"I think my husband is trying to kill me."
Patricia Mulholland looked up from her desk at the very pretty young woman standing in her doorway. She was petite, a definite contrast to Pat's own Amazonian frame, with soft brown hair that flowed over her shoulders and brown eyes magnified by wire-frame glasses. Pat could see the drawn, haggard look in them, a look that had almost gone past terror into a dull fatalism. Almost, but not quite. Pat immediately believed that the woman believed what she was saying; however, as a Homicide detective, Pat was more than familiar with people who saw murder around every corner. "I see," she said, setting down her pen and sliding aside her paperwork. "And what makes you think that?"
"Because..." the woman seemed to be trying to frame a difficult concept into words. "Because I don't like cherries anymore."
Pat let her smile become fixed, plastic. No point in antagonizing the crazy. This lady might only weigh 100 pounds soaking wet, but sometimes persecution complexes gave people unnatural strength. She'd just let her run her string, and find a good excuse to get her into a padded room before anything bad happened. "Of course," Pat said. "Just sit down, and tell me all about it, Mrs..."
The woman sank into the chair opposite Pat's. "Braun. Cynthia Braun, Detective..." She looked down at the nameplate on the desk. "Detective Mulholland. And I can tell you don't believe me. I don't know if I can make you believe me. But I just...this is my last chance, I think. To tell anyone. And if you can't help me, nobody can."
Pat nodded soothingly. "Just go ahead and tell me all about it." She felt the weight of her gun against her side, and privately thanked her habit of wearing it even in the office.
"My husband, Tim and I...we married young. Just out of high school. I thought it was going to be a perfect marriage, and for a while, it was..." Her eyes went out of focus slightly, as though she was trying to recall something stubbornly elusive. "At least, I think it was. We went through college together, he majored in communications, I majored in, um..." Cynthia stumbled for a moment. "Journalism! It was journalism. Tim, he got a really good job in advertising, and...that was three years ago, I think. We'd both been working, even though a woman's place is in the home..." She clenched her teeth together. "Sorry. I know I'm not making much sense."
Pat held up a placating hand. "That's quite alright," she said. "You don't need to worry about anything. I'm on your side in all this, and I want to help you." Was she laying it on too thick?
"Cynthia rubbed her forehead. "Don't patronize me," she gritted out. "Tim, he does that, he...I liked my job, but when he got his new position, he started saying how now we could have kids, and I could quit my job, but I...I liked my job." She looked pleadingly at Pat. "Please don't tell my husband that, but I did. I wanted to keep working. I didn't want..." she shuddered, as if confessing a dreadful secret. "I didn't want to have kids yet."
Pat almost rolled her eyes. What was she, a fucking marriage counselor? But she reminded herself of the 'crazy' part, and kept her expression carefully neutral.
"Tim got angry. Not, I mean, he didn't hit me. He's not a big man. But he wasn't happy. He thought that I was going to settle down someday, be a good wife and mother, and when I told him that wasn't what I wanted...he withdrew. He became distant, spent more time away from the home, and when he was home, he was on the computer. He started talking to other men, men who felt the same way he did. They made him even worse, I think. Reinforced his beliefs, got him involved in some 'men's rights' groups...before I knew it, we were fighting all the time. It wasn't just the job anymore. He felt like I was disagreeing with him too much. Not being a good wife. I don't--" She choked off a sob. "I don't remember our wedding vows word for word, Detective. I don't know whether I actually said 'love, honor and obey'. He says I did, though. And I..."
She shook her head a little. Pat started to wonder if maybe there wasn't something to this story. Not necessarily what Cynthia was saying, not a threat to murder her, but some sort of mental abuse? The woman seemed terrified, confused, practically disoriented. "He started talking about making me into a good wife. Went back to his communications studies, wouldn't tell me what he was doing, or why. And then about six months ago..."
She sighed. "I was eating cherries. I used to love cherries, but he always hated the smell of cherries, and I tried not to eat them, but when we were fighting, I indulged myself a little more. It was petty, but I did it. And one day I was eating cherries, and he came out of the little sound lab he had in the basement, and he saw me eating them, and he just walked over to me, and he said, in this soft, firm, tone, 'Stop that. You don't like cherries anymore.'"
Cynthia reached across the desk and grabbed Pat's hand before she could stop her. "And I didn't. Do you understand? It was something about his tone, or the volume, or something. Something in his voice. It made me stop liking cherries. I'd loved cherries all my life, ever since I was three, and I just stopped, right there. I haven't touched one since."
Pat gently extricated her hand. This didn't feel like a normal crazy woman. It didn't feel like anything Pat had ever experienced before. She wanted to get this woman the hell out of her office.
"He said some other things to me that day, but they didn't work. He'd figured out how to do...the thing with his voice...but he wasn't good at it yet. He couldn't always get the voice right. But he's been getting better. I quit my job last month. I didn't want to, I was up for a promotion, but he told me to in that soft voice, and I did.
"And he's still getting better at it. He's telling me things, and...and he's changing me. He's changing my mind. And I'm starting to forget the person I used to be. I'm turning into the woman Tim wants me to be, and the old Cynthia's fading away, like I'm dying and being replaced by this other woman...it was so hard to leave the house today, so hard to come out here, but he's away on business, and I managed to come see you, but I...I..." Her expression changed, so quickly it barely registered. A dreamy, slightly worried smile spread across her face. "I should go. I don't want Tim to get into any trouble over me."
Pat stood up. "It's OK," she said. "I believe you."
Cynthia's expression changed back to one of fear and desperation. But now it mingled with hope. "You do? You'll help me?"
"Of course." Pat took her arm gently and guided her out of the office. "But we'll need to do a formal psychiatric evaluation, if we're going to help fix what your husband's done to you." She led Cynthia into an open area, silently signaling another officer with her free hand. "It might take a few days, but don't worry, we'll keep you away from your husband until your head has cleared up." Another officer approached her, and she said, "Let's get this young lady down to Bellevue." The officer nodded, and took Cynthia's other arm as Pat let go.
"Oh, thank goodness," Cynthia said. "I've been so scared, I didn't know what to do." She gave Pat one last look as the officer led her away. "You...do believe me, don't you?" she said, just before vanishing around a corner.
