“Just know I gotta find these guys.”
“OK, look: All six are classic loners, with documented sociopathic tendencies ranging from just-above common all the way to full-blown psychopathic monster. Three are lacking almost every benchmark of ordinary human social development. And some of these numbers, to be honest, don’t even make sense to me. How well do you understand the terms?”
“Sociopath? Psycho? Assumed they were the same thing.”
“They’re similar but different disorders, especially in the way they manifest. Which could help you know what to look for. Even though they’re always lumped together, you should probably understand the two beyond some vague Webster’s definition before you go much further.”
“It’s why I called you.” He’d found the outside stairs leading to the motel’s second and top floor. He took them unhurriedly, stretching his legs, relishing the feeling of warm air against his skin. Yet somehow still cramped, chilled. Nervous.
“All right. About one half of one percent of Americans could be diagnosed as sociopaths or psychopaths. So says the National Institute of Mental Health.”
“Two million psycho killers?”
She laughed softly, the sound tender and familiar. “Not at all. There are degrees to everything. Ninety-eight percent of that two million are only sociopaths, and most sociopaths are little more than flaming assholes.”
“Skip the technical jargon, please.”
“Guys with no regard for the feelings and rights of others. Care only about Number One, steal for the hell of it, moody guys who screw over coworkers, start bar fights out of boredom, won’t talk to their kids . . . that kind of thing. True psychopaths are much, much rarer. The difference is important, and also horrible.”
“Go on.”
“First, how they’re the same. They both manipulate to get what they desire with no true sense of right or wrong. See people as targets, opportunities, and believe the cliché that the end always justifies the means. And so lie with almost every breath. And steal. And sometimes even rape or kill. Both are unable to empathize with their victims’ pain, and even hold contempt for their victims’ distress. Oblivious to the devastation they cause, lacking remorse, shame. Both usually surface by age fifteen; often cruel to animals, have an inflated sense of self, no awareness of personal boundaries. Feel entitled, spoiled. Shallow emotions, incapacity for love. Need stimulation and enjoy living on the edge, and believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, and warranted in every wish. Both carry a deep rage.”
“Copy. How different?”
“Sociopaths have a life history of behavioral and academic difficulties. They’re less organized; they struggle in school and work. They’ll often appear nervous and easily agitated. They act spontaneously in inappropriate ways without thinking through the consequences. So, they typically live on the fringes of society, without solid or consistent economic support. They have problems making friends, keeping jobs, tend to move around a lot. Since they disregard most rules and social mores, their crimes are typically spontaneous because they don’t give one damn and don’t care if you know it. The prisons are filled with these guys. Most of us would not be comfortable with a sociopath in the room. You would totally know he was there.”
“But not so Mr. Psychopath.”
“You got it. Mr. Psychopath, as you say, is extremely organized, secretive, and manipulative. While he also has no regard for society’s rules, he understands them. He’s studied them for years like it’s a job, and he can mimic the right behaviors to make himself appear normal, even charismatic and charming. He’s often well educated, can maintain a family and steady work. He’s learned The Game, and he’s playing it to win using our own rules against us. You would be comfortable with a psychopath in the room because you would never know he was even there.”
“Would you? I mean, could you spot one in a room?”
“Doubt it. I might. Here’s a tip they taught us at Columbia. Watch the hands. When normal people are struggling for a word, maybe the name of an obscure actor or, like, a foreign phrase from some language they half know, we often make those little circles with our hands or fingers, right? It’s natural. It helps stimulate the segment of the brain that finds and makes sense of unfamiliar words. For serial killers, however, almost every word and phrase is an unfamiliar bunch of lines. All of the crap normal people say to get through the day: ‘Yes, I’ll be at work on time tomorrow,’ ‘Yes, it IS a gorgeous day,’ ‘Yes, I love you, too’ . . . they might as well be speaking Greek. As they’re always struggling for the ‘right’ words, they often employ their hands to help, and a killer’s wrists and fingers can get spinning like little windmills to get through the next twenty seconds’ interaction normally. If you see that, think of it as the start of a witch’s spell.”
“And get the hell out. Interesting.” He’d noticed that Jeff’s shrugs and grunts were his go-to mode of communication, rather than actual sentences. He’d written it off to being fifteen and terrified, but . . . “Exactly what I was looking for. Anything else you can tell me about this language thing?”
“Sure, OK. In one test, people were given a huge list of words randomly selected from three categories. Made-up words like frizzdirt and champstal and more common words like pencil and canoe. And then words like mother, and peaceful, and lonely. Words that have deeper and complicated meanings. A pencil is just a pencil, but mother and lonely have six billion nuanced meanings that could keep you up talking all night if you were talking with the right person.”
“Yes,” he agreed, maybe a little too quickly, not caring if she read too much into it.
“OK, so in the test, they flash these words up at the testee, and when he recognizes it’s a real word or not, he hits a certain button, and it records how fast he identified it. For normal people, the third category was always the fastest, by about thirty percent across the board. They’d see grandpa, or country, or love and know instantly: That’s a word, bam, button pressed. Next. But for the tested serial killers, the psychopaths, not so much. For these guys, there was no difference between the time to recognize pencil and the time to recognize mother. None. It took the exact same amount of time. The doctors’ conclusion was simple and unanimous: The two categories clearly meant about the same to the serial killers. They were nothing special, merely more words in the world. Mother and love were as meaningless to a serial killer as pencil or canoe were to normal people.”
“I wonder if the doctors got it wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
Castillo thought a second. “Maybe the exact opposite was true. Maybe the times were exactly the same because to a killer trivial words like pencil and canoe actually have more meaning than they do to the rest of us. Maybe for him, every damn word counts.”
“Maybe. I see higher-than-average IQ and WAIS-IV intelligence scores here. Most of the files you sent, however, are tracking MAOA levels and testosterone. More interest in their balls than their brains, and these guys all seem to be males, cubed. A lot of potential violence here.”
“What do you know about the ‘XP11’ gene?”
“Not familiar. What’s that?”
“Some kind of coding gene thing that affects dopamine levels.”
“OK, right. Yes, the ‘anger gene.’ I have read about it. Something to do with the MAOA gene. Makes perfect sense.” A short, tense pause. Then words again, too casual. “What in God’s name are you working on, Shawn?”
“I’ll be done soon. What can you tell me about the individual boys?”
“Fine. Subject David, is it? Yes . . .”
David. The one Jeff thought was “chill.” “Yes.”
“Start here because I can tell you he’s probably the least of your worries based on these annotations. Has some sociopath tendencies, but he’s more midlevel antisocial personality than anything. Nomadic. Schizoid, avoidant features. Nothing a program of risperidone couldn’t take care of.”
“An antipsychotic? Didn’t think you lik
ed the drugs, Doc.”
“Don’t usually. But sometimes it makes sense.”
“Would he travel with a pack? Work in a group?”
“Probably not by choice. These notes are fractional, but I’m still surmising an almost complete lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency toward a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, emotional coldness. He’s not into the group scene. Of course, he’s also a teenager and so quite drawn, and susceptible, to peer influence.”
“Anything else?”
“Just more numbers otherwise. Biochemical analysis. Drugs, I assume. Not sure what, but they’re obviously testing something on several of these guys.”
“Would that surprise you? Preclinical testing on kids? Psychological experiments. That kind of thing.”
“Sadly, not at all. Seventy percent of foster kids are on some kind of state-sanctioned behavioral medication, with a lot of it still officially in test mode. There’s some evidence we’ve tested AIDS meds on these foster kids also. But that’s the meds. The experiments are far worse.”
You have no idea. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“The University of Iowa once got hold of twenty orphans for a study on emotional reinforcement. Half stuttered, and half spoke perfectly normally. The stutterers were praised for their speaking skills and the normal-speaking kids were mocked and scolded for their ‘terrible speech.’ This went on for months. While the stutterers showed no significant change in facilities, the normal-speaking kids now all stuttered. Every one of them. The experiment got the nickname ‘The Monster Study.’ ”
“Good name,” Castillo said. It isn’t really. They used it too soon. Should have saved it for Jacobson and Erdman. If making a kid stutter was monstrous, what to call the study that prescribed beatings and molestation? “What happened to the kids?”
“The study ended directly before World War II and the results were buried for fear of comparisons to the Nazis. The lead researcher went on to become one of the nation’s most prominent speech pathologists. Two of the subjects later committed suicide.”
Castillo shook his head. Tried to ignore the footnote and press on. “What else on these six guys? What to look for?”
“Al seeks approval more than the others. He displays an inability to take criticism, and he needs more recognition. He’ll need, want, an audience and the support of the others. Ted’s probably the most aggressive. A classic predator. Will probably go where the girls are. Teen nightclubs, I guess. Think a Jersey Shore scene . . . Friday Night Lights. The mall? Wherever teen boys meet girls nowadays. Start there. Let’s see. The other two . . .” She struggled, looking for their names and files.
“Henry and . . .” He caught himself. Didn’t want to say the name.
“Jeff,” she said for him. “Wow, let’s get to him in a second. Henry is more like David. Probably carries anxiety in social situations, odd behavior, unconventional beliefs. But he also shows an elaborate and exclusively internal fantasy world. I can see him lost in movie theaters, playing video games, that kind of thing. Now Jeff.”
“What about him?”
“Probably the most dangerous in the group. Languid schizoid. Depressive. But there’s rage hidden in these observations and numbers. Comments indicate he’s likely homosexual. Maybe narrows down your hunting ground some. Physiologically, there’s an imbalance in his blood tests that’s . . . I don’t know. Like I said, some of these MAOA numbers don’t even make sense. They’re off-the-spectrum high, so they can’t be right. But I can tell you the guy should be locked away. Now. I could have another doctor look at these profiles, maybe—”
“No. No one else. Best to treat as highly classified.”
“Loud and clear.” No mockery in her tone.
“There could be at least five of ’em together,” he said. “Ten maybe. Could they get along? How long? Will they follow a pattern?”
“Sounds like a bad joke. Five psycho killers and a priest walk into a bar . . .”
“Funny. How long? Could, would, these guys go on a killing frenzy together?”
“Most serial killers work alone, but not all. There are plenty of known cases of pairs. The current Smiley Face killer in the Midwest could be a group of people. Your guys, however, are textbook psychopaths, with massive egos, god-sized narcissism, and a grandiose sense of self.”
“Another thing, as you pointed out, they’re teenagers.” Castillo thought of Jeffrey Jacobson waiting below. “How relevant?”
Kristin sighed in thought. “They’ll need the pack more, probably. Most serial killers commit their first murder in their late twenties, finally acting out on one of the specific elaborate violent fantasies they concocted as a child. They’re the same most all of us have as children, but where the rest of us grow out of such fantasies because we’ve developed socially and are afraid of how society will respond, these guys don’t. Even more than most psychopaths, these teen versions especially don’t give a damn what other people think. How much did you give a shit about consequences at seventeen? So their social development, organically prone to limitations from their psychopathy, will suffer even more thanks to their age. Freud said a child would destroy the whole world if he had the power.”
“Noted.”
“From these records, I’d say most of these patients are in an accelerated stage of sociopathic behavior for their ages. Destroying the world is probably high on their to-do list, along with withdrawing from reality and entering a fantasy world. Adult psychopaths pick one, maybe two, fantasies to develop, to plan, to perfect over the years. Making a fantasy real takes preparation, precision, and time. Even Mr. Psychopath understands such limitations when he’s twenty-eight. But if you’re a kid, like the guys you need to find, the very moment they think of a fantasy, boom, they think they can make it come true. They’re after instant gratification for their childish, godlike appetites.”
“And think they can get away with it.”
“Best part of any fantasy, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Castillo said. “Thanks. Really. If I come across any more—”
“I’ll be here,” she said, then added, “You sound like hell.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Honestly, Shawn. You don’t sound good.”
Castillo tensed. Was she offering to help him with the profiles as an old friend with history or as his therapist? “Just been a tough couple days,” he explained, hoping to prove he had no need for the latter. “Hey, Kris, I—”
“Try and get some sleep,” she said, her voice too cold, too clinical again. Another pause. “But if you need anything else . . .”
“Talk later. Thanks.”
He stood for a minute on the second floor of the motel, his hands on the rusting blue banister. Memories swirling in his head of her, of the two of them, in another reality and time. His breathing grew harder, his hands clenching the railing.
Castillo swapped his thoughts back to the now. Away from her.
The Jacobson kid, the clone, hadn’t panned out. Hadn’t provided a solid lead yet. Couldn’t decipher his father’s notes. Castillo didn’t blame him, but he thought maybe it was already time to cut the boy loose. Jeff Jacobson was probably slowing him down anyway.
Is that really the reason you want to get rid of him?
He’d given the kid plenty of chances to escape, almost hoping he would so the decision would be out of his hands. One phone call, and DSTI would come and collect him. Some small token of success he could offer up to Stanforth and the other science jerkoffs.
Whatever the reason, Best get rid of him now, Castillo thought again, moving back toward the steps.
Back toward Mr. Psychopath.
FORMS NOT FOUND IN NATURE
JUNE 04, SATURDAY—RADNOR, PA
Dr. Patrick Mohlenbrock cupped the fetus in his left hand, holding it up to the light for a better look. Its tiny head dangled awkwardly off the end of his forefinger as fluids from the incubator dripped down the geneticist’s wrist.
One of its small hands had reflexively latched onto the tip of Mohlenbrock’s plump gloved thumb.
Six weeks, the chart read. So much had already started, but the option of speeding up gestation to adulthood or continuing to retard development for another couple of years was no longer his to make. DSTI was cleaning house. Or, at least, temporarily sweeping certain programs under the carpet. It would be easy enough to start again after the attention was off them.
Mohlenbrock didn’t mind. He’d never cared much for Project Cain anyway. That had always been Jacobson’s hard-on. Mohlenbrock’s lay elsewhere. Therapeutic cloning had already become the trillion-dollar industry everyone expected it to be. While Nasdaq was a slowly sinking roller coaster, the biotechnology indexes continued to garner record gains every year. It was time. IVF, transgenic foods, commercial eugenics, pharmaceuticals. Americans were already paying five hundred bucks a year to store the DNA of their pets and loved ones. The dot-com orgy would prove pennies compared to what was coming, and he was sure as hell not going to miss it.
We must never approach the temple of science with the soul of a money changer. He could still hear Jacobson’s reproof. Fuck Jacobson. Jacobson was the fuckwad who’d gotten them into this jam anyway. His fascination with the XP11 gene, his fanatical deals for more funding with the powers that be. And where the hell is he now? Dead? Maybe murdered by the special children he’d bred, or, as it was rumored, running around the country on some unknown crusade to free clones DSTI hadn’t even known about. Fanfuckingtastic.
And, in a few hours—unless Erdman could talk Stanforth out of it—even worse than that. Much worse.
Mohlenbrock almost hoped Jacobson wasn’t dead yet. Because he knew well what would soon be sent to look for him. Adequate paybacks, on balance, when DSTI and everyone associated with it would lose everything if things didn’t get cleaned up quietly. A lot of people, people like him, would probably go to jail, too. They’d already chemically lobotomized half a dozen kids. A frat-house cocktail of various antipsychotics, neuroleptics, and antianxiety inhibitors that included an intentional overdose of Thorazine. While they hadn’t removed any part of their brains, they hadn’t really needed to. The twenty-first century’s liquid lobotomies worked as well.
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