Syndrome E

by Franck Thilliez

  Lucie clicked on the link for the book James Peterson had written. The cover image appeared, and the two cops stared at it in amazement.

  It showed an enormous bull, nose to nose with a small man wearing a blond mustache; his hands were behind his back and he was smiling. James Peterson himself.

  “The bull facing off against the human, like in Lacombe’s film,” said Sharko. “What is this goddamn book about, anyway?”

  With a few clicks, Lucie found a descriptive blurb of the work. She read aloud:

  “Progress in physiology is such that, today, it is possible to explore the brain, to inhibit or excite aggression, and to modify maternal or sexual behavior. The tyrannical chief of a monkey colony yields to its subordinates, if one manages to stimulate a particular area of its encephalon. This direct access to the brain, through the miracle of astounding physical techniques, constitutes a more decisive phase in the history of man than the conquest of the atom.”

  Sharko sat up. He realized that the solution to their puzzle was buried in the pages of that book. He put on his jacket, which he’d left at the foot of the bed, and headed for the door.

  “Come on. While waiting for the cop to call, we’re going to see what horrors that book really contains.”

  58

  James Peterson’s book was still available online, but it wasn’t in stock at the bookstores Sharko and Lucie tried. Given the title and description, a slightly savvier bookseller recommended asking at the University of Montreal Medical School—the third largest in North America—and more specifically, the Center for Neurological Sciences. Standing behind his advice, he managed to reach a professor named Jean Basso. He handed the receiver to Sharko, and the two men set an appointment for a short while later, enough time for Basso to refresh his memory of the book that he indeed owned.

  In the taxi, Lucie and Sharko didn’t talk much, so close did they feel to the unspeakable mire. They were brushing up against a darkness that had engulfed politics, religion, and science, and that had insinuated itself into the recesses of sick minds. Lucie thought of her family, her daughters, whom she tried to raise in a state of innocence in a world she still wanted to believe existed. The faces of Clara and Juliette again floated above those of Alice and Lydia, little girls who hadn’t asked for anything and who had been given no chance. Today more than ever, Lucie felt powerless and terribly fallible.

  They arrived at their destination.

  The university rose like a monster of concrete and glass, between the western slope of Mount Royal and the infinite rows of student housing. But more impressive still was the great emptiness that reigned in midsummer. More than fifty thousand students absent, streets deserted, dining halls, gyms, libraries, and shops closed. It was like a ghost town, where all that remained were a few researchers and some maintenance and facilities staff.

  Lucie and Sharko stopped in front of the beautifully designed science complex and began questioning the first people they saw. Eventually they obtained the name of a building: Paul Desmarais.

  The structure was located at the other end of campus. More than half a mile away, after following the underground passageways that linked the various centers, they were ushered into an office and introduced to Professor Jean Basso, the head of what was now called the Central Nervous System Research Group. The man was a good fifty years old and affected an Einstein-like air.

  Sharko explained their interest in Peterson’s book, Brain Conditioning and Freedom of Mind.

  “I know it well,” Basso replied. “Who could not know his work on the brain? A remarkable scientist, who interrupted his research much too soon.”

  “Would you know why?”

  “No.”

  Sharko was almost tempted to say, We do. He conducted experiments not very far from here, on children used as guinea pigs for a secret CIA program, along with an insane filmmaker named Jacques Lacombe.

  “And do you have any idea what became of him?”

  “None at all. Only the man’s scientific life interested me. As for his private life…”

  He waved a green-and-black book of about four hundred pages, its cover showing a man staring down a bull. The copy had been well used, its pages yellowed and dog-eared.

  “I’ll try to be brief and explain this in layman’s terms. You have to realize that for scientists of the time, what happened inside our heads was, for all intents and purposes, like a big black box. Peterson, with true genius, focused on something fundamental to the neurosciences: What took place between sensory intake—the eye seeing a red light—and its behavioral outcome—the foot stepping on the brake? What were the mechanisms that clicked into place inside that black box, so that on the basis of a sound or a smell, a movement or behavior should result? The fundamental principle that guided Peterson’s work was the tabula rasa, which posits that the mind of a newborn is a blank slate, on which experience writes its messages and thereby develops the various areas of the brain, which are related to certain senses. Basically, the origin of memories, emotional reactions, physical aptitude, of the words and ideas that constitute an individual are initially found outside that individual. Peterson conducted a slew of edifying experiments on animals to support his theories. For example, monkeys, which he deprived of several of their senses from birth. Cats, which he stimulated visually without respite. In the case of deprivation, the brain didn’t grow, and in that of sensory overload, it reached a weight higher than the norm. Which proved that the structure of the brain developed according to sensory experience. In this book, we can sense Peterson’s fascination with how the senses interact with the brain.”

  “Does the term ‘Syndrome E’ mean anything to you?”

  “Mmm. No, nothing.”

  “And what about ‘mental contamination’?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The propagation of violence and aggressive behavior through the senses. Images and sounds so violent that they can modify the brain structure of a given individual, who through his actions then brings about a similar modification in the behavior of the group around him?”

  Lucie surprised herself with the sentence she’d just uttered. But ultimately, wasn’t this the heart of all their research?

  The professor rubbed his chin.

  “Like a viral phenomenon? With a Patient Zero, and the propagation of an illness through the intermediary of neighboring individuals? Your theory is interesting, but…”

  The professor paused a moment before continuing:

  “I’ll have to look into it further. Peterson ultimately might have had a hidden agenda. Especially since he was in fact interested in areas of the brain conducive to violence, notably in monkey colonies.”

  Sharko and Lucie exchanged a look.

  “How so?”

  “He demonstrated that monkeys who suffer injuries to Broca’s area and the amygdala develop abnormal social behavior patterns, an inability to control frustration or anger. Peterson went so far as to get them to attack tigers. In the same way, he had noted an abnormally reduced amygdala region in animals who became naturally aggressive. As if that part of the brain had atrophied. He never found an explanation for that atrophy.”

  Little by little, the cops understood the path Peterson had followed and the significance of his discoveries. With each passing second, they grasped still further the essence of Syndrome E. Lucie leafed slowly through the book. Old black-and-white photos jumped out at her. Cats, their skulls attached to dozens of electrodes. Monkeys with large boxes of wires clamped to their heads. Then Peterson himself, facing the bull: the same photo as on the book jacket.

  Lucie showed it to the professor.

  “What does this image mean?”

  “Impressive, isn’t it? Peterson was also a precursor of deep brain stimulation—using electrical impulses to provoke individual behavior.”

  Sharko suddenly felt a wave of fire in his belly. Deep brain stimulation…The term he’d come across in the ME’s report, concerning the gr
uesome discovery in Gravenchon. Mohamed Abane had had a small particle of green sheathing under his skin, near the clavicle, and the ME had mentioned deep brain stimulation as a possible explanation for its presence.

  “Explain that to us,” he said in a neutral voice.

  “Galvani, 1791: a frog’s muscle contracts under electrical stimulation. The experiment was repeated by Volta in 1800, then by Du Bois-Reymond in 1848. Two decades later, in 1870, Fritsch and Hitzig notice that electrical stimulation to the brain of an anesthetized dog provokes localized movements in the body and limbs. Then we jump to 1932, and an experiment that strongly influenced Peterson: stimulating the brain of a nonanesthetized cat causes well-organized motor reflexes and emotional reactions: meowing, purring, hissing…”

  It was terrifying. Lucie easily imagined Peterson, deep in his laboratory, opening skulls to gain access to the brains of animals while they were still alive and wide awake.

  “Working with nonanesthetized animals was a huge step forward, for we then realized that electricity was the basis not only of movement, but also of emotion. It was in the hands of Peterson that deep brain stimulation would be born, in other words implanting electrodes in the brain through which one could transmit electrical impulses. Those large boxes you see, miss, clamped to the heads of those monkeys, are nothing more or less than the equivalent of circuit panels. By moving a small knob, you stimulate different areas of the brain, and thus provoke different reactions. Of course, the system was extremely crude and limited, but it worked.”

  This was all highly enlightening. Sharko imagined a series of switches that could be turned on and off, acting upon things like sleep, anger, or motor function. What happened if you flipped several switches at the same time? What did cats feel when they heard themselves meowing without really wanting to? Those experiments must have been limitless, in both horror and cruelty.

  The professor continued talking, revealing a chilling and very real truth.

  “Peterson was a bit of a showman—he liked to produce an effect. For the bull, he simply implanted electrodes in the motor areas of the animal’s brain. The control box was outside the photographer’s range, and Peterson was hiding a remote control in his hand. When he pressed a button, an electrical current inhibited the motor areas and prevented the beast from moving. It’s instantaneous, like a freeze-frame.”

  Sharko put his hand to his forehead. With his schizophrenia and his treatments at La Salpêtrière, he had seen what scientists were capable of. But to such a degree…

  Jean Basso noticed his disturbance and smiled.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? And yet it was fifty years ago. Today, DBS has become a relatively common and widespread technique. And the equipment is much more compact. These days, the electrical stimulator is implanted beneath the skin, attached to electrodes embedded in the skull. The patient himself has a remote control that lets him start or stop the stimulation at will. With it, we’re able to help treat certain illnesses, such as Parkinson’s or obsessive-compulsive disorder, and soon maybe even depression or chronic insomnia. Its uses are still being developed.”

  Sharko tried to repress the monstrous idea that had gradually been taking shape in his head. It was beyond comprehension. He nonetheless ventured the question:

  “Do you think someone could do the same thing with violent behavior? Trigger or inhibit it at will, with a simple remote control?”

  He was clearly thinking of Patient Zero—of the catalyzing element in a massacre, whom one could control scientifically, rather than waiting for it to occur randomly.

  “Anything’s possible. It’s an awful thing to say, but electricity always trumps will or mind. With deep brain stimulation, you can stop someone’s heart, put him to sleep, keep him awake, or erase his memory. The possibilities are endless. The difficulty lies in reaching the right area with the electrodes, and sending the impulse to exactly the right place. Long electrodes have to pass physically through the brain, and therefore cross through the areas governing motor function, language, and memory. It’s no simple task and it creates problems we haven’t yet figured out how to solve. But the biggest problem is the area itself. When it comes to violence, the amygdala is very small, it controls multiple functions, and it’s in contact with some very sensitive parts of the brain. Being off by even a fraction of a millimeter can make the patient lose his memory, start raving uncontrollably, or become paralyzed for life. That’s why we need time and money to establish sufficient guidelines to justify the use of implants. There’s no room for error in neurosurgery. The technique is very promising, but once you delve into the reaches of the brain it can be either heaven or hell…”

  Sharko shut the book and set it on the table. Having no more questions, the two cops said good-bye and went out, feeling as if their own brains were close to giving out.

  59

  The two French cops were sitting on a bench in the middle of the deserted campus. Calm reigned over the ghostly space. Sharko had taken out his list of 217 persons and was running his pencil down every name that hadn’t been crossed out.

  “Did you get what I got out of that, Lucie?”

  “We’re not just looking for someone with medical training, but someone capable of performing an operation as delicate as deep brain stimulation, a scientist interested in the structure of the brain…I imagine James Peterson isn’t on the list. How old would he be today?”

  “Too old. Even if he’d used another identity, there’s only one person on this list born in 1923, the same year as Peterson, and she’s a woman.”

  “Don’t forget, the list is only of the French.”

  Sharko crossed out more names.

  “I know…but the legionnaire Manoeuvre was French. It’s unfortunately very likely our brain thief is too.”

  “Could Peterson have had children? Maybe a son who took up his work?”

  “Monette should be calling at any moment. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Lucie had leaned forward, her hands squeezed together between her thighs.

  “We’re almost there.” She sighed. “The killer has to be hiding there, right before our eyes, and I think that— I think we’re coming to the end of what we came to find here. Do you realize how far this stretches? If Syndrome E really exists, it calls so many things into question. Individual freedom, our ability to choose, responsibility for our actions. I can’t believe everything that governs what we do is merely chemical or electrical. Where is God in all this? Feelings, the soul—these aren’t just artificial constructs.”

  The number of suspects on the list was shrinking but still remained significant—about forty names.

  “And yet…well, take a schizophrenic, for instance. He might see an imaginary person as clearly as you see that lab tech in his white coat over there. All because a few millimeters of his brain are on the fritz. It has nothing to do with God or witchcraft. It’s chemistry. Just some shitty chemistry.”

  His phone rang. He looked at the caller ID.

  “It’s Monette.”

  He answered and put the phone on speaker.

  “I have some info about your Peter Jameson,” said the policeman.

  Peter Jameson…So James Peterson had indeed come to Canada under an assumed name—though he hadn’t exactly strained his brain to find one.

  “He moved to Montreal in 1953 and worked at Mont Providence as a medical researcher in the ward for acute mental retardation. In 1955, he married a woman named Hélène Riffaux, a math teacher and Canadian national. Together they adopted a little girl, and Jameson dropped out of sight a few weeks later, taking his daughter and abandoning his wife. As far as we can tell, he left no traces or forwarding address. No one ever saw him again. The marriage was just a pretext for the adoption, which he couldn’t have done otherwise. It’s a bit short, but that’s roughly all there is to know. Oh, one last thing, which might be important. The little girl was one of the orphans from Mont Providence.”

  Those words set off an earthq
uake inside Lucie and Sharko. They stared at each other, flabbergasted, and seemed to come to the same realization simultaneously.

  “The girl! Tell us her name!”

  “Coline Quinat.”

  Sharko’s finger ran down the Cairo list. He had seen a Coline in there. Letter Q. Quinat. There she was. Sharko thanked him in a blank voice and hung up. Lucie had pressed against him, her eyes fixed on the printed line.

  “Coline Quinat, born October 15,1948, researcher in neurobiology at the research center of the Army Health Services, Grenoble.”

  “The Army Health Services,” murmured Sharko.

  “Good God…Born in 1948, like Alice. It’s her! Coline Quinat, Alice Tonquin. It’s a perfect anagram. It was right there all along!”

  Lucie covered her face in her hands.

  “Not her…not Alice.”

  Sharko sighed, shaken by these revelations.

  “Researcher in neurobiology…no doubt a bogus position to cover her real work for the army. It all fits together so well now. The tortured little girl herself becomes a torturer. The brain thief—she’s the one. She’s the one behind all these horrors. She’s the one who killed and mutilated the young Egyptians. And she’s the one who went to Rwanda, and wherever there had been massacres…”

  Silence weighed on them for a few moments. Lucie was in shock. The person she’d wanted to avenge since the beginning was the very person she was hunting: the murderer, the one who removed the victims’ eyes and brains. The architect. The mastermind. The sickest of the killers.

  Sharko couldn’t sit still; he was like a lion in a cage.

  “Imagine this: after lots of trial and error, research, relentless pursuit, Peterson and Lacombe manage to film a major breakthrough—proof of the existence of mental contamination, which Peterson had always believed possible, and for which he’d managed to obtain CIA funding. But after their phenomenal results with the rabbits, the scientist convinces Lacombe not to tell the CIA about it. He knows how momentous this discovery is. Maybe he’s thinking of selling his findings to some other country, which is ready to pay a fortune for the knowledge. Especially France, the country of his birth.”