“Not yet.” Ben almost laughed, but held it in.
“You should,” she said. “It will change your life. And your afterlife too.”
“I’ll give it a try, now that I hear how helpful it can be. Did Zachariah feel the same?”
“Oh, yes!” Her face brightened up. “We studied it together every Monday evening—we call it Family Home Night, when everyone stays home to study the holy scriptures and sing hymns. It’s the most wonderful custom of our faith. Do you have a family?”
“Only my mother. And my girlfriend. We live together.”
“Without marriage?” Palmyra swallowed hard. “This is not what the Lord expects of his children.”
Dr. Neibauer cleared his throat. “We were discussing Zachariah.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I was just saying how we loved the Book of Mormon so much, especially Zachariah. My husband can…could…recite whole paragraphs from memory. And he could sing beautifully also, which the children loved.”
Ben nodded sympathetically. “But he became sick again.”
Palmyra was taken aback. “Sick?”
“Mentally,” Dr. Neibauer said. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. It wasn’t his fault, you understand? The trauma of the war, in particular the attack that killed his friends and badly wounded him in ninety-one, left him with irreparable brain damage.”
“He had brain injury?”
“There were no bullets or shrapnel lodged in his head. But our brains are much more sensitive than our legs or even internal organs. New research shows that nearby explosions, the severe pounding of high pressure, causes tiny injuries inside the brain matter which cannot be detected in medical tests or magnetic resonance scans, but that leave permanent injuries nevertheless, resulting in long-term mental disease and emotional instability. That’s what happened to Zachariah.”
“I understand you,” Ben said. “You’re saying that Zachariah was crazy, correct?”
Dr. Neibauer took off his glasses. “The word ‘crazy’ is not a medical term. He was mentally ill, yes.”
“But he functioned well for years. What triggered his recent illness?”
“He was never completely fine,” Palmyra said. “He always had issues. Difficulties.”
“Such as?”
“Typical symptoms,” Dr. Neibauer answered for her. “Nightmares, mood swings, lack of interest in his work.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Life for him was, in a way, harder than for others. I used to blame myself, and he always told me not to, that it was his problem.” Her voice cracked. “He had such a good heart!”
“Mental illness,” Dr. Neibauer said, “is not a static condition. Patients go through ups and downs, like the economy. As a psychiatrist, I work very hard to maintain the patients’ balance through therapy and medication. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “But with Zachariah, you failed?”
“Not exactly.” He put his glasses back on. “Zachariah was a veteran. His healthcare was provided by the Veterans Administration system.”
“You don’t work for the VA?”
He glanced at Palmyra before answering. “I’m in private practice. My involvement with Zachariah was as a friend of the family.”
“You worship together?”
Dr. Neibauer nodded. “Our church encourages brotherly assistance to fellow saints in times of need. We stand together before God, you understand?”
“Were you called in because of his dispute with Joe Morgan?”
Dr. Neibauer removed his glasses again. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Let’s say that Zachariah told me everything from his point of view. I’m here to hear yours.”
He pointed at Ben with the glasses. “Young man, let me explain something. Mental illness often masquerades itself behind a facade of normalcy, coherence, even eloquence. But as a journalist, you should be able to distinguish facts from fantasies.”
“Mrs. Hinckley,” Ben turned to Palmyra, “did your husband suffer from hallucinations?”
She looked at the psychiatrist, her lips trembling.
“Hallucinating,” Dr. Neibauer said, “is usually drug induced. Zachariah was a saint. He didn’t even touch alcohol, let along drugs. His behavioral issues were rooted in chemical imbalance due to PTSD. He was a very ill man.”
“So he invented the whole thing?”
“Insane people rationalize their behavior to justify aggression and unreasonable demands. But often what you hear is nothing but grandiosity and paranoia. Zachariah Hinckley was a very sick man, I assure you.”
“Wasn’t he too sick to stand trial before church officials?”
Palmyra groaned, turned, and walked toward the Suburban.
Shaking his head, Dr. Neibauer said, “These are confidential church matters. Who told you about—”
“I’d like to know your professional opinion,” Ben said. “Wasn’t Zachariah too sick to stand trial?”
“It wasn’t a real trial!” The psychiatrist struggled to control his rising voice. “It was a curative effort! An attempt to confront him with reality! Shake him up!”
“Was it your idea?”
“Yes! I recommended it! Brother Zachariah needed to face the consequences of his belligerence!”
“Belligerence? Or illness?”
“Both! That’s why forcing a patient to suffer for his actions—”
“Shock therapy?”
“Exactly!” The psychiatrist rubbed his hands. “By making him experience the social degradation, familial humiliation, and ecumenical castigation, for a faithful saint like Brother Zachariah, it would be a most effective form of mental conditioning.”
“What’s that?”
“The creation of a mental association between bad behavior and painful consequences.”
“Like mice with cheese and electric shock?”
“That’s the concept. Yes.”
“Did you succeed? Did punishing Zachariah cause him to form a mental association between pain and pressuring Joe Morgan?”
The psychiatrist peered at Ben as if trying to diagnose his mental illness.
“Really, I’d like to know. Was the shock therapy successful?”
“Obviously not.” Dr. Neibauer waved his glasses at the overlook and the precipice below them. “In my line of work, a patient’s suicide means total failure. It’s our worst professional hazard.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
The psychiatrist looked at Palmyra, who stood by the open door of the Suburban, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “Our faith provides great comfort. We know that after this mortal life, there is a wonderful future for us with our heavenly father, where we will unite with our family and live forever in His blessed presence.”
They joined Palmyra. She used another tissue to blow her nose and dropped it in a small plastic bin that sat on the floor between the front seats, overflowing with trash. Ben glimpsed the interior of the car, which was tidy yet aged.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Palmyra said. “Please respect my husband’s right to rest in peace.”
“Respecting his wishes,” Ben said, “should come first, if we want him to have peace. Don’t you agree?”
“I’d like to pray for him now.” Palmyra walked toward the edge.
“One last thing,” Ben said.
She turned. “Yes?”
“You didn’t tell me what triggered the last crisis.” Ben smiled to dull the edge of his prying while shifting so that he stood between her and Dr. Neibauer.
“He was angry with me,” Palmyra said.
“Why?” Ben stepped closer to her.
“I went through his stuff to find what he was talking about.”
“The floppy disk?”
She nodded
. “An old-fashioned thing. About this size.” She formed a square with her two fingers and thumbs.
“Was anything written on the label”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“What was on the disk itself, the memory?”
“I’m not good with computers.”
“Go on,” Ben said, continuously shifting to block the psychiatrist’s access to Palmyra, who clearly didn’t want to lie.
“I tried it in the computer, but it didn’t work.”
This was shocking news, but Ben kept his voice even. “You found a floppy disk, put it into disk drive, but the data didn’t open on the screen?”
“And it froze the computer, so I had to tell him.” Tears flowed down Palmyra’s face. “He was very upset. We argued, and he stormed out. The whole house shook from the engine of his cursed motorcycle. I hated that thing! It’s evil!”
“Now, now, calm down.” Dr. Neibauer got around Ben and gripped Palmyra’s arm. “Let us pray now.”
“Where is it?” Ben followed them back toward the edge of the overlook. “Can you give me that floppy disk?”
“I cut it to pieces,” she said. “Tiny little pieces. Flushed them all down the toilet. Good riddance!”
Ben watched the psychiatrist and the widow stand at the edge and pray, their eyes on the rocks below, where her husband had died. Was she lying about the floppy disk? She seemed to be telling the truth. But what if Porter had pulled a floppy disk from Zachariah’s body on Sunday, and not a porn DVD as he had claimed? Why had Zachariah kept two floppy disks?
There was no point in asking her more questions. Dr. Neibauer was intent on ending the session. Ben turned back and noticed that the Suburban door was still open. He went over, leaned through the open door, and turned over the trash bin on the passenger seat. He fingered through the litter—moist tissues, candy wrappings, used eyeliner, cotton pads, crumpled mail envelopes, supermarket coupons, a broken pencil, and a clump of light-colored hair. He glanced over his shoulder. Palmyra was still praying, but the psychiatrist was looking at the view, perhaps trying to pinpoint the roofs of the rustic buildings of the presidential retreat at Camp David.
Stuffing everything back in the trash can as quickly as he could, Ben felt a sharp edge scrape against his fingers. It was a laminated card, cut in half. He rummaged through the pile again and found the second half, but before he could examine it, Dr. Neibauer’s voice startled him.
“Mr. Teller! What are you doing?”
Ben shoved the pieces in his pocket, stuffed everything back in the bin, and turned to see the psychiatrist walking toward him. “Looks new,” Ben said. “Incredible condition for such an old vehicle!”
Dr. Neibauer reached him and glanced into the Suburban before shutting the door. “We believe in raising large families, which requires large cars, but necessitates frugality. You understand?”
“I do,” Ben said. “What I don’t understand is how a good family man like Zachariah Hinckley could be driven to this.” He pointed at the overlook, where Palmyra was still standing in prayer. “And don’t try to sell me the PTSD or microscopic brain injuries, because I’m not buying.”
The psychiatrist pursed his lips. “Pathological obsession, Mr. Teller, could be a manifestation of mental illness. In some cases, it could be fatal.”
“Same with pathological lying, Doctor.”
Chapter 38
Ben watched them drive off. He understood the message Dr. Neibauer came to deliver, but it only fueled his determination to uncover the truth. He took the pieces of the laminated card from his pocket and held the two together. It had Zachariah’s name and photo on it and the signatures of Bishop Linder and another man whose title was Stake President. A quick Internet search on his iPhone led Ben to an image of a similar Temple Recommend Card.
Reading more about it on a Mormon website, he learned that this was basically an admission card to a Mormon temple that was issued by the LDS Church only to members in good standing, certified by their ward’s lay bishop and the regional president on an annual basis. While all members and Gentile guests were welcome for services in any local ward, the temples of the Mormon Church were only accessible to saints holding a Temple Recommend Card.
Those qualified saints entered the temples not for regular prayers, which took place in the local Mormon wards, but to participate in elaborate rituals and ceremonies, including marriages, sealing of families together for eternity, baptizing, endowments for the dead, and other secret procedures called “Ordinances” involving washing and anointing of various body parts and a reenactment of the multiple levels of the afterlife heavenly world.
The Temple Recommend Card and the participation in temple rituals were honors bestowed only to saints who continuously observed the Mormon rules, participated in ward activities, obeyed the church authorities, and sent 10 percent of their income to the LDS headquarters in Salt Lake City. The loss of a Temple Recommend could be the result of punishment, such as “Disfellowshipment,” which was like suspension for a period of time with attached conditions for reinstatement, or “Excommunication,” which was a permanent removal from the LDS Church and often resulted in total banishment by all relatives and friends who remained in the church.
Ben assumed that the Temple Recommend Card had been cut in half due to Zachariah’s trial and punishment by the LDS authorities. Holding the pieces in his hand, Ben went to the edge of the overlook and looked down to where Zachariah died. Had this been an act of desperation, an escape from unbearable pain? Had Zachariah Hinckley killed himself after the rest of his world had collapsed? Dr. Neibauer had pushed too hard to convince Ben of this theory, which had the opposite effect, convincing Ben that it wasn’t the truth.
Looking again at the Internet article on his iPhone, Ben clicked on a highlighted term: baptizing the dead. It linked to an article about an ongoing dispute regarding the Mormon Church’s efforts to identify and baptize Jewish victims of the Holocaust. The article mentioned a DC lawyer named Larry Ginsburg, who had represented Jewish organizations in the dispute. A click on his name linked Ben to his biographical page on the law firm’s website.
Ben called the phone number.
A secretary answered, but indicated that Mr. Ginsburg was on a conference call and could not be interrupted. She took Ben’s name and phone number.
As he turned to head back to his motorcycle, something caught Ben’s attention. About halfway down the cliff, over to the side, a leafless bush had a piece of paper stuck in it. There was lettering on it in black and red, but it was too far to read. At first he thought it was part of a cigarette pack, tossed away by a careless visitor, but it didn’t resemble any of the brand designs.
Aiming the Canon, he zoomed in on the paper. He could read the word “Radio,” but the way the paper was entangled with the shrubbery made it impossible to identify further information. Ben hesitated. He could try climbing straight down the cliff, but it would probably be easier to climb from the bottom up. Strapping the camera bag to his back, he headed for the footpath that went around the cliff all the way to the bottom.
Indeed, it was easier to climb up the cliff—as long as he didn’t look down. It wasn’t a straight-up rock, but rather a very steep patchwork of granite boulders, loose soil, and shrubbery that was bare from the early winter cold. He found footholds and small crevices for his fingers, carefully making his way on a zigzag trajectory upward.
His iPhone rang.
Leaning forward, his cheek pressed to a chilly rock, Ben managed to pull it from his pocket and look at the screen. It was Keera.
He answered, putting it on speaker. “Can’t talk right now. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Long story.” He felt his right foot slipping off its hold. “I’ll call you later.”
“Is this about the Mormons? Please tell me it’s not!”<
br />
His foot slipped off. He grabbed the phone between his teeth and managed to grip a rock ledge before falling off.
“Ben? Are you there?”
He tried to speak, but the sounds were mere growling.
“What’s going on?”
Unable to find solid footing by feeling with the toe of his shoe, he pulled up with his hands, now both feet in the air, and lifted himself over a boulder, turning at the same time so that his bottom rested on the shallow rock shelf. He was panting hard, which must have sounded terrible on the phone.
“Ben! What’re you doing?”
Finally he could take the phone out of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not having sex.”
That made her laugh. “The thought never occurred to me, despite all that huffing and puffing.”
“I’m searching the accident site again.”
“Anything new?”
“It’s still kind of up in the air.” He glanced upward at his target. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll see you at home. We’ll have Mom’s leftovers.”
The rest of the way was as treacherous, but he took his time and made sure he had solid footing before reaching into the bush and pulling out the piece of paper—or rather, a piece of thin cardboard from a Radio Shack package that had originally been bigger than a pack of cigarettes, but not by much. The brand was 3M.
High Density Floppy Disks
5-Pack – 1.2 MB – 5.25’’
Made in Mesa, AZ. 1994.
Immediately questions flooded his mind. Had this piece of packaging fallen off Zachariah’s Harley as it fell over? Ben glanced up toward the overlook, maybe three stories above him, and imagined the stars-and-stripes Harley Davidson tumbling through the air, separating from Zachariah, and the impact as the bike and its rider hit the ground hard, an instant of devastating destruction for both. Had this piece of cardboard been in Zachariah’s pocket? Or somewhere on the Harley? How had it separated and flown up into the shrubbery on the cliff?
The Mormon Candidate - a Novel Page 14
