then.
Itâs not that Iâm afraid of my rapist. It happened long ago, I tell myself. Iâm grown up now. But I am afraid of the police station, which, for me, is a repository of shame. I prefer to stay away.
Once we find the rapist, I plan to talk to him. I plan to look him straight in the eye. That is as far as my planning goes.
I do not write out a series of questions, as I have often done in preparing to interview terrorists. I do not think about whether I will need to have a rifle, or perhaps a sword, or perhaps a posse. I always went unarmed to my interviews with terrorists. I always thought my very vulnerability was my best protection. But somehow, though I donât really think about it, I have an idea that this is different.
I do not plan that the interview will take place in a restaurant. I do not plan that it will be at Friendlyâs, an obvious choice. I do not think about how I will skewer him, not with a Friendlyâs butter knife, but by looking him straight in the eye.
If I make him see that I am not just his object, but also a subject, there will be an explosion in his brain. An electric signal will cascade: he will realize that he wronged the universe, and his brain will explode. Also his penis will fall off. I will leave him there, his brain on his plate. He will remain sitting upright, but the waitresses will realize that heâs dead because the top of his head will have flopped neatly off and there will be wires sticking out. Broken phone wires, thick and tangled but cut through all the way, looking as though theyâd been cut with shears rather than the power of thought. I will avoid stepping on his shriveled penis as I walk out the door. I will leave it there for the rats. I will not apologize to Friendlyâs for the mess: I cannot help it that electricity comes out of your body when you really look at someone. I may be a victim, but Iâm a world-class perpetrator, too.
These not-plans, which I am describing to you now, take place in another dimension, a place I prefer not to dwell.
Although I am curious about what Lt. Macone is finding out, I donât drive out to the police station in Concord, the town where I was raped, the town where my parents still live, a twenty-minute drive from where my son and I live now. There is no point: I know I will get lost.
I e-mail Lt. Macone to tell him that I saw in the file that we had informed the police that I had received an obscene phone call shortly after the rape. But I donât remember the call, or much else that occurred during that period. Soon, however, Lt. Macone has more news.
Jessica,
Just now answered the phone from Natick PD. They found their file from their incidents!! It apparently has volumes of info. The detective is making me a complete copy of the file and I will head to Natick as soon as she calls back that it is done. I hope it is today. Let me know when you want to comehere to begin reading what I have found. I feel confident we are getting close. I will work around your schedule.
Paul
He will work around my schedule. Heâs gotten the message, apparently, that I am busy. Itâs not as if this investigation is my whole life.
Â
Because I work on terrorism, I have good contacts in the FBI. After September 11, a number of agents who had worked on âordinaryâ crime were recruited to work on counterterrorism cases, and a series of them have come to visit me over the years for what amounts to terrorism lessons.
Iâve never taken a fee for this work, although Iâve devoted many hours to it. The most intense period was in JanuaryâFebruary 2002, when Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl was abducted by terrorists in Pakistan. I didnât mean to, but I all but ceased doing my own work during this period. I became obsessed with helping to save Daniel Pearl, as absurd as that might sound. I called all my contacts in Pakistan. It seemed to me very important to be in
Itâs not that Iâm afraid of my rapist. It happened long ago, I tell myself. Iâm grown up now. But I am afraid of the police station, which, for me, is a repository of shame. I prefer to stay away.
Once we find the rapist, I plan to talk to him. I plan to look him straight in the eye. That is as far as my planning goes.
I do not write out a series of questions, as I have often done in preparing to interview terrorists. I do not think about whether I will need to have a rifle, or perhaps a sword, or perhaps a posse. I always went unarmed to my interviews with terrorists. I always thought my very vulnerability was my best protection. But somehow, though I donât really think about it, I have an idea that this is different.
I do not plan that the interview will take place in a restaurant. I do not plan that it will be at Friendlyâs, an obvious choice. I do not think about how I will skewer him, not with a Friendlyâs butter knife, but by looking him straight in the eye.
If I make him see that I am not just his object, but also a subject, there will be an explosion in his brain. An electric signal will cascade: he will realize that he wronged the universe, and his brain will explode. Also his penis will fall off. I will leave him there, his brain on his plate. He will remain sitting upright, but the waitresses will realize that heâs dead because the top of his head will have flopped neatly off and there will be wires sticking out. Broken phone wires, thick and tangled but cut through all the way, looking as though theyâd been cut with shears rather than the power of thought. I will avoid stepping on his shriveled penis as I walk out the door. I will leave it there for the rats. I will not apologize to Friendlyâs for the mess: I cannot help it that electricity comes out of your body when you really look at someone. I may be a victim, but Iâm a world-class perpetrator, too.
These not-plans, which I am describing to you now, take place in another dimension, a place I prefer not to dwell.
Although I am curious about what Lt. Macone is finding out, I donât drive out to the police station in Concord, the town where I was raped, the town where my parents still live, a twenty-minute drive from where my son and I live now. There is no point: I know I will get lost.
I e-mail Lt. Macone to tell him that I saw in the file that we had informed the police that I had received an obscene phone call shortly after the rape. But I donât remember the call, or much else that occurred during that period. Soon, however, Lt. Macone has more news.
Jessica,
Just now answered the phone from Natick PD. They found their file from their incidents!! It apparently has volumes of info. The detective is making me a complete copy of the file and I will head to Natick as soon as she calls back that it is done. I hope it is today. Let me know when you want to comehere to begin reading what I have found. I feel confident we are getting close. I will work around your schedule.
Paul
He will work around my schedule. Heâs gotten the message, apparently, that I am busy. Itâs not as if this investigation is my whole life.
Â
Because I work on terrorism, I have good contacts in the FBI. After September 11, a number of agents who had worked on âordinaryâ crime were recruited to work on counterterrorism cases, and a series of them have come to visit me over the years for what amounts to terrorism lessons.
Iâve never taken a fee for this work, although Iâve devoted many hours to it. The most intense period was in JanuaryâFebruary 2002, when Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl was abducted by terrorists in Pakistan. I didnât mean to, but I all but ceased doing my own work during this period. I became obsessed with helping to save Daniel Pearl, as absurd as that might sound. I called all my contacts in Pakistan. It seemed to me very important to be in
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