Twisted

by Andrew E. Kaufman

  “I know, but it does seem awfully coincidental.”

  Adam shrugs. “I’d leave it at that.”

  “But what if it’s not a coincidence? What if Ammon knew something? Or maybe Philips didn’t actually kill herself.”

  He grins, and I catch that twinkle in his eyes I know so well.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We’re docs, remember?”

  “I know what we are,” I say a little too defensively.

  “We’re not detectives.”

  I nod at his tie.

  He looks down at it, then back at me.

  “You’re wearing Scooby-Doo on your chest,” I say. “Doc.”

  “Hey.” Adam straightens his tie. “Don’t go hating on Scooby, okay?”

  “Yesterday it was George Jetson.”

  “Don’t mess with my man George, either. Guy’s an American icon. His feet never touched earth. Like to see you do that.” He protectively rearranges the rubberized Gumby, Pokey, and Prickle figurines on his desk.

  I’m positive there’s some sort of neurosis at play.

  Adam takes a sharp poke at the air. “And don’t go analyzing me, either.”

  “Doctor and mind reader, no less.” I grin. “Impressive.”

  “Can we get back to Donny Ray?”

  “Okay . . . Okay. Back to Donny Ray. So what do you think?”

  “Well . . .” He runs a finger across his chin a few times. “The note from Ammon does seem to indicate a concern of some kind.”

  “The question is, what?”

  “Could be something less sinister than what you have in mind. He thought the patient was malingering, right? Maybe it was just a warning to be on the lookout for that.”

  “Or maybe it was something more.”

  “Well, I don’t know what he meant, but from one neurologist to another? I’m with Ammon. I think Donny Ray Smith is trying to sell us a bill of goods.”

  “Your reasoning?”

  He shrugs. “Tests don’t lie, and I’ve seen this scenario play out more times than I can count. From a purely medical standpoint, I can’t believe the defense is trying to use a minor head injury from childhood to explain ten dissociative episodes.”

  “Just the last one,” I remind him.

  “Right now, but trust me, that will become the precedent once those other charges start rolling in.”

  I nod. He’s right.

  “From where I stand, his legal team is just blowing smoke up everyone’s ass. What we have here are lots of moving parts and plenty of missing pieces. It’s quack science. Nothing adds up. I just can’t see this any other way.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Your turn now,” Adam says, not affording me the luxury of silence.

  “I’m thinking.”

  He motions with a hand. “Care to externalize?”

  “I’m not saying I think he’s innocent.”

  “But?”

  “But my mind keeps seesawing.”

  “Between what and what?”

  “Stages of indecision? I’m just not sure what we have here.”

  “You think he might be telling the truth.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not willing to take that leap yet. But something’s missing here.” I tell him about Dr. Philips’ mention of an unidentified psychological issue and the conflicting test results.

  “Well?” he says. “Do you think she was on to something?”

  “Not sure. I mean on one hand, having her license suspended, and then committing suicide, definitely compromises her credibility.”

  “But on the other?”

  “It doesn’t mean she didn’t have the skill to see things as they were.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “I need to finish what Philips couldn’t. Dig into Donny Ray’s childhood and confirm whether this psychological issue she mentioned actually exists.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll do my medical thing, and you do your clinical stuff. We’re good at that. But we don’t have much time, so you’d better get busy fast.”

  I glance at my watch. “How’s five minutes from now sound? That’s when our first session starts.”

  11

  I reach the consulting room in a wing that connects to Alpha Twelve. Evan McKinley stands at the door. He greets me, and I peer inside. Donny Ray is seated and waiting at the table, wrists and ankles under restraint, body slumped forward, elbows jammed into his sides.

  Holding the floor firm under his gaze.

  I enter, then keep silent and still, not only to prevent my presence from feeding his apparent distress, but also as an opportunity to more closely scrutinize and process his overall presentation. The perspiration that soaks his collar. The disheveled hair. It’s safe to surmise that Donny Ray had a rough night. I can also deduce through these physical cues that he’s trying to make his body appear as small as possible, which would seem to indicate fear. But not just any fear—it’s powerful. So close to his skin I can almost smell it hanging on the air.

  I take a few steps forward, and Donny Ray shoots his head up to look at me, then just as fast, he lowers it.

  Whether those actions were reflexive or for my benefit, I don’t yet know. With a patient suspected of killing ten kids, anything can be possible. I move closer toward him, and he again acknowledges my presence—albeit only by pulling his feet in beneath the chair and latching them around the legs. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’m already aware that getting him to warm up could take some time.

  “It’s okay, Donny Ray,” I say, voice quiet yet assertive.

  The corded tendons in his neck loosen and smooth. By no means is the response anything earth-shattering—however, if genuine, it’s perhaps a small opening. A start to the process of gaining trust.

  “But I can’t help you,” I continue, “unless you give me your attention.”

  Donny Ray slowly lifts his head again, vision still aimed at the floor.

  “We’re just going to talk today,” I say, taking my seat across from him. “I’ll ask some questions, and you can answer them to the best of your ability. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  He nods but still won’t look at me.

  “Donny Ray.” I raise my voice. “Your attention, please?”

  He at last shows me his face. Despite all attempts to keep my emotions steady, his blue gaze rattles me.

  This is driving me crazy. Where have I seen those eyes?

  “Before we start, I was just wondering. Have you heard anything from your attorney lately?”

  He lifts one shoulder, shakes his head.

  I pause to deliberate on Donny Ray’s indifference. His attorney disappeared a week ago. Has nobody told him, or is he just stonewalling me?

  “Let’s start off by backtracking a bit. Are you able to recall memories from your past at this time?”

  Donny Ray offers no answer.

  I allow the silence to linger.

  “Backtracking . . . ,” he finally says. His thick southern drawl carries a new rasp that sounds like tension or exhaustion or maybe both.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Like for instance, when you were younger. How did things go in school?”

  A listless shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Okay, as in . . .”

  “Nothing great.”

  “Did you get along all right with other kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So then what did you mean by nothing great?”

  “Just that I never fit in real good.”

  “How about your friendships during that period? What were those like?”

  His expression appears a little vacant, but I’m not sure why, so I press. “Did you have friends?”

  “No, sir, no
t really,” he replies.

  “Not really, meaning, not many or not any?”

  He pulls his knees together, shifts his attention off to one side.

  “Donny Ray?” I probe.

  Then, through a weak sigh of surrender, “No, sir. I didn’t have any friends.”

  The only expression he’ll find on my face is empathy. I want to avoid any physical cues that could indicate I’m passing judgment.

  “You know, as a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends myself,” I say, “because my dad was sick, and I spent most of the time taking care of him. It was awful. Lonely. I can’t imagine how you must have felt not having any friends at all.”

  Donny Ray levels his gaze on me as if trying to verify the authenticity of my story. Then, for the first time since we’ve met, his legs move out from under the chair. His shoulders fall ever so slightly. Like he’s releasing some of the tension—perhaps fear even—that he’s been clinging to for days.

  An inlet. A start.

  “What about pets? They can be a lot better company than most people.” I smile at him.

  He fights back a smile of his own.

  “Did you have any?”

  He shakes his head rather adamantly. “No, sir. We didn’t.”

  “How come?”

  “Because of my dad.” Donny Ray lifts his hands a few inches from his lap, almost as if unsure where they should go. Discomfort, and I’m curious what’s causing it. “My dad always said that animals weren’t worth anything unless they were used for work.”

  “And did you feel the same way?”

  Donny Ray nods.

  I ask if he can explain.

  “Guess I never really thought about it. Maybe since we didn’t have any animals, it was hard to know what I was missing?”

  I find his response curious. He refrains from saying pets, instead referring to them as animals. This, of course, could merely be a product of his rural upbringing. But what has my interest more is not just his answer, but rather what rode just beneath it. A note of detachment that, along with his social history, may give my previous questions about him new context: no friends, no affection for animals. No relationships, period. This is a common building block for a lack of compassion and love, a tenet in the development of a psychopathic mind. Am I sitting across from a man who grew up isolated and lonely, or is he simply modeling the effects of what those circumstances should look and sound like?

  Hoping to at least find the start of an answer, I go a little deeper. “It sounds like you didn’t have a lot of allies in this world as a kid, Donny Ray.”

  He looks down again, says nothing.

  “How did that make you feel? Having nobody you could turn to.”

  “Alone.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Really alone. You know?”

  And I do know, more than he realizes.

  I push the feeling aside, smile sadly, and nod. But I’m also watching him carefully. Checking his demeanor. Trying to see through his outer layer. Yet, hard as I attempt to find even a shred of disingenuousness, I cannot. Donny Ray radiates vulnerable innocence. Then I think about all the people in his life—past and present—who seem to have mysteriously disappeared. My wrinkles of doubt. Adam’s comments about Donny Ray’s immaterial head injury. All of these troubling undertones run counterintuitive to the candor I’ve just witnessed here.

  I’m stuck.

  I look at my watch and realize that our session is drawing to a close. Evan waits at the door, ready to escort Donny Ray out.

  “We have to stop for now,” I say, giving Evan a nod. “We’ll continue this in a—”

  “Okay,” Donny Ray interrupts softly, then with a polite smile says, “Have a safe night, Christopher.”

  An eerie sensation wriggles down my back.

  12

  I head toward the hospital parking lot and realize the weather forecaster wasn’t exactly wrong—just a day late. Those swirling clouds outside my window were indeed the first clue of an approaching storm, and now the moist air and hint of drizzle offer more tangible evidence.

  Five miles up the road, the proof manifests in a thick curtain of downpour that drops on me suddenly, boosted by a powerful, ramping wind that kicks up loose gravel into my windshield. The horizon is dense and inky, trees bending to the threat of a vengeful gale. As I drive on, the storm gathers intensity, making my tires wayward and slippery.

  Have a safe night, Christopher.

  I can’t seem to let Donny Ray’s parting comment go. On its face, the statement would seem innocuous, and his manner appeared innocent enough. But there was something else enmeshed within his words. A tone that seemed to resonate with both insight and ambiguity. Almost like a warning.

  Or was it?

  I scrutinize my reaction. Am I exaggerating? Would I be so unsettled if another patient had made the same comment?

  Do I really think he was threatening me?

  Another strong wind forces the car into a shake, jangling my nerves and blowing the thought away. I fight for control of the wheel, but it does more harm than good. My tires hydroplane along flooded pavement with building velocity. Water blankets the windshield, creating instant road blindness that makes it nearly impossible to steer forward safely.

  Out of instinct, I slam the brake pedal, but the engine grinds out an angry complaint, and my car jerks sharply to the right. My head rams into the side window, and for a few seconds I see stars. When they fade, I find myself midway into a dangerous skid.

  Again, I struggle for control. About fifteen heart-stopping feet later, I manage to gain an upper hand as the wheels find traction, at last allowing me to slow. Just as my respiration starts to even out, reality settles, telling me I’ve just escaped what could have been a nasty smack-up.

  My relief is short-lived. Several feet ahead, a rubber kickball rolls directly into my path, a teenaged boy in a red hoodie chasing after it.

  Oh shit, oh shit . . . OH SHIT!

  I yank the wheel to the left, trying to avoid the kid, but the wheel seems to have other ideas—it resists the effort and jerks out of my hands.

  The boy freezes in my headlights, body rigid, eyes rounded by terror. My stomach roils, my pulse pounds, and I slam my foot against the brake pedal, but wet asphalt instantly counters the action, forcing the car into a screeching skid, propelling me even faster toward him. As a last-ditch effort, I wrench the wheel into a half turn that sends my car charging off the road. But now I’m hurtling toward a giant and unforgiving oak tree. I missed the kid but may end up paying for it with my own life.

  I try to veer toward safety, but wet, slippery ground greases the wheels, fast-pitching my car right at the tree. I can’t get my breath. A speeding pulse hammers through my ears.

  It’s over. Done.

  A flash of light explodes with blinding fury, and the last thing I hear is glass shattering.

  The last thing I see, a pair of eyes staring directly into mine.

  Eyes so sharp, so evil, they could have claws and teeth. Eyes burning like the blaze of a hundred suns, waves of heat shooting out of them. Just below the eyes hangs a poisonous smile—I can’t see it, but I don’t have to. I can feel it.

  Christopher, wake up. Can you wake up?

  I have to wake up . . . Something’s telling me I have to wake up.

  My body jolts.

  I’m gulping air down a throat that feels thick as rope and coated with wax. My vision is soupy, my eyelids heavy. Everything is tilted, and I don’t know where I am. I’m not even sure whether I’m actually alive.

  I see light.

  My filmy haze clears enough to reveal the dashboard in front of me.

  I’m in my car.

  Then my mind kicks into gear.

  The tree. I hit the tree.

  I raise my head and peer out through the unbroken windshield.<
br />
  No . . . no . . . that can’t be.

  My mind fumbles for purchase as my gaze travels to the tree, then reality pitches me a wicked curveball, revealing exactly how close I came to losing my life—about seven feet, to be exact, the distance from where my car has stopped before a steep bank that drops into one of the deepest parts of Anderson Lake. The fear of God sweeps through me, because if this tree hadn’t done me in, the lake surely would have.

  So, to what do I owe this miracle?

  I open the door, stick my head out, and find the miracle itself staring up at me.

  Saved by the ditch.

  A look at the dashboard clock tells me I only lost consciousness for less than a minute. Then my memory comes out of hiding, and panic steams through me.

  The boy.

  I strong-arm the door open and leap from my car. Running alongside the road’s shoulder, I search for him, but the terrain beneath my feet betrays me, becoming unbalanced and thick. My effort proves futile anyway because the boy is nowhere in sight.

  What the . . . ?

  Confusion sends me racing across the road and looking for the rubber ball, but it’s not there, either.

  I’m positive I saw both.

  There’s a park about a hundred feet off to my right. Maybe the kid came from there? Then common sense throws me a dummy-slap.

  A boy. Playing with a ball. In the middle of a storm?

  Wait, what storm?

  I look up. The sky couldn’t be clearer, covered only with a blanket of stars. My gaze drops to the asphalt, and I’m even more bewildered: dry as sandpaper.

  How does that happen? Rapid evaporation?

  Before I can ponder the laws of physics, pain knifes at my skull, followed by a dull throbbing ache behind my ears. I touch my forehead, inspect my fingers: blood.

  Injured.

  That’s not good.

  I stagger back toward the car, but about halfway there, it’s clear the rest of my body isn’t catching up with the plan. My equilibrium falters, and the earth turns to rubber. I stumble, then lean forward, and with hands rested on knees, try to find my balance.

  Inside my car, the rearview mirror reveals the damage: a nasty gash just above my left brow, complemented by an unforgiving lump near the right temple. I remember smacking into the side window. I must have hit the steering wheel after my impromptu landing in the ditch.