Title: My Richard. Part six
Author: Simon
Characters: Dick/OC/the usual crew
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She's back...
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
Feedback: Hell, yes.
Note: I have Dick dating a couple of girls while he's in high school that I made up. I know they're not canon, but neither are they important beyond being minor plot points here. Honest. They were just good friends and parted on good terms. He was almost a gentleman the entire time. Besides, beyond Betty Kane (does anyone remember her?) I don't think he canon dated in high school, did he? Oh, and I know that the canon Dick doesn't have a grandfather over in Europe, but I like to think that he does, so work with me here.
My Richard
Part SixEight and a Half Years Ago
Usually his mail was placed on the tray by the front door so Dick could pick it up as he came in from school. This afternoon there were a couple of catalogues he didn't want, several invitations to society things he'd rather kill than attend and two personal letters, one from his grandfather over in Europe and one—hell, no. That was ridiculous.
The other letter was in a pale pink envelope with the address in rounded, feminine handwriting.
Dick hadn't seen Laura in over a year, not since that last time he'd been to her house after her release from the hospital and he'd thought that was the end of it. Her family had moved away and Bruce told him that John Woodward had asked the personnel department to forward his last check and tax information for the year to someone in Denver who turned out to be his mother.
There was no contact, no calls, and no Christmas cards. Nothing.
Until now.
Skipping his usual snack, he stuffed the mail into his backpack and went up to his room, closing the door behind him.
The letter picked up where they had left off, as if nothing bad or odd had happened. It was sort of creepy.
My Richard,
You don't mind if I call you that, do you? You're my Richard and you always will be mine, just like I'm yours.
I know that I hurt you when my parents made us all move away like we did with no warning or anything and I felt so badly about that but there wasn't really anything I could do about it.
They won't let me come visit you and if they knew I was writing this they'd be really pissed—so don't tell them, alright?
I completely miss you.
You know that old red sweatshirt of yours? The one with the zipper and the hood? You left it at the old house one day and I packed it when we moved. Sometimes (like every night!) I put it on before I go to bed and pretend that you're wearing it and that it's your arms around me and that we're sleeping together the way we used to.
Are you mad that I still have it? I hope not because it's what keeps me connected to you. I haven't even washed it because I think it still smells like you.
That sounds gross doesn't it?
It isn't, though. I love you so much and you were so nice to me even when I was being mean to you. You're the kindest person I know.
I told my girlfriend, Lisa, about you and she's totally jealous of me because we're in love even though we're not even together. I showed her your picture—remember that day in the backyard when you were showing me how you can do tumbling? I showed her those pictures and she thinks you're gorgeous and that your eyes are incredible.
And she hasn't even seen you in person, but don't get any ideas about her because you're mine!
I'm not supposed to tell anyone where we are, but I think that's stupid. I mean, you could just look at the postmark on the envelope and it's not like we're in a witness protection program or anything.
My Dad felt really bad about quitting his job as suddenly as he did and please tell Bruce that he really liked working for him. He hopes Bruce isn't mad or anything.
And say hello to Alfred for me. Okay? He's such a sweetheart.
I'll write you. I miss you.
Maybe someday I'll surprise you and just tap you on the shoulder—would you like that? I promise that we'll get together really soon.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
Laura.
Jesus.
This was just what he needed; just when he finally hadn't even thought about her in a couple of months and was starting to go out with Blair.
Sighing, he was about to toss the thing in the trash when something made him get a file folder and put the letter inside. He looked at the postmark—Chicago and three days ago. Well, maybe he'd do some research down in the Cave later.
Like he needed this.
After dinner he told Bruce he had to look up some things for school and accessed the Cave computers. Yes, there was a real estate transaction from eleven months ago in a suburb of Chicago. It was a townhouse on Lake Michigan; selling price was just over four hundred thousand dollars. The buyers were John and Lynn Woodward. The mortgage was held by a local bank. John listed his employer as the Merchandise Mart of Chicago on the application.
So that's where he'd gone, though without references, Dick wondered how he got himself hired.
He started looking through school enrollment records to see where Laura was going to school, but didn't find anything. Maybe she was being tutored or something. Maybe she had dropped out. Whatever. And, yes, James Woodward was still listed as a student at Yale. He was a sophomore this year.
Well, no reason to tell Bruce about any of this. Maybe she'd just write that one letter and leave him alone.
Maybe she found another boyfriend.
Maybe she'd finally kill herself.
God.
She was still nuts and she was still after him after all this time and she was saying that she might turn up at any second. Just what he needed.
He had trouble sleeping that night and Alfred asked him if he didn't feel well when he came down, late, for breakfast. No, he was fine, he had just been up late working on that AP English essay that was due in a couple of days. He was fine and no, he wasn't really hungry, either. Toast was enough and maybe some juice or something.
Two days later there was another letter on the hall table. Again, he read it in the privacy of his room.
My Richard,
I was talking to Gail back at Briarcliff a few minutes ago and I'm pretty upset. She said that you took that bitch Blair to the prom and you promised that you were going to take me, remember? Last year? Sound familiar?
Well, sure I know that I'm not there and it's not like you called me to arrange anything, but you could have stayed home or gone with some of the guys or something like that. Gail said that you two were dancing and dressed up and that you were even kissing her.
At first I couldn't believe it! I mean—you kissed that cow? But then I thought about it a little and I figured that since Blair's father works for Bruce—like who doesn't?—you probably were pressured into taking her to the stupid dance even though you'd probably rather stay home if I couldn't be there with you. You probably had to give her a peck on the cheek or something just to be polite and not hurt her feelings, right?
I know that!
You wouldn't two-time me. I know I was upset with you for a while about that Donna pig, but I know that even though she was coming on to you like crazy, you weren't really interested.
I bet she would have put out for you, though.
Did Blair? Give you get what you wanted? Like anyone could refuse you. You just look at them with your amazing eyes and they know how hot your body is and how smart you are—not to mention rich—and they just melt all over, don't they?
I bet you have them waiting in line for your fabulous self.
You getting what you want, Richard?
Are you?
I'm not there so you go hunting wherever you can get it, don't you? You're a pig, just like every boy I've ever gone out with. You are.
I hate you. Don't call me again. I mean it. I'll hang up on you if you do and I'll tell my parents that you're bothering me again.
Oh, and the baby, OUR baby you said never happened? I had an abortion so you don't have to worry about that anymore, either.
Laura.
Jesus, she was getting nuts again. Or maybe she was just still nuts. Either way, this wasn't good.
Maybe this time she'd leave him alone since she was so pissed. And that thing with Blair? All they'd done was kiss a couple of times while they were dancing that night. It was a nonevent. He was so completely not into putting on a show at a country club dance with all the local dowagers chaperoning and trying to see whom the Wayne circus rat was sticking it to. Like he needed that. He and Blair hadn't done anything until he'd driven her back to her house after the party after the dance. Okay, sure, then they'd had a pretty good time, but it was completely in private and that was the way he preferred to keep it. And besides, he'd learned from Bruce. The last thing he needed was a paternity suit before he was even out of high school. He was always careful about these things. Always. In fact that was a habit that would stay with him for the rest of his life and not just with sex.
She had an abortion? For God's sake, she wasn't even pregnant, at least not when she left Gotham, anyway.
She was nuts.
So what to do now? This was two letters in just a couple days. Tell Bruce? Yeah, right. Like he would do that if there was anyway in hell to avoid it. Go see Barbara and see the look on her face when he admitted that he had girl trouble? Not in this lifetime. Wander down to the kitchen and mention things to Alfred? Like Alf didn't have enough to worry about with him and Bruce going out almost every night and now with Joker loose again and Harvey Dent making noises...no.
His phone now was connected to a new unlisted number, changed after the mess with Laura started last year. At least she wouldn't be able to call him thirty times a day. Checking his address book, he dialed.
"May I speak to Dr. Thompkins, please? This is Dick Grayson."
After a couple of minutes she came on the line. "This is a pleasant surprise, is everything alright, dear?"
"Well, um, could I maybe come in and talk to you tomorrow or this week? There's sort of something going on."
"Of course you can come talk to me. You always can, you know that. Come after school tomorrow, is that soon enough? You could come over right now if it's urgent, dear."
"No, it's, um—Maybe I could come over during lunch tomorrow? I have a study hall right after and it's a double, there's lots of time."
If she was surprised by his anxiousness, she hid it well. "That would be fine. I'll see you then."
"Thanks, Dr. Leslie."
The next day he sat down in the client chair across her desk. Leslie Thompkins had a couple of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of fruit juice sitting there. "Ham and cheese or roast beef and orange juice or apple, take your pick."
He went with the Ham and cheese and apple juice. He knew Leslie loved roast beef.
"Now tell me why you're here, dear."
That's why Dick liked Leslie; down to earth, no nonsense, no false anything, just what's your problem and how are we going to fix it?
Quickly he ran through the last year and a half—his meeting Laura, their dating during most of the school year and finally how she began to become unreasonably jealous over his talking with any other girl than her and the reactions. He told Leslie about the pool with the other Titans, about her throwing soup on Marcia and about her overdose. Dick finished with the Woodward family leaving suddenly and her history of this happening before—or something similar, anyway, with a guy at her previous school. Finally he pulled the folder out of his backpack and showed her the two letters. She read them silently and looked up at him. "You're right, you have a problem." Putting the letters back in the folder and handing them across the desk she took a breath. "You know that you're being stalked, don't you?"
He nodded. "I don't want to tell Bruce or Alfred unless I have to. I can handle this. Okay?"
"It's not as simple as you think, Dick. You know enough to understand that."
"I know that."
"Has she actually threatened you physically, or anyone else; Bruce or Alfred?"
"No."
"Then you know that the law can't help you, especially if she's living in another state. The most you could hope for would be the Chicago police stopping by her house for a talk or something along those lines." She pulled a sheaf of papers from her drawer. "Stalking. I want you to sit there while I go over this with you."
The stats were frightening.
Almost a million and a half stalking victims a year in the US, roughly eighty percent of them women. Half of women being stalked obtained a restraining order, eighty percent of these were violated. Less than twenty percent of male victims reported their stalking to the police. Of the cases prosecuted, roughly half were convicted and slightly more than sixty percent served time. Most women were stalked by an intimate partner; men were more likely to be stalked by a stranger. Over half of the stalking victims were young adults between sixteen and twenty-nine. About forty-five percent of victims received overt threats, seventy-five percent were followed or spied on, and thirty percent had property vandalized.
Most stalking cases lasted less than a year, but in some cases they continued as long as eight or even ten years.
About a third of stalking victims seek psychological counseling.
"You also need to know that you're almost a textbook profile of a the type of stalking called 'erotomania'. I'm sure that's what this is. That's when the stalker, usually a female, has the delusional belief that their victim passionately loves them. The victim is usually of a higher socio-economic class. They're like the obsessed fans who go after celebrities"
"Like that woman who was breaking into David Letterman's house and thought she was his wife?"
"That's right. This girl, Laura, thinks you're in love with her and that you're destined to be together. She's going to try to make that happen."
"So this isn't going to just go away, is it?"
"You didn't think it would, did you? She's going to try to woo you, or make you understand that you should be with her or some such. You may get flowers, gifts. You'll probably get a lot of letters. If you don't respond or don't give her the response she wants she may move to threats. If she's upset enough, the threats won't be empty ones."
"Jesus."
"It's a progression; 'I'll prove to you how much I love you, I can make you love me, if I can't have you no one will.'"
"Is there a time table for this?"
Leslie sipped her juice. "There's no way to predict it, dear. It's always different."
"So what do I do?"
"First of all, you should tell Bruce and Alfred—don't give me that look. You know you should. Second, don't respond to her. Don't answer her letters, if she calls, hang up. Don't even say 'hello'. If you see her on the street, don't acknowledge her. Don't acknowledge any present. No response at all to anything—unless she issues a direct threat, then you call Jim Gordon and file a complaint."
"What about calling her parents? Letting them know what's going on?"
"If it continues, that's another option but if they already know she has a problem and this is still happening, I doubt it will do much good."
Dick stood up; he had to start back to school. "This is getting really creepy, y'know?"
"And she's already angry because she thinks you ignored her when she was carrying your baby. You be careful or I'll tell Bruce whether you want me to or not."
"What about 'patient confidentiality'?"
"Don't you try that with me. I know you too well. If I think you're in danger, I'll do what I have to so you're safe." She walked him to the back door and gave him a hug. "You be careful and I want updates on this, do you understand?"
He nodded.
When he got back to the manor that afternoon there was another letter on the table.
TBC
15
