These are great, thanks.”
“This is her first time on a plane,” she continued. “Our ultimate destination is California. I purposefully took a layover in Chicago. Do you think that was stupid?”
“I don’t know,” I said, hoping she wasn’t going to talk the whole flight. I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes for the next two hours.
“I couldn’t decide whether it would be better for Rosie to have one really long direct flight or two medium-length flights with a layover. Here’s hoping I made the right decision!” She smiled brightly. “We’re on our way to San Francisco to visit my sister. Have you ever been?”
San Francisco. I was suddenly wide awake, my spine tingling as I said, “Yes.”
“What did you think? My sister is always trying to get us to move out there, but I keep telling her, it’s nice, but it’s no New York.”
“It’s no New York,” I agreed, flashes from my brief time in San Francisco swimming into my vision.
“Where—?” she started to ask.
“My mother is dead,” I said abruptly.
“Oh,” she said, pulling little Rosie to her chest, as though I were infectious. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said, my cheeks flushing in horrified embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and a little mixed up right now.”