The Death Watcher

Chapter Forty-Nine

That night, both support-group sessions started at 7:30 p.m. sharp. To give most group members a chance to speak, if they wanted to, the sessions lasted, on average, ninety minutes, with a coffee break roughly halfway through it. There was no attendance sheet… no roll call… no name check.

For his session, Garcia did dress down – faded blue jeans, oldish black T-shirt, white sneakers and hair in a not-so-tidy manbun. He acted shy, kept his eyes low and didn’t utter a single joke or sarcastic comment throughout the entire session.

Garcia had never been to a group therapy session before and, when taking into account that these were all people who had been, or still were, violent toward their children and/or partners inside their household, he was surprised with how calm and considerate everyone really was. There were eight people in his group, including himself – five men and three women – no Michaels… no Russells. The moderator – in other words, the person who ran the group – was a very sweet lady in her early fifties, who reminded Garcia of his middle school principal, Mrs. Dorset.

The group therapy dynamic was very simple. It started with a little introduction by the moderator, quickly explaining the group’s mission and the few rules. The first rule they already knew – all cellphones were to be left in a box by the entrance and they all had to be either switched off or set to flight mode. Once everyone was seated, the moderator would then ask each person to introduce themselves, adding a quick line explaining why they had joined the group, regardless of them being a returning member or not. The third and final rule was simply to be considerate. That was it. From there, whoever wanted to share an experience with the group – and those experiences didn’t necessarily need to deal directly with domestic violence or abuse – would simply raise their hand and the moderator would call on them. There was no time limit and listening members were asked not to interrupt. At the end of the account, the member was asked if they were open to suggestions or comments from the other group members. If ‘yes’, the moderator would ask the group if anyone wanted to offer a comment or a suggestion. If ‘no’, the moderator would move to the next group member who wanted to share an experience with the rest of the group and the process would start again.

That evening, only four out of the eight members shared accounts with the group – three men and one woman. The accounts were always told in the third person, just like Hunter had told Garcia that they would be. The reason for that was because if phrased wrongly, a member could be, in essence, confessing to the crime of assault, or worse. For that reason, as if this was some kind of tacitly recognized disclaimer, every single account began with the words ‘This happened to a friend of mine…’

Garcia listened to what everyone had to say in complete silence. He found it easier to focus his gaze on the floor, allowing his eyes to every now and then quickly move up and search the hands of a particular group member at a time. He used that technique throughout the entire session and he was sure that no one had noticed him doing it. But despite how expertly Garcia had peeked at everyone’s hands and fingers, he didn’t spot any abnormality.

When his turn to share something with the group came up, Garcia did exactly what he and Hunter had rehearsed.

‘Brian,’ the moderator asked. Her voice was velvety and tranquil. ‘Would you like to share anything with the group at this time?’

Garcia clasped his hands together between his thighs. His eyes stayed on his thumbs for a moment before he looked up and gave the group a shy nod.

‘OK.’ He took a deep breath and held it for a second. ‘My name is Brian and I…’ He looked to his left, as if he were just allowing his eyes to wander aimlessly. ‘I have trouble controlling my temper sometimes. Sometimes the smallest of things makes me angry a lot more than it should, you know? And I… just don’t know what I’m doing. Rage just takes over… I see red and…’ The pause was deliberate.

‘Can you give us an example?’ the moderator asked. ‘It helps us understand the sort of rage that you’re talking about.’

Garcia quickly searched the faces of the other group members – three of them were looking directly at him. Two other members were looking down at the floor, and the last two had their eyes closed, but they were still paying attention to his words.

‘Sure,’ he finally replied. ‘This happened to a friend of mine.’

Every member of the group nodded back at him – an unspoken acknowledgment of the well-worn disclaimer.

‘His wife had bought this toy piano for their son,’ Garcia began. ‘And that day – it was a Sunday, I’m sure – my friend and his son were sitting in the living room and his son just wouldn’t stop hitting the keys on that damn thing. Not playing them… no… just hitting them – ping, ping, ping, ping.’ He demonstrated with his hands. ‘My friend asked him to stop many times… but the kid just carried on – ping, ping, ping, ping. My friend could’ve got up and left the room… he could’ve gone sit outside or something, but instead, he simply lost his temper with his son… and…’ Garcia’s eyes wandered right.

‘Take your time, Brian,’ the moderator said, nodding at him. ‘There’s no rush. Just take a deep breath. The first time is always the hardest. Just remember that no one is here to judge, OK? We’re all here to help.’

Garcia had to swallow the smile that threatened to stretch his lips because Hunter had, once again, hit the nail on the head. He had told Garcia that if he got the pauses between words right, stalling at the right moment, and following it up with a guilty look, either the moderator or a group member would encourage him to carry on, stating something like – ‘there’s no judging in this group’, or ‘we’re all here to help’, or something similar.

Garcia nodded slowly, took another flaky attempt at a deep breath and proceeded with his rehearsed story.

‘And my friend just remembers losing it completely and grabbing his son by his hands. After that – nothing. It’s like a void… some sort of blackout, you know? It’s like chunks just disappeared from his memory.’ Another forced pause. He saw a couple of members nodding at him.

‘What’s the next thing your friend remembers, Brian?’ the moderator asked.

Garcia blinked then looked up. This, Hunter had told him, was their trump card.

‘The next thing he remembers,’ Garcia said, ‘was his son screaming in pain.’ His gaze moved left and right, scanning the group. ‘Because somehow, a couple of his fingers were broken.’

No one’s reaction caught Garcia’s attention – no one seemed too shocked, or disgusted, or angry, or anything. They all just seemed gloomy, as if they all completely understood where Garcia was coming from.

Hunter had explained that if the killer was sitting in on the session, at the mention of physical violence that either matched or was very similar to the type of violence that he had suffered as a kid, there was a very high possibility of a telltale reflex, just like Emiliano had displayed when they were sitting in that coffee shop in Watts. Maybe the subject would allow his eyes to drop to his hand, the one with the fingers that hadn’t healed properly… or lightly rub it, as if there was some pain there… or even momentarily hide it by crossing his arms or tucking his hand inside his pocket. It would be something subtle… something that even the subject wouldn’t notice that he was doing. But Garcia saw nothing – no gazing at the hands, no rubbing, no hiding… nothing. If the killer was sitting in on his session, he had, over the years, become an expert in keeping his cool.

When Garcia was asked if he was open to suggestions or comments from the other members, his reply was simple.

‘Maybe next time.’

Once the session had ended, Garcia hung around outside for a few minutes, pretending to smoke a cigarette. Hunter would do the same at the end of his session.

The cigarette stunt was also part of the plan. Due to the fact that Garcia had declined comments and suggestions from the other group members after he’d shared his story, hanging out outside, alone, would give anyone an open chance to approach him in a more private way. It could be anything, from deep words of support to something as subtle as ‘Well done tonight, Brian, I’ll see you next week’ – anything that could signal an attempt at a possible beginning of a friendship. But no one approached Garcia. As the other group members exited the building, they all went their own separate ways in total silence. And just like that, the night was over.