“And our audiologist used an audiometer, brain stem evoked potentials, and quantitative EEG brain mapping to test him. He has incredible hearing.”
“So what’re you saying?” Adrian asks.
“I’m saying that Conrad’s a perfect storm of extraordinary physical and mental abilities. From an evolutionary standpoint, he has many atavistic animal traits mixed with the highest human mental attainments.
“You see,” Grayson continues, moving to the Darwinian drawing of man’s rise from the ape. “In human evolution, from lower creatures to Homo sapiens, we lost certain abilities. Our sharp eyesight, the ability to smell and to hear at great distances, our capacity to run fast and leap high—they were watered down over millions of years as our brains became more highly developed. But Conrad retains these physical traits, which are integrated with the higher mental capacities of humans. Conrad almost straddles the evolutionary scale. He’s a Darwinian exception of some kind.”
Megan’s face is drawn; Adrian sees fear etched on her features.
“Something dawns on me,” Adrian says. “That night he tracked me, he kept coming. I wonder if he could hear me, maybe even smell me.”
“I suspect it was his hearing.”
“You know … when I was hiding in the cemetery, a sudden wind blew in; maybe that’s why I surprised him. He couldn’t hear me.”
“I find this all very scary,” Megan says. Adrian squeezes her hand. It feels cold yet sweaty.
Grayson adds, “Another thing: he’s been reading like crazy, all kinds of things—medicine, law, psychiatry, you name it. He’s gone through half our library.”
Megan glances at Adrian. He knows she’s worried about Conrad contacting Kovac.
“And he’s becoming religious. I don’t mean in an apocalyptic way like some of our schizophrenics who hear God talking to them. He’s been seeing a pastor from Bridgeport, a guy who works with inmates, Pastor Wilhelm. It seems like a sincere interest, but with someone as manipulative as Wilson, we take nothing about him at face value. He’s a complex man, but a very delusional one. And his sickness is deeply entrenched.”
“You mean he won’t stop being paranoid … deluded?” Megan asks.
“Exactly,” Grayson says with a nod. “I will say, though, that Conrad’s delusion is unique. Most of our inmates are globally deluded about lots of things—the government, the CIA, the Mossad—in that sense, Dr. Sheffield was pretty much on target at the trial. But Conrad’s delusion orbits around you two and your daughter. As Dr. DuPont—who, by the way, is his primary therapist—said at the trial, Conrad has a monomania for you two.”
“So,” Adrian says, “we’re at the center of his delusional universe, aren’t we?”
“Exactly. He’s created this crazy cosmos.” Grayson looks contemplative and adds, “There’s one thing that’s a bit odd about his delusion, though.”
“What is it?” asks Megan.
“Well, in my experience, every delusion forms around some slight kernel of truth. The deluded patient recruits some small grain of truth and builds an elaborate delusional system around it. I can’t find Conrad’s kernel of truth. And Conrad’s distortion starts with his daughter, Marlee.”
“Yes?” Megan says, visibly trembling.
“He’s convinced she’s your child—the two of you.”
“Well, as you said, a delusion is a false belief,” Megan says in a quivering voice.
“Of course it’s false,” Grayson says. “Yet it keeps coming back to that amazing sense of smell of his. Adrian, do you remember when he said he could smell that Marlee’s not his? And he could smell her on you that night at the bar?”
Adrian’s pulse thuds in his throat. He nods his head and feels like choking.
“That statement probably tipped the scales for an NGRI verdict. But there’s an interesting element to all this.”
“What’s that?” Adrian asks, as something gnaws in his guts.
“It’s Conrad’s sense of smell. Olfaction develops in the fore-brain. It’s an early mammalian development. I’m sure you know that dogs sniff each other as a way of greeting. Smell is used for sexuality and survival in most species—but not really in humans.
“In animals, it’s particularly important with offspring. You’ve probably seen nature films on Animal Planet, where a calf gets lost but its mother finds it. They know their own offspring by its smell. We’ve lost that primitive capacity.” Grayson pauses and shakes his head. “But Conrad insists his sense of smell tells him Marlee’s yours,” Grayson says, looking at Adrian.
Adrian feels his guts squirm. “He smells that I’m Marlee’s father?”
“That’s part of his madness,” says Grayson.
Adrian’s thoughts eddy. Conrad’s right. But he’s still crazy … with a great sense of smell.
“Dr. Grayson,” Megan says in a trembling voice, “did I somehow kick Conrad over the edge?”
“No, he was always jealous and insecure. Maybe when the baby was born, it became the core element of his delusion. As Dr. DuPont testified, deep down Conrad doesn’t feel he’s manly enough to have fathered a child. So in his mind, you must have had an affair.”
“Conrad never told me about his adoptive father,” Megan says.
“Well, his early life set the stage. And part of what kicked him over the edge was the trouble conceiving the baby. I’ve tried convincing him to have DNA testing to prove that she’s his daughter.”
Adrian’s stomach lurches as a pang of tension shoots through him.
“But he refuses. Conrad can’t entertain the possibility of the truth contradicting what he believes it to be. He selectively ignores anything that might disprove his belief.”
Adrian casts a quick glance at Megan.
“You see, a delusional person recruits whatever he can to support the delusion. For Conrad, the DNA testing would all be a massive conspiracy.”
“So, the delusion itself prevents Conrad from reaching the truth?” Megan says.
“Yes. The delusion perpetuates itself. That’s why Conrad’ll be here for a very long time.”
Relief percolates through Adrian. DNA testing is on the back burner—at least for the foreseeable future.
They fall silent. Afternoon sun filters through the window.
“Is there anything else you want to ask me?” Grayson says.
Adrian looks at Megan.
She shakes her head.
“Let me assure you, the delusion is a permanent fixture in Conrad’s mental landscape. Some of our insanity acquittees seem to make some changes, but it’s a sham to get out of Whitehall.”
“Is it possible he’ll get out?” Megan asks.
“Megan, a delusion is a delusion is a delusion.”
“But if it improves, if he gives it up?” Adrian asks.
“Conrad will have to convince the PSRB. And while I always push very hard for mental health, I don’t think we can drive people sane.”
“Well put,” Adrian says with a laugh. He feels his muscles uncoiling.
“I’m very aware of what lurks in the dark corners of Conrad’s mind … the animal within. But science will outwit instinct. And I have science on my side.”
Late-afternoon sunlight casts slats of golden light onto the Neanderthal skull. Dust particles swirl in the luminescence.
“Conrad will have to get past me and the PSRB.”
Adrian and Megan get up. It’s getting late and they’ll be stopping at a cozy French bistro in Fairfield, where Adrian’s made reservations.
Grayson moves from behind the desk and walks them to the office door. He shakes their hands and smiles reassuringly. “I hope you’re both a little more at ease,” he says, opening the door. “You can both go on with your lives. And Marlee can, too.”
Part IV
Thirty-Five
Grayson glances around the conference table. The entire PSRB is present—doctors, nurses, aides—everyone who’s had significant contact with Conrad Wilson. Pads, pens, lapt
ops, coffee mugs, and cell phones are scattered about. Nicole DuPont, sitting at the other end of the table, peers at him in that intense way of hers; Grayson feels his pulse quicken. He senses an air of dissension and feels an impending adversarial discussion is about to occur. His skin prickles.
“Okay, let’s talk about Conrad Wilson,” Grayson says. “He’s asking for a weekend pass with Pastor Wilhelm and his wife. They’re willing to assume weekend guardianship.”
“Conrad’s been here for eighteen months,” says Nicole DuPont, making eye contact with each panel member; she then fixes her gaze on Grayson. He thinks he detects the beginnings of a smirk on her face. “As his primary therapist, I meet with him twice a week, and it’s hard to believe he’s an inmate. He’s made remarkable progress.”
“But, Nicole,” says Grayson, feeling his armpits dampen, “we’ve never had any inmate eligible for a pass before three years.”
“Yes,” says Dr. Scott Williams, a psychiatrist with a reddish beard. “This is unprecedented.”
“Eighteen months?” says Albert Channing, an older psychiatrist with a shock of white hair. “Most of these guys are lifers who’re in cold storage.”
“But we’ve never had anyone like Conrad,” Nicole says, her eyes widening. “He’s not schizophrenic or retarded or brain damaged. He’s not bipolar or psychotic in any global way. He had a very well-defined delusion—one limited to three people—and that’s dissipated completely.”
“Have you challenged him about it?” Grayson asks. His pulse kicks up a notch.
“Yes, I have,” Nicole says with an emphatic nod. “His delusion has been eradicated. When I ask about Marlee being Adrian Douglas’s child, he laughs. I feel ridiculous for even asking about it.”
“You think he’s telling the truth?” Grayson hopes he doesn’t convey the incredulity seeping through him like an oil slick.
“What constitutes truth?” Nicole asks, her eyes widening again mirthfully. “I don’t know if there’s any absolute truth in the world.”
“We’re not looking for absolutes,” Grayson says, keeping his tone neutral. He knows Nicole’s über-opinionated and quite proprietary about her patients; she dislikes being challenged about them. Watch yourself. Don’t get into a pissing match, he tells himself. “But, Nicole, we’ve seen inmates make sudden conversions to sanity. Is Wilson just parroting what he thinks you want to hear? Is he trying to manipulate us?”
“I see no evidence of that, John. And believe me, I’ve probed repeatedly. But I think we should hear from Jim, who’s tested Conrad extensively.”
“I agree with Nicole,” says James Morgan, the neuropsychologist. “Wilson’s a completely different man from the one I evaluated before the trial. There’s no evidence of psychosis, and we see no marker suggesting deception.”
“I’m skeptical,” says Scott Williams. “A deeply ingrained delusion doesn’t evaporate into thin air.”
“I appreciate that, Scott,” Nicole says as her lips form a brittle smile. “But Jim’s testing confirms it—there’s no psychosis. The medication, the therapy—individual and group—and Conrad’s meetings with Reverend Wilhelm have been vital. The pastor’s become something of a father figure to him … a good father.”
“That doesn’t impress me,” says Williams. “There’s plenty of religious fervor on the ward, all of it psychotic.”
Nicole shakes her head. “But more than that, Scott,” she says, “Conrad’s focused on his future. He wants to go back to Colorado to start a lay ministry, thanks to the pastor. He doesn’t want to stay here, so I see no risk to Dr. Douglas, Ms. Haggarty, or the child. And they were the sole objects of his delusion. I truly believe his sanity’s been restored.”
“I agree,” says Morgan. The psychologist’s sallow look—a sixty-watt tan—reminds Grayson of patients in terminal toxicity, in liver failure. “I’ve given Wilson the MMPI-2, and Wilson places in the normative population.”
“Normative?” Grayson asks. “What’s normal, anyway?”
There’s laughter around the table. Nicole frowns and shoots him an aggrieved look.
“The MMPI is the most revealing test ever devised,” Morgan says. “And Wilson shows no signs of paranoia.”
“C’mon, Jim,” says Channing. “The MMPI’s been around since the thirties. It’s older than I am, for Christ’s sake. And it can be faked.”
“Oh, really?” Morgan asks, his face reddening. “If you’d kept up with developments, Albert, you’d know the test was revised to near perfection. Plenty of new questions were added, and new validity scales are now included.”
“Still, a savvy test taker can fake it,” Channing says.
“The test can’t be faked now,” says Morgan. “There are five hundred and sixty-seven questions along with different scales. Scale Four measures for psychopathic deviation, and Scale Six tests for paranoia. It’s very accurate. There’s no way a delusional individual can keep his paranoia from showing. It’s like asking a starving lion not to tear into raw meat.”
“Still, Jim, it’s self-reporting,” Channing says. “You can’t control the results.”
“You’re trying to undermine the test results, Albert,” Nicole replies, staring icily at Channing. “Do you have a bias against Conrad?”
“No, but—”
“Let me set you straight, Albert,” Morgan interjects. Grayson feels the table shaking; Morgan is being confronted about the sacredness of the MMPI, and it’s driving him up a wall.
“There are time-tested validity scales. The L Scale detects attempts at faking and lying. It can determine if the test taker contradicts himself at any point during the test.”
“A brilliant guy like Wilson can fake it,” Grayson says.
“Rest assured, John—and you too, Albert—nobody can remember a response from three hundred questions earlier; it’s impossible. The questions pick up even the most subtle contradictions. And the VRIN scale—the Variable Response Inconsistency Scale—cross-checks the L Scale. It fine-tunes the detection of any inconsistencies.”
“C’mon, Jim, don’t you recall Wilson’s memory?” Grayson asks.
“Of course I remember his abilities, John,” says Morgan.
“Wilson’s memory is almost savantlike,” Grayson says. “You yourself marveled at how he memorized thirty random words in sixty seconds. I’ll bet Wilson remembers every question with that photographic memory. And with all the reading he’s done, he knows plenty about the MMPI.”
“That wouldn’t help, John. The test is exquisitely sensitive to manipulation.”
“I wish I had your confidence in it, Jim.”
“John, you are being adversarial,” Nicole says.
“No, he’s not, Nicole,” says Channing. “He’s just being circumspect.”
“What does Pastor Wilhelm say?” asks Nicole.
“I’m a bit leery of the pastor,” says Williams. “He sees the good in everyone.”
“I think he’s a very thoughtful man,” Nicole says, her eyes boring into Williams. “Do you question the pastor’s judgment?”
“I’m just not sure he’s objective anymore. Remember, Nicole, as a man of the cloth, the pastor’s focused on redemption … the triumph of good over evil.”
“So you are questioning his judgment,” Nicole says with a nascent smirk.
“Maybe … when it comes to his assessment of Wilson,” Williams adds.
“Just what’s so threatening about Conrad’s request?” Nicole asks. “And, John, I don’t think you’ve explained your reservations about him.”
Her stare penetrates Grayson, conveying an invitation and a challenge. He tries not to let it irritate him, so he changes position, pivots, sits sideways, and crosses his legs. But he feels tension grip him. His toes curl as his eyes lock on to Nicole’s gaze. He feels his jaw muscles twitch, and a vague stirring starts in his groin. He suddenly recalls what happened three years earlier.
My God … the incident.
Nicole had just begun a
t Whitehall after a brilliant stint with the ACLU. She had potential for forensic work: she was smart, articulate, an experienced attorney, and a psychiatrist. She came alone to Grayson’s office to insist that some petty ward regulation be rescinded, and they argued vehemently—he can’t even recall the issue. Grayson refused to change the rule and Nicole got progressively annoyed.
When the meeting ended, they got up and walked to the door. As Nicole passed close to him, nettled and bristling with righteous indignation, he inhaled the exquisite scent of her hair and skin. It might have been soap or body lotion—he couldn’t be certain. It was so sweet, so clean-smelling, and at the same time, so alluring that a swell of desire rose in him. It was so powerful, he felt his blood rush and he grew light-headed as his groin tingled. In a moment of sheer insanity, the intensity of her sensuality and of his own need nearly overcame him. He almost reached for her—wanted desperately to touch her—and he imagined the wetness of her mouth, the aroma and feel of her skin. At that fleeting instant at his office door, he was appalled by his own venality, by his willingness—without plan or intent—to quickly accede to this appetite and be driven by a raw draft of desire.
Despite the tide of lust coursing through him, he held himself in check, and suddenly Nicole turned to him. Her look—a knowing one—told him she knew exactly what he’d felt in that moment of erotic overdrive. Had he imagined her stifling a knowing snigger of superiority?
Grayson thinks of it as the incident—and it dangles in his memory like a pointed dagger. He feels it could have been a ruinous moral lapse, jeopardizing his marriage, career, and reputation. Grayson’s certain that single moment three years ago curdled his relationship with Nicole. When she’s around—especially at board meetings—he feels the strain of her challenge. That’s what it was that day, a contest of wills. He feels embers of smoldering tension, intellectual and sexual. In Nicole’s presence, he feels a nervous charge—as though there’s electricity in the air. He’s terribly aware of her manner of walking, the swaying of her hips, the tilt of her head, the nape of her neck, and above all, her smell. She emits an essence he finds intoxicating. Whenever she passes near him, he inhales deeply, and a blood wash of desire fills him.
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