“The blue dress strongly relates to his psychological trauma. He experiences the humiliation and shame all over again, and that activates the rage he’s unable to express. And in that state, since he can’t take out the rage on his father anymore, Donny Ray instead transfers it to Miranda, possibly because, through his subconscious and distorted reasoning, he blames her for leaving him alone to shoulder all the abuse.”
“Possibly . . .”
“Well, yeah. I don’t know that for sure yet. I’m just hypothesizing.”
Adam concedes with a tentative nod.
“So anyway, he kills the girls instead. And here’s something else. Donny Ray said his head injury happened after falling onto the family tractor’s bucket loader, but he can’t recall the exact date, only that it happened the summer his sister went missing. Tractors can be used to bury bodies, right? Maybe Donny Ray saw his sister being murdered. Maybe he was even forced to help dispose of Miranda and doesn’t remember hitting his head after blocking it out. That would create three layers of trauma. And it could explain why he hides the girls’ bodies.”
Adam flinches, then blinks a few times. “Chris, I feel like you’re overreaching into a lot of places with no firm foundation.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“First of all, the bucket loader thing. Don’t you think the detectives considered that possibility?”
I tell him I already thought about that, how there’s nothing in the report to indicate Texas cops followed up with the local hospital to get the exact date of Donny Ray’s head injury, which means they probably missed the connection and never looked further.
“The detectives couldn’t find enough evidence to charge the father,” I explain. “So what if they were unable to complete the chain of events? I mean, the dad was clearly disturbed, and he could have been clever enough to cover his tracks.”
“But you’re still assuming a lot of things.” Adam is smiling, but there’s no twinkle in his eyes. He looks frustrated, also a little concerned. “And you’re playing cop again.”
“How am I playing cop?”
“Speculating that Donny Ray’s head injury happened while he was helping his father bury the body? Other than a bucket loader, there’s nothing to support the theory. You have to admit, that’s a fantastical leap. It feels more like you’re trying to help solve Miranda’s murd—”
“Fantastical?”
“And you’re using some picture on the wall as a springboard into dissociation, when you don’t even know if Donny Ray’s father made him wear a blue dress. Besides, I never saw anything in the police report indicating the other victims were wearing blue dresses when they disappeared. So how are you reaching that conclusion?”
“I missed it the first time myself, but go look again, and you’ll see. The information’s all there in the police report.”
“Okay, but weren’t you the one who reminded me we’re not even supposed to factor in the other cases?”
“Adam”—I feel my throat tighten around his name—“they gave the information to us for background purposes. I’m just throwing around ideas. I’m brainstorming, thinking of possible scenarios. And you’re completely missing the entire point. Philips couldn’t get Donny Ray to open up about his abuse. That’s what she was trying to do, and that’s a really big deal, because it explains a lot of things.”
“But what I’m trying to tell you is, without solid footing on that reasoning, you still can’t prove whether his need to kill the girls is driven by disassociation or psychopathy, which brings us back to the original question of whether or not Donny Ray is malingering—and on that note, how can you be so sure he’s even telling you the truth with this sexual abuse story? How do you know this isn’t just an attempt to step up his game plan with you after things fell apart at Miller?”
He thinks you’re unloading a pile of horseshit.
“Why do you keep throwing doubt at me? I’m a psychologist. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not saying you don’t.” Adam stops, tries to speak, then starts again. “And I’m not throwing doubt at you.”
“Then what are you doing? What exactly are you trying to tell me here?”
“That you’re hopping all over the place with a theory that doesn’t hold water. It’s not like you, Chris. You’re usually so—”
“That’s not true! It all relates. It’s all extremely relevant. I just need to figure out how.”
“Okay . . . okay.” Adam raises both hands, aims his palms at me. “Fine. But you still need to connect a lot of missing pieces, and your evaluation is due tomorrow.”
“I’ll find them,” I sharply say, “before I jump to any rash decisions.”
“Chris, stop that.”
With arms locked tightly against my chest, I look away from him.
“Listen,” he says, “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that you came in here sounding so hellfire sure about all this, then after you explained it, the inconsistencies confused me. That’s all. We’re friends, remember? This is what we do for each other. We watch each other’s backs.”
I study Adam’s face for a few beats to determine whether he means what he says.
He’s patronizing you.
I don’t like it.
He’s judging you.
Things get very quiet. Then Adam asks, “So how did things go with Rob yesterday?”
“Wow, that came out of nowhere fast.”
“Not really. You never called back to let me know how it went. I was just following up. I’m concerned.”
But it feels like his concern is more about my mental and professional competence.
“He got me in for the MRI,” I say.
“Hey, that’s great. Did it go okay?”
“It’s over with.” I shrug. “That’s the best thing I can say about it.”
“Do you know when you’ll have the results?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Will you let me know as soon as he calls?”
I hesitate. Again, it’s not what he’s asking, more what seems to be trolling just beneath the surface. A little too much urgency. Like he’s getting leery of me.
He knows you’re losing it.
I try to relax my posture, but it seems as though Adam can tell the action is forced.
“Hey.” He lets out a small laugh, obviously meant to disarm me. “Isn’t it okay for your best friend to be worried after you’ve had a head injury?”
He’s setting you up.
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