“Alright!” She blew up, as if he’d been interrogating her. “You caught me. I wasn’t out here to smoke, I was out here to get a chance to talk to you.”
“Here I am,” Zachary said, giving her a weak smile and handing the cigarette back to her. “What did you want to say?”
“Someone said that you’re here to investigate Quentin Thatcher’s death.”
“They would be right.”
“You don’t believe it was suicide?”
“Suicide is still a possibility,” Zachary said. “If you think he could actually form the intent to kill himself. What do you think?”
She put both of the cigarettes back into the pack, which then appeared to be full. He didn’t smell stale smoke on her and wondered if she had bought the cigarettes just for the ruse.
“I don’t know. I’m no expert in suicide.”
“Okay. How well did you know Quentin?”
“I worked with him a few times. Just a few. I didn’t know him well.”
“And you don’t know if he could have killed himself?”
“I suppose he could have. Accidentally or intentionally, I don’t know. He was a sensory-seeker.”
Zachary rubbed the back of his neck. “What does that mean?”
“A lot of children with autism are thought to feel things differently than… a neurotypical adult. They may be overly sensitive and avoid certain kinds of sensory input. Or they may be less sensitive and seeking more sensory input—banging into walls, stimming, hugging, running, swinging. Just like some normal adults like to bungee-jump and some can’t step down from a chair without holding on to it. Most children are a combination of both, seeking some sensations and avoiding others.”
“So Quentin was a sensory-seeker. He wanted more input.”
“Right. With a blanket wrapped around his throat, twisted up tight so that it strangled him… he could have just been seeking deep pressure. He might not have known that it could harm him until it was too late, and he couldn’t get it unwound again.”
“It’s possible. The blanket had already been removed from the body when the police got here, so there’s no way to analyze the way it had been twisted. The police say he could have done it to himself.”
She nodded and didn’t add anything. She had frown lines between her brows. Lots of stress indicators.
“What’s your name?”
“Oh. Clarissa. Clarissa Hill. I’m an aide here. I help with therapy sessions, provide one-on-one support…”
“Right. And sometimes you supported Quentin.”
“Yes.”
“Shocked him?”
Her lips squeezed tightly shut.
“That’s how it’s done here, isn’t it?” Zachary asked. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “That’s how it’s done here. So yes, I have shocked Quentin. And other kids that I have been in charge of. It’s part of the job.”
Zachary nodded. Her face was white, and she didn’t know how to deal with Zachary just waiting to be told whatever it was she wanted to tell him. She had probably anticipated that he would interrogate her. Ask her a lot of questions. And she would have to hold back and give him just the few bits of information she wanted him to have. But Zachary didn’t do that. He just waited. He watched a bird flying overhead, waiting for her to sort out her thoughts.
“How do you feel about your job?”
“I love it. I love helping people. Helping these kids to do things their parents were told they would never be able to do.”
But…
Zachary waited for it.
Clarissa’s face crumpled. “I hate it. I hate the shocks and other aversives. I hate not being able to communicate with my kids because Dr. Abato says they have to use speech and there are no communications boards or sign language, or any other kind of assisted communication allowed. I hate not being able to get down to their level and figure out what their wants and needs are. To get a real look at their personalities. I hate the damage that we are doing.”
“If you’re helping them to do things that their doctors said they’d never be able to do, then how are you damaging them? Isn’t that good?”
“Have you heard what they have to say?” Clarissa gestured toward the protesters. “Have you heard what actual adults with autism have to say?”
Zachary nodded. “I have.”
“If what we are doing is actually traumatizing them and not helping them to become better people, then what are we doing here? Why cause them pain if we’re not making them any better?”
“I believe you.” The guilt in her eyes seemed genuine. “I wonder, though, if there are some people who get something out of hurting them.”
“Sadists?” Clarissa shifted her feet, looking toward the big double-doors of the building that they had exited. She cleared her throat. “I guess there are anywhere, aren’t there? Statistically, there are bound to be a few.”
Zachary wasn’t looking for statistics. He had already seen for himself. He had already seen aides who enjoyed shocking students. If Clarissa had been working there for weeks or months, or even years, she would know beyond a doubt that some of the men—statistically it was more often men—who held the remotes in their hands were enjoying inflicting pain.
“Okay,” Clarissa admitted. “Yeah, there are a few of those. It does go on.”
“And were any of them working with Quentin?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then thought about it more deeply. “I don’t know. I’m just… not sure.”
“Could someone on Quentin’s unit, either a staff member or another resident, have strangled him?”
“Quentin was strong. Smothering or strangling someone takes a lot of strength. They fight back hard.”
That gave Zachary pause. “Yes,” he agreed.
“I don’t know… I guess someone else could have done it. But there’s not any evidence of it, is there? And what motive would anyone have?”
“What motive do you think they could have?” Zachary bounced the question back at her.
She was silent for a moment. “Can we walk to your car or something? I didn’t plan on talking here by the doors where anyone could walk by and see use together.”
Zachary nodded, and they started a slow wander toward the parking lot.
“A cover-up,” Clarissa started to list possible motives. “Sadism. If it was another resident, or Quentin himself, it could be accidental. Even… some twisted kind of mercy killing. To release him from his troubles.”
“Did Quentin have a lot of troubles?”
“Sure. Of course. He was violent, unpredictable. He didn’t get to see his family much, and when he did, he got more upset. More angry. Maybe someone… just wanted to put an end to the pain.”
It was territory that Zachary hadn’t explored, but it was possible.
As they made their way past the protesters, Zachary saw Margaret Beacher making her way toward them. He didn’t know whether to warn Clarissa there might be trouble, or let it just play out and see what happened. He ended up saying nothing.
“Who’s your friend, Zachary?” Margaret asked, looking Clarissa over.
Clarissa looked at Zachary anxiously.
“Clarissa is one of the aides here,” he told Margaret evenly. “She helped with Quentin. So she had some things she wanted to tell me.”
“Do you people know what you’re doing in there?” Margaret demanded, wheeling on Clarissa.
Clarissa was not quick to answer. “Yes,” she said eventually, “and I know you don’t like it.”
“Don’t like it.” Margaret gave a mocking laugh. “That’s what you call an understatement.” She looked at the other protesters for their reactions. There were a few jeers and catcalls, but nothing too threatening. “What you do in there, your therapy, it ruined my life.”
“What am I supposed to do? Quit? I’m helping people.” Clarissa’s voice was sharp, defensive.
�
�What you do doesn’t help. It causes damage. Irreparable damage.”
Clarissa took a deep breath, but ended up saying nothing. What could she say? She’d already admitted to Zachary that she knew they were causing harm.
“You should get out of there,” Margaret said. “You should get out of there, and get out of ABA, and start treating autistic people with decency and respect.”
Clarissa looked close to tears. “I need that job. And those kids need me. I love my kids.”
“You love them? If you loved them, you wouldn’t hurt them.”
“But I do love them. And I want to help them. And I need to do the therapy that they’re there for. If I don’t do it, someone else will.” She glanced at Zachary. “Maybe someone who does want to hurt them.”
“You’ll hurt them so someone else doesn’t? What kind of lame excuse is that? Somebody is going to do it, so it might as well be you?”
Clarissa gave a helpless shrug. “Isn’t it better if it’s someone who loves them? Who wants the best for them?”
“What hurts more, being brutalized by someone who hates you, or someone who loves you?” Margaret shook her head. “Someone who pretends to love you.”
Tears brimmed over Clarissa’s eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like in there.” Her voice was cracked and shaky. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to be there every day. I’m there because I want to help. I want to make a difference! I haven’t slept through the night since Quentin died. A few hours here, a few hours there… but whenever I do, I dream about Quentin. The… the hopelessness in his eyes… he hated it here. He wanted to go home.”
“Of course he did,” Margaret agreed. “Don’t you? At the end of the day, don’t you just want to go home, where it’s comfortable and safe?”
“After two years, I didn’t even think he’d remember home. Any homesickness he had initially should have disappeared… it had been two years.”
“He was autistic, not amnesiac. Why wouldn’t he remember home?”
“Dr. Abato said they wouldn’t. That they regarded Summit as their home. After a few weeks, they wouldn’t remember anywhere else.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Margaret challenged. “They were getting skin shocks, not ECT. Not lobotomies.”
Clarissa swallowed hard and scrubbed at her eyes, smearing her mascara. “Do you know we’re not even allowed to talk to each other?” she asked. “Under our employment agreements, we’re not allowed to talk to media or anyone about the institution’s protocol. And we’re not even allowed to talk to each other. No personal discussions, even on breaks. No discussions of the cases or therapies except in case review meetings. The only conversations we can have are to communicate with each other during therapy or a follow-up report. Anything else is personal discussion and we’re not allowed.”
Zachary blinked at this. He’d never heard of such a policy before. He could understand that Summit didn’t want their employees gossiping or debating the merits of skin shocks or going to the media. But to completely ban all personal discussion seemed cruel and dictatorial, seriously overreaching.
Of course, Clarissa could be telling a story. Those tears could be fake. They had come on disconcertingly fast. She could be trying to manipulate him.
“You have to talk,” Margaret said. “You can’t listen to them. You can’t let them control you like that. How do you think the Nazis convinced people to commit the atrocities that they did? Do you think all of the soldiers and citizens who helped them were horrible people? They were doing what they were told. They were convinced that what they were doing was right and necessary. They listened to what they were told.”
Clarissa looked back over her shoulder at the building. “They can still see me here,” she said. “We need to get out of sight.”
Margaret waved her concerns away with one hand. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m blocking you and you’re just trying to get past me. Terrible how the police can’t do anything about the protesters setting up camp here day after day.”
Clarissa sniffled and gave a weak smile. She rubbed her forehead. If she’d been sleeping that little, she probably had a hell of a headache.
“‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,’” Margaret quoted. “If you stand by in silence, because they told you not to talk, and you keep shocking defenseless children and taking away their rights to make choices and be who they are because you’re afraid someone else will do worse damage, then you are the problem. If you’re not fighting against the evil people who are pushing these therapies, you are as guilty as they are.”
“They aren’t evil,” Clarissa protested. “They want to help the children. Their parents want them to be there. They know all about the aversive therapy. They have to sign off on it. And the parents know what is best for their kids—”
“Their parents have been told it’s the best thing. They’ve been given statistics. They’ve been told horror stories. They’ve been shown videos of children who have miraculously recovered and look normal. And they want that for their children. They’ve been told that whatever the cost, it’s worth it to have children who are indistinguishable from their peers. Whose brains have been wiped and reprogrammed to always give the right response. All of their uniqueness and individuality stripped away. Because the only way for an autistic person to succeed is by not acting autistic.”
Clarissa opened her mouth to argue the point, but she didn’t have the oily smoothness of Dr. Abato. She’d been indoctrinated just like those parents had been, but the arguments didn’t come naturally to her lips She looked at Zachary, as if he might jump in and tell her why it was okay.
“They’re even telling you the same lies as the Nazis,” Margaret said. “That autistic people are subhuman. No more than animals that can be trained with a system of pain and rewards.”
“I know they’re not animals.”
“Do you believe that the only way to teach autistic children is with ABA?”
Clarissa’s reluctance was almost comical. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s the standard for treating autism, isn’t it? I suppose there might be other therapies, but I’ve only been trained in ABA. That’s what everyone uses, not just Summit.” She rubbed her forehead again. Zachary could see the lines of fatigue not fully disguised by her makeup. “Using ABA without aversives may not be as effective, but lots of people are doing it, so it must have some efficacy.”
“What about no therapy?” Margaret suggested.
“No therapy?” Clarissa repeated stupidly. “How could you treat children with autism without therapy?”
“Maybe they don’t need to be treated at all. Maybe just because our brains are different, that doesn’t mean that we are defective. That we need to be reprogrammed somehow.”
“But these children aren’t like you. They can’t communicate. They have no life skills, no social skills. Some like Quentin are violent.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why are they violent?”
“Why?” Clarissa shook her head in confusion. “Because they get frustrated. They can’t communicate. They have sensory overload. Sometimes because they are hurt or ill… I don’t know.”
“And which of those things do electric shocks fix?”
“It… stops them.”
“So you don’t care about fixing the underlying problems. Just stopping certain behaviors.”
“We’re trying to teach them to communicate properly. So that they can tell us what’s wrong.”
Zachary watched the two of them argue back and forth, fascinated to hear the two different viewpoints explored.
“What is ‘communicating properly’?” Margaret asked. “You mean communicating the same way that you do.”
“Well… yes. The way everyone does.”
“Not everyone, or there wouldn’t be anyone to teach. Why not try to figure out what communication method works for them? If they have trouble learni
ng yours, why don’t you learn theirs? Why is speech the ultimate solution?”
Clarissa shook her head, looking at the group of protesters. “I wish we were allowed to use ASL or PECS, but Dr. Abato is right… You speak. That’s how you get along in the world. It’s just… so much harder if you can’t use speech to communicate. People aren’t going to take the time to figure out what you are trying to communicate. But if we can teach them to talk like everyone else…”
“Do you see these signs?”
Clarissa looked at the various signs people were holding. There were various words and phrases about getting Summit shut down. There were pictures of Quentin. Lightning bolt symbols. And various other combinations of pictures and words.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But they are not speech.”
“No… but in a way… I mean, they represent speech. It’s just another medium.”
Margaret arched her eyebrows. “Oh. I see.”
Clarissa turned away from Margaret, her face red and eyes still teary. She grasped Zachary’s arm. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “I wanted to help you. I feel bad about Quentin. I want his mom to know… that we loved him here.” She squeezed Zachary’s arm more tightly. “Everything we did was to help him. We’re devastated by what happened.”
Margaret opened her mouth. Zachary shook his head at her sharply. The time for arguing methodologies was past. He needed to find out what Clarissa knew. To tease out details that she didn’t realize were important.
“I know you cared about Quentin,” Zachary said in a low voice, as soothing as he could manage. “What happened was tragic and unexpected, so of course you’re knocked off your feet about it. Do you mind talking to me about it?”
“No, of course not.” Clarissa shot another look toward Margaret. “Just… can we just talk somewhere private? Not because I know any secrets or anything important to your investigation. I just… would like to be alone for this.”
“Sure. I don’t know the area. We could check the GPS to see what’s close. Or is there somewhere you and your coworkers go…?”
“No. We’re not allowed to… fraternize…”
His Hands were Quiet Page 15
