him.
"That's like saying you see the sky, but it isn't there." This was the first of a long line of metaphors and analogies that frustrated cops, lawyers, writers, and counselors would offer up to him. Others said, "That's like saying your own hand doesn't belong to you, Ray." "You might as well try to say you're not sitting here right now, Ray." "How can you keep denying the obvious? It's like describing yourself, but then saying that's not you!"
Over and over, he would give the facts that admitted Natalie was dead, and then he'd deny they meant that. Again and again, he'd admit every detail that irrefutably implicated him and nobody else, and then every time he'd deny culpability. With his own words, he proved he kidnapped and killed her. With his own words, he denied everything to which he seemed to be confessing.
It should have been a confession, but it wasn't.
It should have been a guilty plea, but it was not that, either.
'You know that book?" Robyn Anschutz says. "About how women are from Venus, and men are from Mars? I think Ray Raintree's from Pluto."
When the suspect's personal belongings were cataloged, it was a short list, but an incriminating one. There was a cheap guitar and three backpacks. One of them was full of comic books. One had a razor, razor blades, toothpaste, toothbrush, a package of guitar picks, and a package of strings. It also held a child's red plastic shovel, and a small white envelope containing three baby teeth. Of course, the discovery of the teeth riveted and horrified the detectives, because of what it might mean: another murder, or two, or three? Were these three tiny ivory pieces the trophies of a serial killer?
The rest of the space in the second pack was crammed with a bizarre mix of prescription medicine with other people's names on it. The third pack held his clothes. That trio of backpacks would have seemed strange enough, but what also piqued the interest of the investigators was what they didn't find: no driver's license, no Social Security card, no bank book or checks, no bills either paid or due, no telephone numbers, no insurance cards, no photos or mementos. In fact, there was no paper at all on him or among his meager possessions, except for the paper in the comic books.
"It's just like the way he talks about the night of the murder," Robyn would say to Paul. "It's like he's denying his existence, while he's standing right in front of us."
The Little Mermaid By Marie Lightfoot
CHAPTER FIVE
The chief medical examiner of Howard County began the autopsy on Natalie Mae McCullen at about the same time that Detective Robyn Anschutz discovered Ray's bloody T-shirt in the trash bin.
Dr. Adam Strough spoke the time into a microphone dangling above a silver table where her small body lay naked and apparently undamaged except for the mark of the fishing line pressed into her throat. Her body was ready for incisions.
Ordinarily, Dr. Strough might not have started an autopsy so promptly after receiving a corpse. Bahia Beach is a good-size city, and the medical examiner's office often has several bodies lined up to autopsy at any given time of the day or night, especially in the months of the most sweltering weather when citizens are most likely to annoy one another. But on this day, Dr. Strough put everything else aside, for the sake of the little girl.
"Three-oh-five p.m."
By four-fifteen, he finished the job of cutting through her skull in order to remove her brain.
"I don't know why I was so extra careful," he says, about how fastidiously he bared the raw hemispheres. "I didn't have any reason to think there was anything wrong inside. There was blood on her T-shirt, but not on her face, possibly because she hung in the water long enough to wash it away. She looked perfectly normal, except for the wound and bruising at her throat. But something told me to go slow."
Before the last piece of skull was removed, he exclaimed into the microphone, for the tape and
"That's like saying you see the sky, but it isn't there." This was the first of a long line of metaphors and analogies that frustrated cops, lawyers, writers, and counselors would offer up to him. Others said, "That's like saying your own hand doesn't belong to you, Ray." "You might as well try to say you're not sitting here right now, Ray." "How can you keep denying the obvious? It's like describing yourself, but then saying that's not you!"
Over and over, he would give the facts that admitted Natalie was dead, and then he'd deny they meant that. Again and again, he'd admit every detail that irrefutably implicated him and nobody else, and then every time he'd deny culpability. With his own words, he proved he kidnapped and killed her. With his own words, he denied everything to which he seemed to be confessing.
It should have been a confession, but it wasn't.
It should have been a guilty plea, but it was not that, either.
'You know that book?" Robyn Anschutz says. "About how women are from Venus, and men are from Mars? I think Ray Raintree's from Pluto."
When the suspect's personal belongings were cataloged, it was a short list, but an incriminating one. There was a cheap guitar and three backpacks. One of them was full of comic books. One had a razor, razor blades, toothpaste, toothbrush, a package of guitar picks, and a package of strings. It also held a child's red plastic shovel, and a small white envelope containing three baby teeth. Of course, the discovery of the teeth riveted and horrified the detectives, because of what it might mean: another murder, or two, or three? Were these three tiny ivory pieces the trophies of a serial killer?
The rest of the space in the second pack was crammed with a bizarre mix of prescription medicine with other people's names on it. The third pack held his clothes. That trio of backpacks would have seemed strange enough, but what also piqued the interest of the investigators was what they didn't find: no driver's license, no Social Security card, no bank book or checks, no bills either paid or due, no telephone numbers, no insurance cards, no photos or mementos. In fact, there was no paper at all on him or among his meager possessions, except for the paper in the comic books.
"It's just like the way he talks about the night of the murder," Robyn would say to Paul. "It's like he's denying his existence, while he's standing right in front of us."
The Little Mermaid By Marie Lightfoot
CHAPTER FIVE
The chief medical examiner of Howard County began the autopsy on Natalie Mae McCullen at about the same time that Detective Robyn Anschutz discovered Ray's bloody T-shirt in the trash bin.
Dr. Adam Strough spoke the time into a microphone dangling above a silver table where her small body lay naked and apparently undamaged except for the mark of the fishing line pressed into her throat. Her body was ready for incisions.
Ordinarily, Dr. Strough might not have started an autopsy so promptly after receiving a corpse. Bahia Beach is a good-size city, and the medical examiner's office often has several bodies lined up to autopsy at any given time of the day or night, especially in the months of the most sweltering weather when citizens are most likely to annoy one another. But on this day, Dr. Strough put everything else aside, for the sake of the little girl.
"Three-oh-five p.m."
By four-fifteen, he finished the job of cutting through her skull in order to remove her brain.
"I don't know why I was so extra careful," he says, about how fastidiously he bared the raw hemispheres. "I didn't have any reason to think there was anything wrong inside. There was blood on her T-shirt, but not on her face, possibly because she hung in the water long enough to wash it away. She looked perfectly normal, except for the wound and bruising at her throat. But something told me to go slow."
Before the last piece of skull was removed, he exclaimed into the microphone, for the tape and
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