Read Online Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Thompson
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manner and appearance irritate me, or maybe he’s good at his job and knows how to push my buttons, and that’s why he puts me off. Either way, I’ve been in therapy before, and I didn’t like it then either, but it helped me, so I try and work with him. Besides, I promised Kate I would do this. I’m further agitated because I have a murder to investigate, need to speak to a Finnish hero-now an accused war criminal-and I can’t do either of those things while I’m sitting here.
“So,” Torsten says, “you assaulted a mentally ill person. Do you consider that a reasonable and responsible action?”
“He terrified defenseless children-disabled children-it seems entirely reasonable and responsible.”
“You beat him up and poisoned him.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“As a police officer, you know that you can’t rationally defend appointing yourself judge and jury, no matter how reprehensible you found his actions.”
“Listen,” I say. “If it was a situation involving adults, I would agree with you. But no fucking way I’m letting him get away with ranting a frightening, insane tirade at kids. They might be traumatized. Mentally ill or not, he needed to understand that his actions have consequences.”
“You don’t seem to have considered the possibility that the young man may have screamed at the children in order to seek punishment.”
He’s right. I hadn’t considered it. “I did nothing that, under the circumstances, most men wouldn’t have done.”
“I wouldn’t have,” he says. “Do you think that reflects on my manhood?”
I sigh. I have no interest in his holier-than-thou attitude.
Torsten lets the question about his manhood go and offers me coffee, makes himself a cup of herbal mint tea. He lights his pipe. I light a Marlboro Red. “Would you consider your protective feelings toward children excessive?” he asks.
“Is such a thing possible?” He hates it when I answer his questions with questions.
“Your answer is an answer in itself. Could we discuss why that might be?”
I look out his bay window at the sea. The harbor isn’t quite frozen solid yet. Chunks of ice float in it. Beyond them, I watch the whitecaps break for a moment. “If you like.”
“Your sister, Suvi, froze and drowned when you were skating on a lake together and the ice broke under her. Your father had placed her under your protection. Do you still think of it often?”
“Daily.”
“Yet, your father was on the scene. He was drunk and failed to come to her aid. He was the adult, the caregiver. The blame resides with him.”
I light another cigarette. “I blame him, too.”
“He let your sister die and he beat you as a child. You’ve never expressed hatred for him. Not even anger.”
“I used to be angry,” I say, “but at a certain point, I grew up and recognized my parents’ humanity. My father is emotionally damaged. His parents beat him far worse than he ever did me.”
“How do you know? Has he told you?”
Dad’s parents were the antithesis of Mom’s folks-Ukki and Mummo-whom I loved so much. “He didn’t have to, some things you don’t have to be told. When we visited them, which wasn’t often, his father-my grandfather-hurt me, too. The atmosphere in the house was morbid. My father’s parents were Lutheran religious fanatics. Laughter was forbidden, and they kicked-literally-us children out of the house for laughing. I can only imagine what they did to him.”
He makes some notes on a pad. “Perhaps you’re making excuses for him.”
I look out at the sea again. It comforts me. I say nothing.
“How is your wife’s pregnancy going?” he asks.
I’m glad to change the subject. “She has preeclampsia, but she has no headaches, visual disturbances or epigastric pain-symptoms that suggest imminent danger-so given the circumstances, it’s going okay.”
“Could we discuss her miscarriage? You’ve been reticent to do so in the past.”
No, we can’t. I
“So,” Torsten says, “you assaulted a mentally ill person. Do you consider that a reasonable and responsible action?”
“He terrified defenseless children-disabled children-it seems entirely reasonable and responsible.”
“You beat him up and poisoned him.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“As a police officer, you know that you can’t rationally defend appointing yourself judge and jury, no matter how reprehensible you found his actions.”
“Listen,” I say. “If it was a situation involving adults, I would agree with you. But no fucking way I’m letting him get away with ranting a frightening, insane tirade at kids. They might be traumatized. Mentally ill or not, he needed to understand that his actions have consequences.”
“You don’t seem to have considered the possibility that the young man may have screamed at the children in order to seek punishment.”
He’s right. I hadn’t considered it. “I did nothing that, under the circumstances, most men wouldn’t have done.”
“I wouldn’t have,” he says. “Do you think that reflects on my manhood?”
I sigh. I have no interest in his holier-than-thou attitude.
Torsten lets the question about his manhood go and offers me coffee, makes himself a cup of herbal mint tea. He lights his pipe. I light a Marlboro Red. “Would you consider your protective feelings toward children excessive?” he asks.
“Is such a thing possible?” He hates it when I answer his questions with questions.
“Your answer is an answer in itself. Could we discuss why that might be?”
I look out his bay window at the sea. The harbor isn’t quite frozen solid yet. Chunks of ice float in it. Beyond them, I watch the whitecaps break for a moment. “If you like.”
“Your sister, Suvi, froze and drowned when you were skating on a lake together and the ice broke under her. Your father had placed her under your protection. Do you still think of it often?”
“Daily.”
“Yet, your father was on the scene. He was drunk and failed to come to her aid. He was the adult, the caregiver. The blame resides with him.”
I light another cigarette. “I blame him, too.”
“He let your sister die and he beat you as a child. You’ve never expressed hatred for him. Not even anger.”
“I used to be angry,” I say, “but at a certain point, I grew up and recognized my parents’ humanity. My father is emotionally damaged. His parents beat him far worse than he ever did me.”
“How do you know? Has he told you?”
Dad’s parents were the antithesis of Mom’s folks-Ukki and Mummo-whom I loved so much. “He didn’t have to, some things you don’t have to be told. When we visited them, which wasn’t often, his father-my grandfather-hurt me, too. The atmosphere in the house was morbid. My father’s parents were Lutheran religious fanatics. Laughter was forbidden, and they kicked-literally-us children out of the house for laughing. I can only imagine what they did to him.”
He makes some notes on a pad. “Perhaps you’re making excuses for him.”
I look out at the sea again. It comforts me. I say nothing.
“How is your wife’s pregnancy going?” he asks.
I’m glad to change the subject. “She has preeclampsia, but she has no headaches, visual disturbances or epigastric pain-symptoms that suggest imminent danger-so given the circumstances, it’s going okay.”
“Could we discuss her miscarriage? You’ve been reticent to do so in the past.”
No, we can’t. I
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