by Layton Green
The Ford was parked twenty feet from the entrance. Unlike the last time, a hardtop cover had been attached to the truck bed.
Grey wasn’t going to start a firefight in a crowded diner, but he also wasn’t going to let them stuff him in the back of a truck, shoot him, and dump him in the swamp.
Time seemed to both stop and accelerate. Grey knew he had one chance at this. His assailants were going to be most on guard for a struggle right before they put him in the truck. Unfortunately, that was Grey’s best play. There was too much open space right now. Take away the distance, and you take away the greatest advantage of a firearm.
Ten feet from the man by the tailgate. Grey had to draw everyone as close together as possible. He let his mind go clear and then sharpen, focused his adrenaline. Battles of life and death were best fought with ice in the veins, not fire.
Five feet.
Grey relaxed the tension in his muscles, allowing his captor to think he was fully in control. The taller man’s footsteps sounded on the pavement right behind them, steps away. The third man set down the lead pipe and grabbed a liquid-soaked rag off the tailgate.
They were going to gas him.
Two steps.
Grey’s captor wrenched his arm tighter. With his other hand, the man shoved the back of Grey’s head forward, towards the waiting rag. Just before his face hit the chloroform, Grey made his move.
With his left hand, which was hanging loose behind him, Grey reached back and squeezed the testicles of the man holding him. When the man reacted, Grey dipped his right shoulder forward to relieve pressure on the lock, at the same time jerking his head up as hard as he could, feeling a meaty thud when the back of his skull crunched into the softer bones of his assailant’s face.
The man screamed and released his hold. Grey was already moving, acting on instinct, knowing he had to inflict maximum damage before he got shot in the back.
The man in front of him swung his gun around. Instead of dodging, Grey leapt closer, into the swing. He caught the wrist holding the gun with one hand and brought his other forearm straight up, chopping underneath the extended elbow so hard the joint popped out. Scarecrow’s man shrieked and clutched his broken elbow.
A gunshot pinged off the side of the truck. Curses rang out.
Grey kept moving, yanking on the broken arm as he spun, using his screaming captive as a shield.
The taller man jabbed his gun at Grey from five feet away, looking for an opening, unsure whether he should shoot for fear of hitting his friend. The shorter man was still on the ground, clutching his bloodied face. A pair of dropped guns glinted off the pavement, too far away to be of use.
This had to end now. Grey reached back and grabbed the lead pipe off the tailgate, then threw it as hard as he could at the taller man. The man put his hands up to protect his face. The lead pipe cracked his forearms so hard he yelled and dropped the gun.
Grey was on him before he could pick it up again. A snap kick to the groin that lowered him, a rising elbow to raise him back up, and then a simultaneous throat chop and palm smack to the small of the back—the vulnerable Ming-men point—to drop the guy like he’d been clipped by a semi. The back of his head bounced off the pavement.
Grey dove, rolled, and picked up a gun. The other two were still out of commission. The Ford Lightning spun its tires and started to pull away. She doesn’t have a gun in the truck, Grey realized. Or I’d probably be dead.
The truck was still close. Grey ran forward and shot at the tires until one exploded, then shot out the back window of the hardtop. The Lightning veered into a parked car. Gray raced over, arriving just as the door flung open. The woman tried to dart away but Grey dragged her to the pavement by her braid.
She spit in his face and tried to draw a butterfly knife. He whipped his gun into her temple, knocking her cold.
A waitress poked her head out of the Waffle House. Customers pressed against the windows. “You okay, mister?”
“Call the cops,” Grey said, shivering with adrenaline. He rounded up the guns and stood watch over Scarecrow’s thugs until the sirens came. When the paramedics stripped off the ski masks, Grey recognized the man with the blond goatee as the taller assailant. The Hawaiian man was the shorter one.
Grey’s cell vibrated. It was Professor Radek.
“Are you all right?” Viktor asked, with a note of concern. “I just heard from Detective Boudreaux.”
Grey hadn’t given his name to the cops yet. “Wait—heard about what?”
“About Lynda Harringdon. You hadn’t called, and I was concerned.”
Grey stilled. “What happened to Lynda?”
“Forgive me, I assumed you knew. She’s dead.”
“So how’d it go down?” Grey asked, as soon as he arrived at the station and took his coffee to the conference room. Viktor and Detective Sergeant Boudreaux were waiting on him.
“They shot up her house something fierce,” the sergeant said. Dark crescents tugged on his eyes, and his shoulders hunched with tension. “Want to tell me why?”
“Same reason they came after me.” Grey sagged in the chair as he cradled his coffee. He was beyond exhausted. “I misjudged Lynda. She must have called Scarecrow as soon as I left. I guess she thought that was the best solution.”
“It appears to me,” Viktor said, “that Lynda badly misjudged you.”
The detective was looking at Grey with new respect. “Those were his top lieutenants we picked up at the Waffle House. A real blow. Pity about Lynda, though. I doubt we’ll get Scarecrow without her.”
“We might not need her,” Grey said, then set the USB drive on the table. “She made a video.”
The detective’s stern mouth broke into a grin. Viktor leaned towards the table. “What did she tell you? Was there a ritual?”
Mouth compressed, Grey looked at Viktor and nodded.
Viktor’s head swung slowly towards the USB stick. His dark eyes gleamed.
– 19 –
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” defense counsel Eleanor Trudeau began, “we all know that this trial is about one thing alone: whether Sebastian Gichaud was in full possession of his mental faculties on the night our city’s former district attorney tragically lost her life.”
Eleanor was a tall, bespectacled woman with an elegant southern accent. Her long hair was the color of polished pewter and gathered loosely in a bun.
“The prosecution has just offered their theory of the case,” she continued. “While it came as no surprise, there is a glaring weakness—an unanswered question—in their argument. The prosecution would have you believe, based on the testimony of its experts, that we are not dealing with mental illness. And yet, Mr. Trufant has offered no explanation for the defendant’s behavior—” Grey found it awkward that everyone kept discussing the diminished capacity of Sebastian Gichaud, who was sitting, silent but grinning, a dozen feet away, “—other than to claim that malingering is the only available option. Malingering? Day in and day out, without one slip, for an entire year?”
Eleanor walked over to stand in front of the jury. “You’re going to be shocked by what you see during the course of this trial. Prepare yourself. But over the course of the next few days, I’m going to tell you exactly why there is another, more valid, explanation for the behavior of Sebastian Gichaud. Better yet: I’m going to show you.”
Grey could tell the jury was intrigued.
Yet, after the excitement of the opening arguments, the momentum quickly shifted to the prosecution. As defense counsel had intimated, the prosecution’s case was straightforward and damning. No one disputed who had swung the scythe.
The prosecution’s case was bolstered by the testimony of Dr. Malik Neese, along with a court-appointed psychiatrist named Jessica Ross-Cappelli. Both physicians had already examined Sebastian pursuant to a ‘competency hearing,’ used to determine whether Sebastian was fit to stand trial. For the same reasons given to Viktor by Dr. Neese in their meeting, both medical profes
sionals testified for the jury that they could not in good faith conclude that Sebastian was suffering from dissociative identity disorder.
Eleanor strode to the podium to cross-examine Dr. Neese. The only bright spot was that, as she had with Dr. Ross-Cappelli, Sebastian’s attorney got Dr. Neese to admit that Sebastian’s ability to remain in character so convincingly, and for so long, was highly unusual.
Astonishing, even.
When Ms. Trudeau started down a different line of questioning, Grey wasn’t surprised; Viktor had given it to her. In fact, during the whirlwind of the previous two days, after Grey had procured the USB drive, Viktor had orchestrated the entire defense.
The professor sat beside Grey in the front row, next to Clayton Gichaud, watching the proceedings with folded arms and a reserved air.
Eleanor addressed Dr. Neese. “Could you please state for the record the definition of a psychosomatic disorder?”
“Objection,” Jarrod Trufant said. The case was too high profile to entrust to an assistant D.A. “Psychosomatic disorder? What’s the relevancy?”
Ms. Trudeau’s reply was sharp. “I’m establishing a basis for our defense.”
Judge Betsy Newman waved a hand. “I’ll allow it for now. But see that it relates.”
Ms. Trudeau repeated the question. Dr. Neese shrugged. “Psychosomatic disorders occur when a psychological disturbance manifests as a physical symptom or symptoms. A condition that involves both body and mind.”
“There is no dispute within the medical community, is there, that the mental state can affect the physical?”
“No.”
“Such as how stress can exacerbate or induce a condition?” Eleanor asked.
“Exactly.”
“Could you give us a few examples?”
“High blood pressure, stomach ulcers, migraines, impotence, dermatitis, and respiratory ailments are all known to be susceptible to tension or anxiety.”
“There are more serious examples, too, aren’t there?”
Dr. Neese pressed his lips together. “Yes.”
“Could you name a few?”
“Heart disease, diabetes, functional blindness. Probably even cancer.”
The jury stirred.
“Blindness. Heart disease. Cancer,” she repeated. “You’re familiar with the French psychologist Émile Coué?”
“Of course.”
“Correct me if I misstate, but I believe he developed a method of psychotherapy relying on the belief that the mind can affirmatively—or negatively—affect the body?”
“Yes. The bedrock of common psychosomatic theory.”
“But Coué went further, didn’t he?”
“That’s vague, Your Honor,” Jarrod said.
“Sustained.”
Ms. Trudeau seemed unaffected. “Didn’t Coué propose that, as long as the idea presented to the brain was within the realm of possibility, then it was achievable by the body?”
“Theoretically,” Dr. Neese said slowly.
“So, for instance, a person who is five feet tall would be unable to reach six feet of height. But someone who believes firmly enough that her skin condition is getting better, or perhaps even that her cancer has been cured—she could actually achieve this result?”
“Theoretically. As you said, Coué’s theories are further-reaching than what is commonly accepted.”
“Are they? Could you please provide the court a definition of spontaneous remission?”
After a pause, Dr. Neese said, “Spontaneous remission is a medical term for a patient who has a sudden and unexpected recovery from a disease.”
“And are there not documented, clinically accepted cases of spontaneous remission for a variety of severe conditions?”
“Yes.”
“Including, as you say, blindness and cancer?”
“There are a few extremely rare examples,” Dr. Neese said evenly.
“And we have no idea why it happens, do we?”
“The medical community does not yet understand the cause of spontaneous remission,” he said.
“Exactly,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard. “We do not understand. In fact, we don’t understand psychosomatic disorders at all, do we, doctor?”
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Overruled."
“For example, when one baby starts to cry in a room, do we understand why the others join in? Or even the curative effects of laughter?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Compound, speculative, and irrelevant.”
“I’ll retract and rephrase,” Eleanor said, after letting her gaze linger on the jury. “If something as simple as laughter can lower blood pressure to a measurable degree, is it not possible that, given far more life-altering triggers, the mind might be able to affect the body in extraordinary, unexplainable ways?”
“Of course it’s possible,” Dr. Neese said.
“Have you ever had a patient of your own afflicted by an extraordinary psychosomatic condition?”
“Objection! Extraordinary is a vague term.”
Ms. Trudeau lifted a finger. “Final question on this topic, Your Honor.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “You’ll have a chance to redirect, counselor.”
His expression stoic, Dr. Neese slowly nodded.
“Answer out loud, please,” the judge said.
“Yes.”
“More than one?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes.”
“Could you describe the most severe, doctor? Without names, of course.”
“I had a patient with a somatoform—a psychosomatic—disorder wherein he was convinced that he had MS. His deceased father had suffered from the disease, and despite a battery of negative MS tests that confirmed his neurological pathways were intact, the patient’s body continued to deteriorate in the exact manner as an MS sufferer.”
“How long did this go on?”
“For three years,” Dr. Neese said. Grey saw numerous sets of eyebrows lifting in the jury box. “He came to me in a wheelchair.”
“What happened to this patient?”
“I told him he had a psychosomatic disorder, and prescribed intensive physiotherapy and occupational therapy.”
“And?”
“He didn’t believe me at first, and kept deteriorating. When he finally took my advice, he made a full recovery.”
The jury seemed to take a collective breath. Jarrod Trufant stared straight ahead.
“What did you make of this result?” Eleanor asked.
“What I made of it was that the central nervous system is a highly complex and very poorly understood organ.”
“I have no further questions for Dr. Neese, Your Honor.”
After the attorneys finished questioning the two doctors, the prosecution presented a series of firsthand witnesses to the murder. Their descriptions of the brutal crime scene sent shocked murmurs through the courtroom.
Through it all, Sebastian maintained his unnerving grin, as if he possessed some secret knowledge that would win the day no matter what the court decided. Sometimes he would cast his intense gaze on the judge for a prolonged period of time, sometimes at the attorneys or the jury, and occasionally at Grey and Viktor.
At the end of day two, the prosecution rested.
The next morning, the defense began its case.
Ms. Trudeau put Elaine, Sebastian’s father, and a few more character witnesses on the stand, with the goal of establishing Sebastian’s pacifist nature. Grey could tell the jury was moved, but the prosecution countered with the argument that plenty of first-time offenders had displayed no previous violent tendencies.
Defense counsel then painted a new picture of Sebastian Gichaud—that of an easily swayed and sensitive young man who, devastated by the suicide of his mother, had overturned every stone on his path to discover what had happened to her soul, her essence, after she died. A young man who was searching for something, anything to dull the pain. A young man who stumbled on a
group of people who shared his obsession with death. A young man who, like the fellow members of his cult, came under the spell of a manipulative sociopath named John Samuelson.
In the front row of the courtroom, Clayton Gichaud heaved with silent sobs.
It was persuasive evidence, but Sebastian’s crime was a terrible one, and the burden for a mental incompetency defense was high. As the prosecution had hammered home, without a viable alternate theory it would be extremely difficult for a jury to contradict the findings of the two psychiatrists.
On the fifth and final day of trial, after Jarrod Trufant had settled into his chair with self-assured swagger, Eleanor played videos of Sebastian’s behavior before and after the murder, along with footage of John Samuelson. The jury looked on with raised eyebrows, but from body language alone, Grey could see they still thought Sebastian was malingering.
“Your Honor,” Eleanor said, “the defense calls Professor of Religious Phenomenology Viktor Radek to the stand.”
At the mention of Viktor’s title, a ripple of surprise passed through the courtroom. The judge called for quiet, but the commotion didn’t cease until Viktor rose commandingly from the front row and strode to the stand.
Jarrod Trufant looked on with mild interest. He’d known Viktor would be called, though he had never seen him on the stand. Grey had.
Jarrod Trufant, Grey thought, had better pay attention.
“Professor Radek,” Ms. Trudeau said, “can you please describe your role in this matter?”
“I was hired by Clayton Gichaud to investigate why his son has adopted the persona of John Cowell Samuelson.”
“Isn’t this a strange request for a distinguished professor? Have you worked as an investigator before?”
“For the last thirty-five years. In the beginning, I supplemented my teaching duties with my investigative work, but in the last fifteen years I have supplemented my cases with my teaching.”
