“I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about him. What did he do to make you feel this way?”
I’m boiling now. “Like I said, I don’t want to talk about that guy. He’s the reason I’m in this shit in the first place.”
“Take it easy, Thomas. I didn’t mean to alarm you. But please understand that we have to talk about Troyer, precisely because of his involvement in your problems.”
“Look, Doc, that guy is nothing but bad news. He’s a fuckin’ nightmare that follows me around and pops up outta nowhere just to screw with me.”
“When did you meet him?”
“I dunno—a couple of months ago.”
“Before or after you joined the study?”
I close my eyes for a second because I have to think about it. Then it hits me. “You know what, Doc? It was definitely after. I remember because I went to the Pain Center in Brooklyn to get my first refill. When I came out of the clinic, I felt a headache coming on, so I swallowed a few pills and stopped off for a brew. That’s when I met him for the first time.”
“Okay, tell me about it.”
“Well, actually, it was real intense, and he probably saved my life. I made the mistake of trying to strike up a conversation with some girl at this bar. Her boyfriend got all pissed off, grabbed me by the neck, and told me to fuck off. I wasn’t paying attention as he and his buddy followed me when I left the place. They cornered me, pulled me into an alley, and started beating the crap outta me. Then Troyer shows up from nowhere, unleashes this amazing MMA shit, and levels both guys like he’s Jean-Claude Van Damme or something. He practically kills one of the guys. But in the heat of the moment, I guess he did what was necessary. Anyway, he was so smooth and cool, I knew right then that I wanted to get to know him.”
“I see,” Doc Pock says, sitting up in his chair like someone has just stuck a stick up his ass. “How often did you see him after that?”
“Hey, look. Let’s get real, here. I know what’s going on. Everyone thinks that Troyer’s not real and that I’m just making him up. My lawyer and that other shrink say the pills from the study have fried my brain. Isn’t that what you want to know, too?”
“In fact it is, Thomas. That, as well as a few other things. So tell me, then: Do you believe Troyer is a real person?”
I stop and think for a second. “That’s a trick question, Doc, because if I say he’s real, while everyone else says he’s not, then I have to be crazy. And if I say he’s just someone my brain made up, then I’m also crazy. See? I lose either way.”
“Well, Thomas, we never like to use the word ‘crazy,’ but I understand your dilemma. Still, I want to know what you truly believe. It will help me with my diagnosis. So rather than giving me an answer based upon your fear of what I might think, just answer from your heart.”
I reach for the cup of water and take a sip, like I’m thinking this through, but I already know what I have to say. “Actually, Doc, I’m not sure anymore. Until my lawyer told me what came out while I was hypnotized, Troyer was as real to me as you are. Now, after thinking about everything that’s happened these past few weeks, maybe he’s not so real, after all. I mean, the dude always seems to show up outta nowhere, and he seems to know what I’m thinking before I do. I just don’t understand how he could be inside my head without me knowing about it. And if he is there, why hasn’t he come out since I’ve been in jail? And how do you explain the MMA shit he can do? I don’t have those skills.”
“All good points, Thomas. This type of disorder is very mysterious, and we still don’t have all the answers. Which leads me to my next question. Looking back, did Troyer usually appear soon after you took your pills?
“Geez, I never really thought about it. The truth is, though, in the past couple of weeks, I’ve been taking my pills almost every day. That’s because my headaches are coming on more frequently.”
“Well, then, have you been seeing a lot more of Troyer recently?”
“I suppose so, except since I’ve been in jail.”
“Okay, I’d like to go in a different direction for a moment. Let me ask you this: When you picture Troyer in your mind, compared to the way you see yourself in the mirror, do you see a similarity in features?”
“No way. I mean, I hate to admit it, but he’s a much better-looking guy than me. He’s got perfect teeth and a perfect smile. Here, check this out.” I flash a goofy smile at him. “My teeth are crooked, and I can’t smile like Troyer does. That’s his trademark.”
“Interesting,” he says, as he pulls out his pen and starts writing a whole bunch of shit in his pad. “Please give me a minute.”
“Sure thing, Doc. I’ve got all day.”
A few minutes later, he gets up and starts pacing at the foot of my bed. “Thomas, can you tell me about some of your fondest childhood memories?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Like, what am I supposed to remember?”
“Oh, I don’t really know for sure, I’m just curious if you can recall things from when you were a young boy.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I always had a hard time with that kind of stuff. It’s weird because I remember that my folks took me to the Cape when I was a kid, but I can’t remember details—even though I went down there for years. I know I made friends there, too, but I can’t picture what they look like or even remember their names. Although I have to say that walking around Lakewood and Seneca brought back memories I didn’t even know I had. It’s messed up because even though I started remembering bits and pieces of my life back then, they still don’t feel like they happened to me. It’s almost like I’m watching a movie of someone else. It just doesn’t seem real.”
“I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Thomas. But I’ve heard enough for now, and you must be growing tired of all this anyway, so why don’t you get some rest? Perhaps we’ll have a chance to chat at a later date.”
“Okay by me, Doc.” I say, as he turns and walks out the door like he just won a Nobel Prize.
Crater Face may be smart, but so am I. I think I fooled him real good.
CHAPTER 93
Dr. Gabay had followed through on his promise to meet with D.A. Galub immediately after the session to discuss the Sullivan case, so when he appeared outside her office, she quickly hung up the phone and ushered him in.
“Thank you for coming right over, Doctor. I’m anxious to hear what you have to say.”
“I figured you would be, so I won’t waste any time. Just understand: I am basing my analysis on the reports your office has given me, the recording we listened to the other day, and finally my interview today. Stated plainly, I believe Thomas Sullivan shows many of the classic signs of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Of course, I can’t say this to a certainty unless he was to switch identities in my presence. However, the symptoms he does display are telling. He suffered major trauma as a boy, having to deal with a dysfunctional family, an abusive father, and a mother who abandoned him. He witnessed a murder and the death of a friend. He experiences severe headaches, has blackouts, and can’t account for significant periods of time in his life. His memory of important past events are foggy to nonexistent. Under hypnosis, he referred to Troyer as someone to be emulated. He lapsed into an accent, which we suspect is Troyer. And last, while he cannot summon up or fully understand how Troyer can exist inside his head, he appears to have come around to believe that Troyer is a figment of his imagination.” Gabay stopped and took a breath, waiting for a rebuttal.
“Can you bring this home for me so I can use this in court, Doctor?”
“I can, but you may not like what I have to say.”
“Just tell it to me straight.”
“Very well. Sullivan, as he appears now, is hardly a killer. Rather, he presents as a confused and frightened individual who has no idea how, or why, this is all happening to him. I suspect it is no coincidence that Troyer appeared in Sullivan’s life sometime after he began taking excessive amounts of
the experimental drug.
“Well, Doctor, that doesn’t bode well for my case. It sounds to me like you believe he is suffering from a mental defect or disorder.”
“Is—or was.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this, and I’m not happy about it. So let me ask you this, then. Is he sane now and able to assist in his own defense? If not, we can’t bring him to trial, even if we want to. Alternatively, if he is currently fit for trial, was he competent at the time he committed the offenses he’s been charged with?”
“The fact is, Ms. Galub, Sullivan appears competent now, but with respect to the crimes, he believes he did not commit them. He is convinced they were committed by Troyer Savage, and he is still trying to digest the possibility that he is Troyer Savage. I suspect that if you subjected him to a lie detector test, he would pass.”
“So what are my chances at trial?”
“If I had to testify—and I don’t believe you would want me to—I would have to say that if Thomas Sullivan committed these crimes, he did so while suffering from a mental defect or disorder.”
“So what is your recommendation?”
“In my opinion, the man should not be let out on the street at this time. We just don’t know the extent of his psychosis. He may seem competent now, but we cannot predict what may happen in a few days or weeks. It is quite possible that he may relapse and switch to Troyer Savage again and kill someone.”
“That worries me, as well.”
“I think he should be placed in a psychiatric hospital for an extended period where he can be monitored and evaluated.”
“How long a time would you suggest, Doctor?”
“I think he should be evaluated for a mandatory minimum of six months. Thereafter, it should be left up to the doctors to determine if he is fit to be released. I know of a place where one of the doctors utilizes a novel type of hypnotherapy, during which he administers a mixture of sodium pentothal and some other wonder drug as part of the hypnotic process. He has been able to achieve remarkable results quickly by delving deep into a patient’s mind. We can give him our entire file for review, recording and all. He’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Sounds very intriguing,” Galub said. “Do you think he could help to bring Troyer out and maybe learn where Jamie Houston is?”
“A distinct possibility. His success rate has been nothing short of astonishing. I have to advise you, though, he is quite a character and very unorthodox. And his methodology is reminiscent of the bygone era of the early sixties where experimental therapies ran largely uncontrolled and flew under the radar of Constitutional protections.”
“Actually, Doctor, I’m only interested in results, and if we have to plead this one out and get Sullivan to this doctor in order to locate Jamie Houston, I don’t care if the doctor worked at a Nazi concentration camp and his last name is Mengele.”
CHAPTER 94
Later that evening, DA Galub sat at the bar at Chauncey’s Pub in downtown Manhattan waiting for Harold Levy. She’d already downed two Grey Goose martinis in an effort to dull the pain of her impending surrender. It wasn’t like her to cave so quickly, but her caseload was taxing, and her boss had given her the okay. There was no sense taking this case to trial and spending a million dollars when a successful outcome was highly doubtful.
Levy slithered in, his rumpled suit sliding off his stooped shoulders. “Good evening, Ms. Galub. I take it your psychiatrist has issued his report.”
“He has, Counselor.”
“Well, would you care to enlighten me with his conclusions?” Levy was boldly pompous.
“Look, Harold, his findings are privileged attorney work product, and for the time being, they will remain as such.”
“You do know, Joyce, that if it comes down to trial, his entire report is discoverable and you must provide it to me.”
“I am aware of the law,” Galub said, slurring her speech as the martinis kicked in. “But that is unimportant right now. Let me cut to the chase.”
“Please . . .”
“I’m prepared to offer a plea . . . with certain conditions and exceptions.”
“Go on.”
“If we allow your client to plead out due to a mental defect or disorder, he must agree to be remanded to a psychiatric hospital for a minimum period of one year where he will be treated and evaluated. After that time, it will be entirely up to the hospital board to determine if, or when, he is fit to be released. Further, while under their care and treatment, he must cooperate, he must agree to be hypnotized, and he must agree to be medicated if it is determined medically necessary. Additionally, he must do everything in his power to assist in locating the whereabouts of Jamie Houston. He must also agree to never take another one of those experimental pills again. As to the exceptions, we are not in a position to include a disposition of any potential charges in connection with the other bodies found at Gilgo Beach. Investigation of those charges by the local police will continue.”
“You’ve put quite a few conditions on a plea that ordinarily would simply require an evaluation of his present mental state. You know that if a current evaluation of my client determines that he is sane, he could walk out of the courthouse a free man tomorrow.”
“Perhaps, Counselor,” Galub said, summoning all her remaining bravado, “but those are my terms. My expert is more than ready to testify that we cannot be sure of Mr. Sullivan’s present mental state. It is entirely possible that he could lapse into Troyer Savage at any time and go on a killing spree. So it’s either mandatory admission to a psychiatric hospital or no deal.”
“Okay, if you bring it down to a six-month minimum, rather than one year, I will sell it to my client.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Levy—provided all my other terms are agreeable.”
CHAPTER 95
The court thing goes by real quick, and before I know it, I’m in some van being carted away to the loony bin. My lawyer says I’m going to be stuck there for at least six months while I prove that I’m not crazy. He also says I’ve got to cooperate and help find out what happened to the bartender. The fact is, I have no clue.
Anyway, I’ve got these handcuffs on, and I’m strapped into the seat in back, but I can still see out the window. Looks like they’re taking me upstate somewhere because I’m crossing the Hudson River and going over the Tappan Zee Bridge. At least I’m out of the city.
About a half hour later, we pull in some place, and they back the van into a garage. These two muscle-bound goons unload me, each one takes an arm, and they lead me down a hall.
“I guess they’ve got a gym here—huh, boys?” I say, because neither of them says a word, and I can’t stand the silence.
“Close your mouth, wise-ass,” the dude on my left says as he vise-grips my bicep.
“Hey, man, that hurts. Go easy on me. I’m just trying to be friendly.”
They bring me to a door, where some guard is watching from a booth. He pushes a button, and the door swings open.
“Sophisticated security you got going on here,” I shouldn’t have said, because now the goon on my right punches me in the gut, and I lose my wind. They drag me, wheezing and choking, finally take off my cuffs, and toss me into a room. The door slams, and I hear a bolt click. I guess I’m locked in.
Welcome to my nightmare.
After I catch my breath, I look around. Good—no toilet. Better, I’ve got a window. So what if it’s got bars on it?
There’s another bed in here, which means I’ve probably got me a roomie. I hope he’s not too crazy. I mean, if the dude is balls-off-the-wall whacked-out, I may not make it the full six months.
I lie down on the bed and try to relax. I feel a headache coming on. I hope getting meds around here won’t be as hard as it was back in that jail cell.
Anyway, I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, some sloppy-ass punk with a beard is pulling at my arm.
“That’s my bed, cocksucker,” he says, trying to sound toug
h. “If you don’t move, I may have to snap your neck.”
I look at the dude. He can’t be serious. I mean, the guy’s trying to hide his bald head with a comb over. He’s about five-feet-two and all roly-poly. I could totally stomp him.
“You kidding me, psycho?” I say, like I’m Rambo or somebody. “If you don’t back off, I’ll snap your neck. You’re fuckin’ with the wrong guy.” I stand up and eyeball the shrimp, but before I can move, he unloads and pops me right in the gut. Surprise—I lose my wind again. Twice in one day just isn’t good. I drop to my knees coughing, and the munchkin breaks out in this high-pitched laugh. Then he starts dancing around the room with his hands in the air like he’s Floyd Mayweather and just scored a knockout. It takes me a few seconds before I can breathe again, but as soon as I do, I get up, fly right over to Junior, and clock him on the side of the head. He goes down like a sack of potatoes. For a second, I think he’s actually dead. Then he slowly starts rolling around and tries to get up, but he wobbles and falls down again. Man, that’s some funny shit. I’ve seen that happen to boxers before, after they been knocked out and they try to stand up, but they can’t. Totally embarrassing. I actually feel bad for the squirt, but you know what? He hit me first. Anyway, after a minute or so, I help him onto the bed. He sits down, stroking his jaw.
“You okay, man?” I ask him. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. It’s just you hit me first, and that pissed me off. I don’t take that shit from no one.”
“I’ll be okay. It was probably my fault, anyway. That’s one of my problems. I’m a hothead, and I don’t think before I do things. Let’s call it even and start over.”
“Fine by me, dude. And you can have your bed. I couldn’t care less where I sleep.”
Tiny looks at me sideways, still rubbing his jaw. “So what are you in for?”
“Long story—not really something I’m in the mood to talk about.”
“Okay, maybe some other time. For now, though, you’re going to need to learn a few things if you want to survive around here.”
Everywhere That Tommy Goes Page 27
