“Which is why it should be shipped by a professional company,” she said as they walked inside. The walls were dusty pink, and a bouquet of lilies filled a crystal vase on the small table beside the doorway. She threw her keys on the table and they clattered against the vase.
“You know we can’t. Suggest it if you like, but it won’t work. You know it’s crucial we arrange...less obvious modes of transport.”
“It’s just, what if something happened to it?” She pointed to a spot against the wall, across from the day bed. “Put it there.”
He set down the painting and freed it of its dirty cardboard outer casing and the bubble wrap inside. She hovered as he removed each layer. “It would be safer to leave it in storage,” she said. But after he opened a final layer of paper and she saw it again, she understood why it was worth the risk, the impracticality.
It was the physical connection. They needed to see it, to touch it. Báthory was once in the same room as this canvas. Looked at it, breathed on it with a pant of anticipation or of indulgence, with thoughts of a servant just killed or about to be. The wet paint covering pale canvas like a girl’s blood on her skin.
He touched the heavy gilded frame, the wood cool against his tanned skin. He knew each brushstroke of her square, lace-trimmed collar, the turquoise cuffs tight against her wrists at the end of gossamer bell sleeves. Hair pulled back from her face with a tight cap of jewels. Báthory’s lips and eyes relaxed, not a smile, not a frown.
They would hang it later. For now, it commanded the space in the small, lily-scented flat.
From her wine rack she pulled a bottle of Egri Bikavér. She unwrapped the foil at the neck, dug in the screw. Turned, turned, pulled. She poured them each a glass of the deep red wine. They sipped and attended on the Countess.
Chapter Nine
Every morning on my way to work, I pass by an angel outside the front gate of Stowmoor. The statue sits a hundred yards in front of the regal-looking archway and high brick walls of the institution. She probably used to be white stone; now, dirty grey veins run down her dress and through her wings, which she holds over her head, half-spread. She is mottled and worn. But beautiful in spite of, maybe because of, this decay. I wonder whom she’s there for; the patients walled inside never see her. Maybe she’s there for us, the people who pass in and out of the gates every day.
This Monday morning, I hustle past the angel and give her only a cursory glance. I’m scheduled to do the second interview with Foster this afternoon. But first I have a meeting with Abbas and Sloane, to consult with them about my initial report. I dig through my purse for my ID and string it around my neck. I say hi to Trudi, who works the main entrance most mornings. She buzzes me through the first gate. It clangs shut behind me and I hurry down the dark grey hallway, the heels of my boots slipping on the concrete epoxy floor. I pass through another set of gates, get my mail from Kelly and make it to my office two minutes early.
We must be on time on Mondays. Mondays, they test the alarm at ten o’clock. Any early morning interviews or sessions must finish before nine forty-five. Then all patients are taken back to their rooms and accounted for. Guards and orderlies stand by the doors, and we all wait for the alarm to start. The sound is similar to a WWII air-raid siren. But it’s not as loud inside as you might think. It’s meant to project outside, to let the three towns surrounding Stowmoor know that someone has escaped. All of the schools have lockdown plans in case of a security breach.
As substantial as the security seems, there have been problems inside the hospital. Throughout my grad school training I interned and volunteered at several hospitals and forensic facilities. I thought that horror movies exaggerated the bleakness of prisons, the unsettling atmosphere of an insane asylum. But they aren’t that far off. Stowmoor is every cliché you can imagine. Bleak, cold, colossal. The facility was built in 1863, part of the boom of asylums that sprang up in Victorian England. Since then, modern wiring and updates in plumbing have been graphed onto the place. But there are holes. The buildings are too old and large to be fitted with an automatic lock system that connects with the fire alarm. So Health and Safety decreed that to avoid loss of life in the case of a fire, guards must manually lock and unlock the gates. Nothing has happened since I’ve been here, but I’ve heard about past incidents. Patients have gotten through the gates and onto the grounds or the sports fields. A group of male sex offenders assaulted two female patients on the football field last year. After the press picked up the story and started reporting on the archaic security at the hospital, the administration decided to stop housing women at Stowmoor. But they didn’t change the security system.
The most infamous “incident” involved Robert Maudsely. He and a partner invited another patient into an empty room. Maudsely barricaded them all inside and he and his partner tortured the third man for nine hours. Maudsely held the mutilated body against the window in the door so the guards could see. When security got into the room they found the victim’s skull cracked open, part of his brain missing and a spoon dug into his cranium.
But that was thirty years ago. Now Stowmoor has the Paddock.
The Paddock is where they house the patients termed Dangerous with Severe Personality Disorder, the most violent criminals at Stowmoor. Foster stays there. The Paddock sits just behind the main building, a short walk across a well-manicured lawn. A guard staffs the front gate; another patrols the back door. But as we’re told when we begin work here, even though some convicted criminals live at Stowmoor, we are a hospital, not a prison. The people here are patients, not inmates; their quarters are called siderooms, not cells. The Paddock has security, but it is still a hospital building with plenty of traffic in and out. Laundry service and supply deliveries come and go through the underground cargo bay. It’s much like any other building on the grounds, except all of the patients housed there have been deemed DSPD. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? The Paddock. Safe, secure. Don’t worry, we’re keeping the worst of the worst in the Paddock. Like everything else, it’s a lot about semantics and paperwork.
It’s hard not to constantly check the clock during the minutes leading up to the alarm. I try to focus on my latest intake report. This patient is a candidate to move to a lower-security part of the facility. Three years ago, high on crystal meth, he shot two people while he was robbing a Tesco Express. He’s been through addiction counselling and has consistently shown remorse for and insights about his actions. We see a lot of cases like this one. He’s not a psychopath, not irreversibly antisocial. He grew up in an environment that normalized abuse and crime. He made several bad choices. At nineteen, in a twenty-minute period, he made several acutely bad decisions that ensured he’d be in custody for the rest of his life. I interviewed him for thirty minutes, and now I’m writing a document that will determine whether he gets to move or not. I almost finish before the alarm goes off.
At ten thirty, I meet with Dr. Abbas and Dr. Sloane in Abbas’s office.
“Danica, sit down,” Dr. Abbas says. He waves in the general direction of a chair but doesn’t look up from the document he’s reading. “Good work with the first round of the assessment,” he says, as he hands a copy of Foster’s file to Dr. Sloane. She flips through it, barely glancing at the pages.
“Hmmm, yes, I read this last week when you filed it. Fairly competent,” says Sloane.
“Thank you,” I say, leafing through my own copy of the report. “So, for today, I was planning to discuss remorse, responsibility, the efficacy of any of the rehabilitation therapies he’s been engaged in since he’s been a patient here.”
“You got the memo, then?” asks Abbas. “Yes, today it’s a standard interview-type assessment.”
“Great, I’ll get going.” I stand up to leave.
“A moment, Dr. Winston?” Sloane stands up. “You are aware, I assume, of the significant media interest in Foster’s case.” She stands directly in front of me, leans one of her French-manicured hands on an office chair. “And you
know, last year during his annual report, there was a resurgence of this coverage. Mostly in the more disreputable publications.”
“Yes. It’s a sensational case.”
“I do hope you’re not swayed by anything you read in the media, Danica.” She crosses her arms over her chest, sniffs slightly. “As I assume it’s entirely probable you read those...stories.”
I cross my arms too. “I take the initiative to inform myself about all aspects of Mr. Foster’s case, in order to be the most effective clinician possible for his needs.”
Sloane clears her throat, steps behind the desk with Abbas. “Danica, your job is to focus on Mr. Foster in a clinical setting. You cannot be distracted by hearsay and sensationalism. You are not a detective or a journalist. You are a psychologist.”
I’m not sure what I’ve done to trigger this lecture. “Of course. It’s just—”
Abbas taps his pen on the desk a few times. “I think,” he says, “Dr. Sloane is possibly trying to prepare you ... I was going to wait until things were more certain, but...”
I take a couple of steps towards the desk.
“It seems that Mr. Foster may retain new legal counsel.”
“I see.” Maria’s information was right. I keep my expression neutral, try not to look surprised. “Well, I’ll certainly cooperate with his new counsel if I can.”
“This means,” continues Abbas, “that there is likely to be, again, a resurgence in media interest in Foster. This solicitor has hinted...he has suggested he might...”
Sloane straightens the cuffs of her blouse. “He’s given some indication that he wants to facilitate moving Foster to a lower-security facility, that he may pursue some of the more far-flung theories presented at the outset of the original trial, perpetuated by the media.” She picks up her notebook from the desk, looks for a moment at Abbas’s tropical-fish-themed mouse pad, the silver-framed photo of his three teenaged daughters. “Specifically, about Foster being influenced, having help. As I said, you must remain professional. Objective.”
“Of course.” My curiosity is piqued by the possibility of a new lawyer. His current one is a solid defence solicitor who is well respected.
“Perhaps you can sit down for a moment, Danica.” Sloane opens her notebook. I pick a chair.
“I’ve looked over your fellowship proposal, some of your past work,” she says. “I’ve noticed you appear to be sympathetic towards theories that suggest an individual’s behaviours can be significantly, unduly, influenced by others. That you support the theories surrounding brainwashing, mind control.”
“I do not believe I’ve ever used the term brainwashing.”
“Hmm. You’ve expressed an interest in researching the relationship of and influence of organized groups on an individual’s violent actions.”
“That’s not an uncommon tenet in research on violent behaviour.”
“But as you must be aware, many of your colleagues, many of your established colleagues, would caution you on that front. I am sure you are familiar with the debates surrounding this issue.”
I see what she’s going on about. There’s a significant professional divide between the idea that an individual is responsible for his or her actions, completely and absolutely, and the idea that someone can be unduly influenced, or “brainwashed” (though that term is rarely used in clinical circles). There’s contention about claims that American prisoners of war in Korea experienced “brainwashing,” that followers of Manson were subject to a sort of mind control or that the high-commitment, extreme working habits of Enron employees were the product of a corporate cult mentality. Some researchers back the idea that mind control or cultic influence renders an individual less responsible, perhaps not at all responsible, for his or her actions.
“I am aware of that,” I tell Sloane.
“I think what Dr. Sloane is perhaps cautioning you about, Danica, is to focus on your role as a clinician in this case,” says Abbas. “Don’t get caught up in the glitz surrounding Foster’s new legal counsel or any stories you may see in the news.”
At least Abbas is partially addressing their actual concern. The concept of influence has legal ramifications. If the idea of mind control and organized group influence on individuals becomes widely accepted, then those individuals may not be criminally accountable for what they do. Which could lead to people like Foster receiving lesser sentences, or possibly not being convicted at all.
“I will of course conduct my interviews with Mr. Foster in a professional way. I will, as you say, Dr. Sloane, remember that I am a psychologist, and I will not concern myself with Mr. Foster’s legal situation.” Until this point, I hadn’t fully considered that my clinical approach could acutely influence Foster’s sentence.
“Right.” Sloane snaps her notebook closed. “You’ve been allowed on this case because of the aims of your fellowship, to gain experience in your areas of specialization. We’ve handled Mr. Foster’s case very well here, and I trust you will uphold that level of care.” She crosses her arms again and doesn’t smile. I’m surprised how much this situation needles her.
“Danica, I’m sure the interview today will go well.” Abbas walks around the desk, opens the door. “Remember, we’re here if you have any concerns at all.” He smiles and pats me on the shoulder as I walk out of the office.
As soon as I get back to my office I google the news reports from Foster’s trial. I read most of them at the time, but since then I’ve been more focused on his case studies and the history of his stay in Stowmoor than the rise of his infamy in the media.
There are hundreds of articles. And at least fifty from almost a year ago, the anniversary of his admittance to Stowmoor. I understand the interest: a middle-class, intelligent young man, with a career and education, obsessed with an Elizabethan-era Hungarian countess’s crimes, ritually murders a pretty schoolgirl. It’s the plot every crime show wishes it had written; plus, it really happened. Foster has become a criminal celebrity. He’s mostly feared, hated, and his name has become shorthand for the worst possible consequence for women walking home alone. His fixation on Báthory makes him aberrant and, in the narratives of some publications, glamorous. He has fans: ones who concoct theories to promote his innocence; others who revel in, love him for, his guilt. But whether people support him or abhor him, the most popular and controversial theme to emerge from Foster’s media coverage is the idea that he may have had assistance—physical, monetary or both—in the commission of the crime.
No conclusive DNA evidence, or evidence of any sort, placed anyone but Foster at the crime scene. There are reports of Foster’s alleged correspondence with other people who idolized Báthory, and allegations that he had amassed a large and diverse collection of films and books on the Blood Countess. Many stories stress that the branding, the dagger and the biting indicate that the murder was ritualistic in nature. But the articles that alleged Foster was part of a team of perpetrators mostly died off in the first few weeks after his arrest. At trial his lawyer did not pursue the possibility. He also downplayed the ritualistic aspects of the murder.
I close my browser and turn to Foster’s chart. I organize my notes. As I told Sloane, I’m a professional.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Foster.”
“It’s very nice to see you again, Dr. Winston.” He adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses, nods. “Very nice. A pleasure.”
“I’m here today to continue our interview from last time, to ask you a few more questions, see how you’re doing.” I flip open the file, pull out my pens and get my notebook ready. I try to look at him just enough, not too much. I take a deep breath and remind myself that he is the subject. I am the interviewer, the authority. I look up and he’s still staring at me. The frames of his glasses look like tiger’s eye quartz; they shine gold, then a darker mahogany each time he moves his head under the fluorescent bulbs.
“I am at your command. Lovely earrings you have on today.”
My hand jumps to my earlobe. I feel t
he smooth amber beads strung on silver sleeper hoops.
“They really pick up the tones in your hair. Quite chic, really.” He smiles, folds his hands and rests them on the table.
I look at his pale, freckled skin and the closely trimmed fingernails. I try to imagine those hands grabbing a small, thin shoulder. Searing the skin, using a blade. I know the description of the crime. I know the person sitting here committed the act. But I can’t immediately, viscerally, marry this too-polite man to that murder. “Let’s get started,” I say.
“With pleasure.” He smiles, unclasps his hands and turns his palms towards me.
I ask him about his time in Stowmoor, if his outlook on his crime has changed since he’s been here, if he feels remorse about his victim. He gives fairly routine responses. Yes, he feels he’s used his time here to reflect on his actions. Yes, he realizes he caused harm to another person. That what he did was not acceptable to society. He understands that his actions hurt not only the victim, but also caused emotional hurt for the victim’s family.
He’s saying everything he’s supposed to say. Once people have been in the system for a while, they know what psychologists and parole boards want to hear. I flip through my notes. It’s possible that offenders can be sincere. But they can also be very good liars.
“Everything in order, Dr. Winston?” he asks softly. “I hope I’ve given you enough for your report.”
“A few more questions,” I say. “Do you accept full responsibility for your actions?”
He hesitates, a second, two. “I do,” he says, looking down at the table.
“Why the hesitation? Are you confused on this point?”
“No confusion.” He looks up and to the right, starts swaying a bit in his chair.
“So, to be clear: you accept responsibility for killing your victim, for the events leading up to and including the murder?”
“I am responsible for carrying out actions that resulted in the murder of that girl, yes.”
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