The course of the disease is as unpredictable as that of a flash fire in a windstorm. Some patients experience a single psychotic episode that never recurs. Others recover after a series of attacks. In many instances the disorder is chronic but static, while in the most severe cases deterioration progresses to the point of total breakdown.
Despite all this ambiguity, the relationship between madness and murder is clear: The vast majority of schizophrenics are harmless, less violent than the rest of us. But a few are stunningly dangerous. Paranoid, they lash out in sudden bursts of rage, often maiming or killing the very people working hardest to help them - parents, spouses, therapists.
Schizophrenics don't commit serial murders.
The sadism, premeditation, and ritual repetition of the Lavender Slashings were the trademark of another denizen of the psychiatric jungle.
He's the beast who walks upright. Meet him on the street, and he'll seem normal, even charming. But he roams those streets, parasitic and cold-eyed, stalking his prey behind a veneer of civility. The rules and regulations that separate humans from savages don't concern him. 'Do unto others as you damn well please' is his creed. He's a user and a manipulator, and he lacks empathy or conscience. The screams of his victims are at best irrelevant, at worst a source of pleasure.
He's the psychopath, and psychiatry understands him even less than it does the schizophrenic. The symptoms of madness can often be altered with medication, but there's no therapy for evil.
Madman or monster, which was Jamey?
Sonnenschein, with a cop's natural cynicism, had suspected the latter. I knew he spoke from experience, because the first thing psychopaths often attempt after being caught is feigning insanity. The Yorkshire Ripper had tried it, as had Manson, Bianchi, and Son of Sam. All had failed, but not before fooling several experts.
Over the years I'd examined a fair share of budding psychopaths - callous, shallow kids who bullied the weak, set fires, and tortured animals without a shred of remorse. Seven-, eight- and nine-year-olds who were downright scary. They followed a pattern that Jamey didn't fit; if anything, he'd seemed overly sensitive, too introspective for his own good. But how well had I really known him? And though the decompensation I'd witnessed in the jail had seemed the farthest thing from fraud, could I be absolutely certain that I was immune from subterfuge?
I wanted to believe Souza, to be certain I was on the side of the good guys. But at this point I had nothing to go on besides wishful thinking and the Cadmus family history the attorney had given me - a propaganda piece that may or may not have been accurate.
It was homework time. I needed to plumb the past in order to bring the present into focus, to conduct a psychological autopsy that illuminated the fall of a young genius.
The meetings with the Cadmuses and Mainwaring were days away. But the psychology building was a short sprint across the science quad.
I found a pay phone, dialled the psych department, and asked the receptionist to connect me with Sarita Flower's extension. Seven rings later a cool young female voice answered.
'Dr. Flower's office.'
'This is Dr. Delaware. I'm a former associate of Dr. Flowers. I happen to be on campus and wonder if I could drop by and talk with her.'
'She's tied up with meetings for the rest of the afternoon.'
'When will she be free?'
'Not until tomorrow.'
'She might want to talk to me before then. Could you please reach her and ask?'
The voice tightened suspiciously.
'What did you say your name was?'
'Delaware. Dr. Alex Delaware.'
'You're not a reporter, are you?'
'No. I'm a psychologist. I used to consult to Project 160.'
Hesitation.
'All right. I'm going to put you on hold.'
Several minutes later she was back, sounding resentful.
'She'll see you in twenty minutes. My name is Karen. Meet me at the fourth-floor elevators.'
She rounded the corner just as I got off, tall and angular,
wearing a red and white Diane von Furstenberg dress that dramatised the blackness of her skin. Her hair had been trimmed to a half-inch nap, accentuating tiny ears and high cheekbones. Ovals of ivory dangled from each ear, and ivory bracelets segmented one ebony forearm.
'Dr. Delaware? I'm Karen. Come this way.'
She led me down the hall to a door labelled A.D. OBSERVATION - DO NOT DISTURB.
'You can wait in here. She should be out in a minute.'
'Thanks.'
She nodded coolly. 'Sorry for hassling you before, but the press has been hounding her ever since the Cadmus thing. We had to call campus security to eject a guy from the Enquirer this morning.'
'Don't worry about it.'
'Want coffee or anything?'
'No, thanks.'
'Okay, then. I'll be off.' She put her hand on the doorknob but stopped before turning it. 'You're here about Cadmus, too, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'What a crazy thing to happen. It's created some real problems for the project. She's been under a lot of stress anyway, and this just makes it worse.'
Not knowing what to say, I smiled sympathetically.
'A real crappy thing,' she repeated, opening the door and walking off.
The room was dark. A microphone dangled from the ceiling, which, like three of the walls, was layered with acoustical tile. The fourth wall was a one-way mirror. A woman in a wheelchair sat looking through the glass. In her lap was a clipboard, stuffed with papers. She turned toward me as I entered and smiled.
'Alex,' she whispered.
I bent over and kissed her cheek. She emitted a cool, clean California scent - suntan lotion and chlorine.
'Hello, Sarita.'
'It's so good to see you,' she said, taking my hand and squeezing it hard.
'Good to see you, too.'
She sat tall in the chair, dressed casually but formally, in a navy blazer, pale blue silk blouse, and spotless white slacks that couldn't conceal the withered outlines of atrophied legs.
'I'll be through in just a few minutes,' she said, and pointed toward the mirror. On the other side was a brightly lit windowless room floored with linoleum and painted white. In the centre of the floor sat a child in front of an electric train set.
He was about six or seven, dressed in jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and sneakers, chubby and chipmunk-cheeked with caramel-coloured hair. The miniature railroad was an elaborate setup: shiny cars; silver track; a papier-mâché landscape of bridges, lakes, and rolling hills; wooden depots and semaphores; built-to-scale two-storey houses rimmed with matchstick picket fences.
Pasted to the boy's forehead and scalp were several electrodes trailing black cables that snaked along the floor and fed into an electroencephalogram monitor. The machine spewed out a slow but steady stream of paper patterned with the peaks and troughs of a line graph.
'Pull up a seat,' said Sarita, picking up a pencil and making a notation.
I sat in a folding chair and watched. The boy had been fidgeting, but now he sat stock-still. A low hum sounded, and the train began to roll steadily around the track. The boy smiled, wide-eyed; after a few moments his attention wandered again, and he began to move restlessly and look away. The train stopped. The boy returned his eyes to the locomotive and seemed to go into a trancelike state, face immobile, hands folded in his lap. There were no control switches in sight, and when the train started up again, it appeared to do so of its own accord.
'He's doing very well,' said Sarita. 'On task fifty-eight percent of the time.'
'Attentional deficit?'
'Severe. When he first came in, he was all over the place, just couldn't sit still. The mother was ready to kill the kid.
I've got another dozen just like him. We're running a study on teaching AD kids self-control.'
'Biofeedback?'
She nodded.
'We found most of them were pretty tense, and I thought th
e train would be a fun way to teach them to relax. It's hooked up to the EEG monitor through a wire under the floor. When they go into alpha state, the train runs. When they come out, it stops. One kids hates trains, so we use a tape recorder and music. The schedule of reinforcement can be programmed so that as they get better, they're expected to sit still for longer periods. Besides the attentional benefits, it makes them feel more in control, which should translate to higher self-esteem. I've got a grad student measuring it for a dissertation.'
A buzzer went off on her wristwatch. She turned it off, scribbled a few notes, reached up, and pulled down the mike.
'Very good, Andy. You really kept it going today.'
The boy looked up and touched one of the electrodes.
'It itches,' he said.
'I'll be right in to take it off. One second, Alex.'
She wheeled toward the door, yanked it, and rolled through. I followed her into the hallway. An old-faced young woman in halter top and shorts stood near an unmarked door, leaning against the wall. One hand twisted a strand of long dark hair. The other held a cigarette.
'Hello, Mrs. Graves. We're just about through. Andy did beautifully today.'
The woman shrugged and sighed.
'I hope so. I got another report from school today.'
Sarita looked up at her, smiled, patted her hand, and opened the door. After wheeling to the boy, she removed the electrodes, tousled his hair, and repeated that he'd done well. Reaching into the pocket of her blazer, she drew out a miniature toy car and handed it to him.
'Thank you, Dr. Flowers,' he said, turning the gift over with pudgy fingers.
'My pleasure, Andy. Keep up the good work. Okay?'
But he'd run out of the room, engrossed in the new toy, and didn't hear her.
'Andy!' said his mother sharply. 'What do you say to the doctor?'
'I already did!'
'Then say it again.'
'Thank you.' Begrudgingly.
'Bye now,' said Sarita as they walked away. When they were gone, she shook her head. 'Lots of stress there. Come on, Alex, let's go to my office.'
The room was different from what I remembered. Spartan, less professorial. Then I realised that she'd altered it to accommodate her disability. The bookshelves that once lined one wall from floor to ceiling had been exchanged for low plastic modules that ran around three walls. The massive carved desk that had served as the room's centrepiece was gone; in its place was a low table that fitted into one corner. The wall behind the table had once borne dozens of photographs - a pictorial essay of her athletic career. Now it was nearly blank; only a few pictures remained. A pair of folding chairs stood propped against the wall. What was left was mostly empty space. When the wheelchair entered, the space disappeared.
'Please,' she said, pointing to the chairs. I unfolded one and sat.
She manoeuvered around the table and put down the clipboard. While she checked her messages, I looked at the photos she'd left hanging: a beaming teenager receiving the Gold Medal at Innsbruck; a faded and yellowed programme from the 1965 Ice Capades; an arty black-and-white shot of a lithe young woman gliding on ice, long blonde hair streaming; the framed cover of a woman's magazine promising its readers health and beauty tips from Skating Superstar Sarita.
She swivelled around, and her pale eyes circled the office.
'The minimalist look.' She smiled. 'Gives me easy access and keeps me sane. Since I've been in this thing, I find myself getting claustrophobic. Hemmed in. This way I can close the doors and spin around like a nut. Dervish therapy.'
Her laugh was throaty and warm.
'Well, dear boy,' she said, looking me over, 'time has treated you kindly.'
'You, too,' I said automatically, and immediately felt like a jerk.
The last time I'd seen her had been three years ago at an APA convention. She'd been recovering from an MS attack that had left her enfeebled but able to walk with the aid of a cane. I wondered how long she'd been in the wheelchair; from the look of her legs it had been a while since she'd stood upright.
Observing my embarrassment, she pointed to her knees and laughed again.
'Hey, except for these I'm still first-class merchandise, right?'
I took a good look at her. She was forty but had the face of a woman ten years younger. It was an all-American face, sunny and open under a mop of thick blonde hair, now cut in a pageboy, skin deeply tanned and lightly dusted with freckles, eyes open and guileless.
'Absolutely.'
'Liar.' She chuckled. 'Next time I'm depressed I'll call you up for supportive prevarication.'
I smiled.
'So,' she said, growing serious, 'let's talk about Jamey. What do you need to know?'
'When did he first start to look psychotic?'
'A little over a year ago.'
'Was it gradual or a sudden thing?'
'Gradual. Insidious, really. You worked with him, Alex. You remember what a strange kid he was. Moody, hostile, defiant. Stratospheric IQ, but he refused to channel any of it. All the others got heavily involved in their studies. They're doing beautifully. The few classes he started he dropped out of. Failure to enroll was a clear violation of the project contract, and I could have dropped him, but I didn't because I felt sorry for him. Such a sad little boy, no parents, I kept hoping he'd work it through. The only thing he seemed to care about was poetry - reading, not writing. He was so obsessive about it that I kept thinking he might eventually do something creative, but he never did. In fact, one day he dropped poetry cold and developed an overnight interest in business and economics. Never went anywhere after that without the Wall Street Journal and an armload of finance texts.'
'When was this?'
She thought for a moment.
'I'd say around eighteen months ago. And that wasn't the only change he made. Since I'd known him, he'd been a real junk food junkie. It was a kind of running joke, how he'd eat a buffalo chip if you put Cool Whip on it. Suddenly all he wanted was sprouts, tofu, whole grains, and unfiltered juice.'
'Any idea what led up to the change?'
She shook her head.
'I asked him about it, especially the interest in economics, because I thought that might be a positive sign, an indication that he was getting serious about his studies. But he just gave me one of his get-out-of-my-face looks and walked away. A couple of months went by, and he still hadn't registered for classes or done much of anything but bury himself in the business library. I decided at that point to drop him. But before I had a chance to tell him, he started to act really strange.'
'At first it was the same old stuff, but more so. Moodier, more depressed and withdrawn - to the point where he just stopped talking. Then he began to have anxiety attacks: flushed face; dry mouth; shortness of breath; palpitations. Twice he actually fainted.'
'How many attacks were there?'
'About half a dozen over a one-month period. Afterward he'd get really suspicious, look at everyone accusingly and slink away. It upset the other kids, but they tried to be sympathetic. Since he kept to himself, it didn't create as big a problem as it could have.'
She stopped, bothered about something, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes narrowed, and her jawline hardened.
'Alex, diagnostics has never been my strong suit - even in grad school I stayed away from the crazies and concentrated on behavioural technology - but I'm not blind. I didn't just go about my business and let him fall apart. It wasn't as dramatic as it's coming out. The kid had a history of nonconformity, attention-seeking. I thought it was a temporary thing. That it would self-limit and he'd go on to something else.'
'He called me the night he escaped,' I said. 'Flamingly psychotic. Afterward I did the guilt thing, too. Wondering if I'd missed something. It was counterproductive. There's nothing either of us could have done. Kids go crazy, and no one can prevent it.'
She looked at me, then nodded.
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'
'Anytime.'
She sighed.
'It's not like me to introspect, but I've been doing a lot of it lately. You know how hard I've had to fight to keep the project going. A genius-insanity scandal was the last thing I needed, but I got it in spades. The irony is that preventing bad PR was one of the reasons I kept him here longer than I should have. That and being a soft-hearted sucker.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge Page 14
