by Clark Howard
Again the Statistician removed the chart from his portable easel, but this time he did not replace it with another.
“The two projections which I have outlined,” he said, “are the most highly probable end results of the subject’s life as the situation now stands. For purposes of comparison, however, I should like for a moment to speculate on more improbable but nevertheless possible avenues of life which remain open to the boy. The first, of course, is the alternative adult condition pointed out by our Mr. Psychologist: the possibility that instead of becoming a total psychopath, the boy will grow up to be merely a troubled eccentric. Based on his present condition and circumstances, the chances that he will follow this course number twenty-seven out of one hundred.
“Now, what exactly can be expected from such an eccentric? This, as I am sure you all realize, is an unanswerable question. The outcome will depend upon so many different factors that even the most sophisticated statistical research on a single subject would take years to complete. We can, however, use our past findings and present knowledge to strike a reasonably accurate curve of probability that will show, in some areas of his life, what may or may not be expected to happen.
“For instance, in the area of education, we would find that he has eighty-seven chances out of one hundred of completing elementary school, but only thirty-one chances of finishing high school. As for college, the probability is practically nil: only four chances that he will even enter college, and point—seven—six that he will obtain a degree.
“In the occupational area, the chances are ninety-two to eight against his ever attaining a job of white collar status; sixty-seven out of one hundred that he will never rise to blue collar status; and only twenty chances in a hundred that he will even maintain steady employment eight months out of his average life year. In fact, the only percentage giving him a better than even chance of success is in the common labor field such as ditch digging, truck loading, factory cleanup and so on.
“In personal relations, he has only eleven chances in one hundred of entering into a successful marriage. On the other hand, there are fifty-seven chances in that same hundred that he will use alcohol to excess, and twenty-three chances that he will become chronically alcoholic. Because of his unstable background, there are forty-two chances that he will gamble excessively, ninety-one chances that he will habitually use profane and obscene language, eighteen chances that he will become addicted to narcotics in some form, and twelve chances that at some point in his life he will contact a venereal disease.
“These figures are quite dismal, as I am sure you realize. But blacker still is the percentage of probability that above leading a sordid and totally useless life himself, the possibility also exists that the subject, as Mr. Psychologist pointed out, is always subconsciously capable of doing great harm to innocent people around him. These cases are rare, I grant you, but they do exist, and the damage does occur. I refer your memories to the recent examples of the young man in Chicago who strangled twelve student nurses in their dormitory, and the Texas college student who barricaded himself in a building tower and methodically shot down more than twenty persons with a high-powered rifle. These are the extremes of eccentricity—but they do happen. In our case, the case of a young boy still innocent, not even old enough yet to begin school, the chances are one-point-eight-three that he will become such a maniac.”
The Statistician took another cigarette from his expensive case and lighted it.
“That concludes my statistical projection, gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for your attention.”
“Thank you, Mr. Statistician,” the elderly Moderator said in a soft, disturbed voice. “Your findings are very thought-provoking, as well as enlightening.” He looked at an ornate gold watch attached to a chain that flowed into his vest pocket. “It is late,” he said to the panel. “Shall we adjourn?”
“Yes, let’s,” said the Theologian. “I have a delegation of parishioners coming to see me in the morning about my playground project, and I want to be bright-eyed and charming when we get around to discussing the financial requirements.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult for you,” the usually reserved Psychiatrist said wryly. “You’re always bright-eyed and charming when you’re trying to separate us honest working folk from our money.”
“It’s all in the name of goodness, my friend,” the Theologian said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Would you care to stop for a cup of coffee with me on the way home?”
“I suppose I might as well,” the Psychiatrist grumbled good-naturedly. “I’d rather write you a check tonight than have to attend one of the church socials and do it then.”
The men of the Truth Court filed past Keyes and out of the Blue Room, the Examiner as usual being the last one out. Their captive was left strapped to his chair to wait for the silent, uniformed Oriental who would roll him away.
Beyond the Blue Room, at the top of a flight of stairs with the door closed behind them, the elderly Moderator waited for a word in private with the Examiner.
“I thought you’d be interested in knowing that the chief prosecutor’s office is investigating Mr. Keyes’ disappearance,” the older man said. “All very informal, of course, nothing official as yet. He has an attorney general’s man, Devlin, working on the case.”
“That’s very interesting,” the Examiner said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Are they making any progress?”
“Don’t know yet,” the Moderator said. He removed a wilting, dying-edged white carnation from the buttonhole of his lapel and deposited it in a nearby ashtray. “They came to me to get a search warrant signed this morning. Seems Devlin is interested in Keyes’ bank account.”
“Smart,” the Examiner acknowledged. “You let him have the warrant, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Let me know if you hear anything further.”
“I will. Goodnight, now.”
“Goodnight, Judge,” the Examiner said, placing a fond hand on the old man’s shoulder as he opened the door for him.
After the door closed and he was alone, the Examiner frowned slightly, thinking about Devlin and the man’s penchant for relentlessness. They wouldn’t, he decided, be able to stretch out this Keyes inquiry very long. Not very long at all.
Seven
Devlin arrived at the state hospital in mid-morning after a two-hour drive. He left his car in the visitors’ parking area and walked down a well-manicured, tree-shaded lane to the hospital administration area. The first thing he wanted to determine, prior to actually seeing Abigail Daniels, was whether she had received any visitors since her commitment, and if so, who they were. With that in mind, he consulted a uniformed guard at the information desk and was directed to the hospital records section on the second floor. Eventually he found himself in the office of the medical and administrative records director, a gnome-like little man named Bivins.
“May I ask the reason for your inquiry, Mr. Devlin?” The little gnome peered over hornrimmed eyeglasses at Devlin’s badge and identification.
“Certainly,” Devlin answered pleasantly. “It’s a criminal matter regarding Miss Daniels’ former employer.”
“I see.” Bivins drummed stubby fingers on his desktop. “Ordinarily, of course, our records are classified as confidential; to protect our patients, you understand—”
“Yes, I know that, Mr. Bivins. However, I’m sure you realize that the attorney general’s office is empowered to subpoena the records of any state institution. Naturally, if you would prefer that we adhere to the formalities, I’ll comply with your wishes. I thought that in the interest of saving a little of the taxpayers’ money, however—” Devlin let his words trail off, implying that any other course would constitute a gross waste of public funds.
“Well, looking at it that way, yes, I think we can stretch a point in this instance,” Bivins replied immediately. “Excuse me for a moment; I’ll get the file for you—” The little gnome left the office. Behind him, Devlin shook his
head in utter amazement at the time and effort he had to expend simply to get people to do what he wanted them to do. At times, he thought, our civilization seems to be held together by insinuations and motivated solely by subtle threats. He sometimes wondered if the majority of his fellow men would ever do anything were it not for pressures being applied from without. Humanity, he decided, is deteriorating.
Mr. Bivins returned and handed Devlin a thin folder that at first glance appeared almost to be empty.
“I’m afraid you won’t find much in this,” the little man remarked; he sounded almost happy about it. “Miss Daniels hasn’t received a single visitor other than professional consultants called in by her doctor here.”
Devlin opened the folder. Aside from the usual commitment papers, copies of the court order and completed institutional forms, the file on Abigail Daniels contained nothing of immediate significance. A patient visitors card, clipped to the inside cover, indicated as Bivins had stated that the only persons who had seen the woman had done so in a professional capacity. Devlin scanned the list: Dr. Edward Malcom, Dr. Karl Weiner, Dr. Morton Monroe, Dr. Robert Spoon, Dr. Todd Holt—
Devlin’s eyes stopped and he frowned. Dr. Todd Holt? Devlin knew a Todd Holt; but he wasn’t a doctor—
It could be a coincidence in names, he thought; probably was; but on the other hand, the Todd Holt he knew might conceivably have had reason to see Abigail Daniels, and might have used the title of doctor to avoid hospital red tape—
At any rate, it was not a problem that could not be solved by a simple telephone call to Todd. He made a mental note of the date next to Todd Holt’s name, finished looking at the file and handed it back to Bivins.
“You were right, Mr. Bivins,” he said, “there’s nothing in here that can help us. Sorry to have taken up your time, but I do appreciate your cooperation.”
“Always happy to help another government agency,” Bivins said magnanimously.
Devlin went back downstairs and inquired of the same guard at the information desk as to the procedure for interviewing a patient. This time he was directed to the large general administration office that occupied one corner of the main floor. Ultimately he found himself talking to a Miss Kelch, whom he found to be one of those grey, neutral, unmemorable career civil service women, at least one of whom seemed to be allotted to every government office.
“This patient is in the psychopathic section,” she recited formally to Devlin. “Non-relatives are not permitted to visit patients in the psychopathic section.”
This has been a recorded message, Devlin thought. “I’m her cousin,” he said blandly.
“Oh, come now,” Miss Kelch replied icily.
Devlin showed her his identification.
“It is imperative that I interview this patient. Perhaps I’d better speak to your superior.”
“That would be either the director or the assistant director of the hospital,” she informed him. “They are both at the state capitol attending a budget hearing.”
“Surely there is some provision that covers such an eventuality as that,” Devlin remarked with supreme patience. “I can’t believe that the absence of two men can completely negate all visits to your psychopathic section.”
“The only other way would be to have the patient’s resident doctor accompany you,” she said reluctantly.
“There, you see,” Devlin praised, “I knew you’d find a way. Now, how do I go about seeing the doctor?”
Moments later, bearing his third set of directions since arriving, Devlin walked down a wide, enclosed areaway toward a connecting building which housed the hospital’s staff medical offices. At the end of the areaway, he inquired of a passing building maintenance man where he might find the office of Dr. Damon Fox, chief medical officer of the psychopathic section. He was given further directions that finally led him to a staff medical receptionist in the building’s center main floor lobby. This particular receptionist, he noted, appeared to have at least average intelligence, so he identified himself without preliminary and explained the purpose of his request to see Dr. Fox.
“The doctor has someone with him just now, Mr. Devlin,” she said in a pleasantly efficient voice. “If you’d care to sit down, I’ll tell him you’re here as soon as he’s free.”
“Thank you,” Devlin smiled, his opinion of female civil servants rising somewhat from the depths to which it had dipped in the presence of Miss Kelch. He took a chair next to the wall and lighted a cigarette.
As he waited, Devlin’s thoughts returned to the visitors card that had been clipped inside Abigail Daniels’ patient record. Todd Holt, he decided, really was not what could be called a common name, no matter how far one stretched the imagination. Still, it seemed almost too remote to contemplate that the Todd Holt he knew could have any interest in Abigail Daniels. The Todd Holt he knew was an investigative aide attached to the State Supreme Court. As such, the matters he dealt with customarily pertained to cases scheduled for hearing before that body. The date next to Dr. Todd Holt’s name on the visitors card had been September twelfth, which was while the high court was in its two-month summer session. Todd—the Todd he knew—would have been very busy in the state capitol during that time. Regardless of the uncommonness of the name, it almost had to be a simple coincidence—
“Dr. Fox is free now, Mr. Devlin,” the receptionist said, interrupting his speculation. Devlin followed her into a private office.
“How do you do, Mr. Devlin,” the doctor said, rising to shake hands across the desk. The telephone rang while the receptionist was still there and she answered it at the doctor’s desk.
“It’s your wife, Doctor; just a quick question, she said—”
“All right. Pardon me for a moment, Mr. Devlin.” He took the receiver from his receptionist. “Yes, dear?”
Devlin noticed the receptionist glance at his scar as she retreated from the office. If Grandfather could have known how many women over the years would be curious about that scar, he thought, the old rascal probably would have thrown the hearth door against his own face—
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did,” he heard the doctor say to his wife. “I wrote one for a hundred dollars to Abe O’Hara for some playground project of his down in the Potts area. Didn’t I enter it in the checkbook? I must have been in a hurry. All right, dear; see you at dinner.” He hung up and turned to face Devlin. “Little discrepancy in the family budget,” he smiled. “Now then, I believe you are interested in one of my patients; Abigail Daniels, isn’t it? How may I help you?”
“Well, first of all, Doctor, I wonder if you could tell me a little about Miss Daniels’ condition. Within the boundaries of your ethical limitations, of course—”
“Of course. You’re interested in a layman’s picture of her general condition, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s about it.”
Dr. Fox leaned back and folded his small hands on the desk. His slight frame seemed almost overpowered by the high back of his chair. His face, momentarily inanimate in thought, seemed very intense.
“I’ll try to outline Abigail’s condition in chronological order of its progress,” he said clinically, “in order that you’ll fully appreciate the gravity of her condition. In other words, we’ll take her case in stages, so to speak; bearing in mind, of course, that these stages will overlap as the patient’s aberration—her mental disorder—progresses.
“To begin with, at some point in the past, probably over a period of several years, she developed paranoia, which is an advanced state of psychosis or mental disturbance. You might best describe it as a chronic psychosis. To put it more simply, you might compare ordinary psychoses with ordinary headaches, something all of us are subject to on occasion. Paranoia, on the other hand, would more closely resemble a constant migraine condition; much more severe, you see, more frequent, more persistent. Am I explaining it clearly enough?”
“Perfectly clear, Doctor,” Devlin assured him. Dr. Fox smiled uncomfortably.
“We become so accustomed to discussing these matters in clinical terms,” he half apologized, “that it sometimes becomes difficult to translate it into simple language.” He paused momentarily, pursing his lips, studying his own folded hands. “So to continue,” he said finally, “this paranoia, this early stage of Abigail’s condition, is a chronic psychosis normally characterized by systemized delusions either of persecution or grandeur—”
“Which was it in her case?” Devlin asked.
“Both, oddly enough. The earlier delusion probably was of grandeur; it later deteriorated into a persecution complex.”
“This is a serious condition, I take it.”
“Quite serious,” Dr. Fox confirmed, “particularly if allowed to go unchecked, as it did in Abigail’s case. Gradually her paranoia advanced to hallucinosis. This is a pathological mental state characterized, as its name suggests, by hallucination. In its basic form, this is a state in which the patient has perceptions of events which have no reality attached to them; you might describe them as nightmares that one has while fully awake. A mentally disturbed thief, for instance, might have hallucinations of being arrested by horribly grotesque monsters dressed in police uniforms; that sort of thing.”
“What was the basis of Miss Daniels’ hallucinations?” Devlin asked casually. Dr. Fox pursed his lips.
“We spoke earlier about the boundaries of my professional ethics,” he reminded Devlin. “I’m afraid that I can’t go into specifics with you and still remain inside those limits.”
“All right, Doctor,” Devlin replied amiably, “please go on.”
“The hallucinosis, the second stage of Abigail’s condition,” the doctor continued, “eventually progressed to the third stage: delirium. This is a severe mental disturbance; it is characterized by confusion, disordered speech, greatly increased forms of hallucination, and in some cases even extreme physical violence of one sort or another.”
“Such as when she wrecked her apartment?”
“Exactly,” the doctor confirmed automatically; then his eyes widened slightly and he was unable to conceal from Devlin an instant of surprise that registered in his expression. “I see you already are familiar with some of Abigail’s background,” he said carefully.
