Some months later, Conrad said, “Maybe I could form a Bible study group here on the ward.”
“That would be wonderful, Conrad.”
Conrad soon formed a group with three other inmates.
“I can feel you growing as a person, Conrad,” Wilhelm said a while later. He found himself anticipating each meeting with Conrad and knew he was witnessing the redemption of Conrad’s God-given soul.
“I’m thankful for your guidance,” Conrad said. “With you and the Bible to guide me, I feel an inner calm, maybe even peace.”
“There’s far more goodness residing in you than you realize, Conrad. I know that in time you can live a life free of anger at the wrongs done to you.”
“If I ever get out of here, Pastor, I’d like to start a lay ministry.”
“That would be wonderful. Dr. DuPont says you’re making excellent progress. And I do think God will lead you out,” he said, with deep feeling. “Conrad, over these months, I’ve come to view you as I would a son.”
“I think everything happens for a reason, Pastor; you’re helping me see that.”
Now, on Conrad’s fifth weekend pass, the pastor pulls into a parking space. “This is our first trip away from the house or church,” the pastor says.
“We could’ve gone to the Trumbull mall. It’s much closer.”
“That’s all right, Conrad. Those hiking boots look pretty worn out. How much do you run on the treadmill?”
“An hour every day.”
“Well, it’s time for a new pair.”
They get out of the car. Conrad wears cargo pants and a blue work shirt. The pastor wears a light-gray suit and a gray clergy shirt with a white tab collar. They tramp down the oil-stained ramp to the garage exit. “Afterward, we can go to Ruby Tuesday,” the pastor says, realizing his stomach is growling. “I told the monitoring company we’d be here until two, so we have plenty of time.”
Eastern Mountain Sports brims with a dizzying display of camping, hiking, kayaking, and mountain-climbing equipment.
Conrad tries on a pair of Salomon GTX hikers. “I don’t know,” he says. “They cost a hundred and forty-five dollars.”
“They’ll last a lifetime.”
“But the expense, Pastor …”
“Don’t worry. It’s been donated by the congregation.” Wilhelm peers at Conrad’s left foot. “Does the boot leave enough room for the ankle bracelet?”
“Yeah.”
“That thing makes me feel like I’m part of the corrections system,” Wilhelm says, shaking his head.
“Ah, forget it, Pastor. You and Martha have given me a new life.”
“We believe in you,” Wilhelm says, breaking into a smile. “We’re sure you’ll be out of Whitehall before long.”
“I’m grateful for your faith in me, Pastor.”
“Those boots look like a perfect fit. How do they feel?”
“They’re fine.”
“You know that Dr. Grayson will want to examine them before you go back to the ward, and your backpack, too.”
“Dr. Grayson always goes through my backpack. If I bought a box of trail mix, he’d sift through every nut and raisin.”
The pastor chortles. “I don’t think Dr. Grayson appreciates the progress you’ve made. I know Dr. DuPont does.”
“She’s a tough taskmaster.”
“True, but she’s your strongest ally. Without her, you wouldn’t have these passes. She spoke with your attorney about petitioning the court if the review board didn’t grant your request for the passes.”
“I have a good feeling about Dr. DuPont.”
“I’m glad for her efforts. Because, Conrad, you’ve enriched our lives. Martha and I look forward to every weekend with you.”
“I do too,” Conrad says, his eyes glistening.
Wilhelm peers around the store. “Does all this hiking equipment make you nostalgic for Colorado?”
Conrad nods. “It makes me think of the Rockies. I’d give anything to go back there.”
“Well, just keep up the good work. You’ll get back.”
“That’s my plan, Pastor. To go back and start that lay ministry.”
“I’m sure that’ll happen. But when you leave us, Martha and I will miss you,” Wilhelm says, as a lump forms in his throat.
At Ruby Tuesday, Conrad orders a veggie burger with french fries and a vanilla milk shake. Wilhelm orders a hamburger and a coke.
“You know, Conrad, this almost feels like a normal outing.”
“Yes. Makes me feel”—Conrad searches for words—“like there’s someone who cares.” He swallows hard and blinks a few times. His eyes moisten. “You know, Pastor, for the first time in my life I feel like I have a family … like I have a father,” he says, looking into Wilhelm’s eyes. “I feel like I have a good father.”
The pastor’s throat thickens. “You’re like a son to us … the son we lost the day he was born years ago. I even had this thought … that if you were willing, we could adopt you. I know it’s absurd, but that’s how Martha and I feel about you.”
Tears brim at Conrad’s lower lids. “I never had a father. And now …” Conrad’s voice breaks. “I can only thank you for everything.”
Wilhelm leans across the table and sets his hand on Conrad’s thick arm. “I have a thought. Since you’re thinking of starting a lay ministry, why not lead the congregation during part of tomorrow’s service?”
“You think I can?”
“The way you’ve been reciting scripture, I’m sure of it.”
“When I think about what brought me to Whitehall, I realize it’s important to forgive,” Conrad says.
“Forgiveness is one of the pillars of our faith, Conrad. If I quote from Ephesians, chapter 4, the verse says: ‘Get rid of all bitterness, passion, and anger. No more shouting or insults, no more hateful feelings of any sort. Instead, be kind and tender-hearted to one another, and forgive one another, as God has forgiven you through Christ.’”
“And it says in Mark 11:25–26,” Conrad says, “‘And when you shall stand to pray, forgive, if you have aught against any man: that your Father also, who is in heaven, may forgive you your sins.’”
“Conrad, forgiveness can lead to redemption. I wasn’t always the way I am now. When I was a young man, I ran with a bad crowd. Many of my friends’ parents abused or abandoned them. So my friends were filled with anger, even hatred, and turned to crime; some went to prison. The same fate awaited me if I didn’t change my ways. I felt cheated, as though I was robbed of life’s good things. Anger burned like a flame inside me and took its toll. Visiting my friends in prison, I realized there was a way out of this life’s misery. It meant turning to God. And that’s how I found my calling. Those prison visits changed my life.
“So believe me, Conrad, there is such a thing as redemption. It means giving yourself over to a higher power.”
Conrad nods and clasps his hands together.
“Conrad, I think you could recite a brief homily on forgiveness at tomorrow’s service.”
“I’ll work on it tonight.”
“Martha and I are blessed that you came into our lives.”
Conrad whispers, “You’ve brought my soul back from the dead. You’ve given me hope. Thank you, Pastor. Thank you for everything.”
Thirty-seven
Conrad wakes up suddenly. He thinks he was dreaming about Colorado—the vast mountains, sweeping moraines, endless vistas of Colorado spruce and white pines, the sweet resinous scent of the air and the rushing streams. Sitting at the bedside, he raises his arms, cracks his knuckles, and then pops the bones in his neck.
It’s the last Saturday in July, his sixth weekend with the Wilhelms. The bedside table clock reads seven thirty. It’s almost the middle of the day for Conrad. At Whitehall, he’s up at five, does his two hundred crunches, followed by a hundred push-ups, and then reads a book he’s borrowed from the hospital library.
Conrad thinks about his time at Whitehall. It has
n’t been bad. He sees Nicole DuPont twice each week—Tuesdays and Thursdays—and the psychologist, Jim Morgan, once a week. Even though Jim looks like a pencil-necked geek, he’s really a good guy and has worked hard with Conrad—not as effectively as Nicole DuPont—but Jim’s got a good heart and really tries to help. Conrad sees Grayson every other week, which is always tough. The guy’s a straight shooter and takes shit from no one—doesn’t move the needle a micron on the bullshit gauge.
Then there’s group therapy: a gabfest of nonstop insanity from the inmates. The food at Whitehall is institutional—doesn’t compare to Martha Wilhelm’s—but it’s wholesome and plentiful. Conrad uses the treadmill and pumps serious iron; he’s added plenty of rock-hard muscle. He now weighs two hundred fifty-five pounds.
Conrad can read as much as he wants: law, medicine, chess, anything. He knows it’s his right as an insanity acquittee. His rights are enumerated in Part III of the Connecticut Statutes relating to the Department of Mental Health.
And he’s thoroughly familiar with the US Supreme Court’s recognition of the special status of criminal acquittees as set forth in Jones v. United States, 463 U.S. 354, 370, 103 S. Ct. 3043, 77 L. Ed. 2nd 694 (1983). The US Constitution permits the government to confine him to a mental institution until he’s achieved “restoration of sanity.”
Lord Jesus, restoration of sanity could take years and years. He had to get better.
So how’d he do it?
First, he kept his cool, suffered through the amiable chitchat with inmates, even with the craziest of the loony bin bunch. It wasn’t easy, but he suffered through it.
Second, he never missed an appointment with Jim Morgan, with Grayson, or with Nicole DuPont, his primary therapist and lifeline.
When he first got on the ward, he was on CO—constant observation. An aide escorted him everywhere. Even in the crapper. They were worried he might hang himself in the shower stall. Bedsheets can be dangerous.
But the staff learned to trust him. Which was important because their input was crucial about his eligibility for a weekend pass and eventually, for discharge.
He’d researched plenty on Don Compton’s laptop, especially the case of John Hinckley, the guy who tried to impress Jodie Foster by shooting Ronald Reagan. Hinckley was found NGRI. He had a monomania, just like what the shrinks said Conrad had. Hinckley was confined to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital but eventually got temporary release time.
Yes, it was crucial that Conrad got better. So he began searching his soul and realized that Marlee is his very own. Of course she is. To believe otherwise would be absolutely crazy—delusional. And as he said to Dr. DuPont, it was ridiculous to think Megan was carrying on with Douglas all those years ago; Conrad would have known something. After all, the hospital gossip mill at Yale-New Haven was ubiquitous.
Conrad read all about delusions. Patients rarely renounce them; and if they do, it’s a slow, painful process. It’s rarely a revelation. Rather, it’s a soul-searching evolution. Pastor Wilhelm would call it a spiritual enlightenment. You must labor long and hard to attain such spirituality.
Still, sitting at the bedside, Conrad thinks about the Mental Hygiene Law.
Part II of the General Provisions of the Connecticut Statutes governs state hospitals and the Department of Corrections. Section 17a-521 is very clear: “The Director of the Whitehall Forensic Division, under provisions he deems advisable, may permit a patient—under the provisions of Section 17a-584—to temporarily leave the institution, in the charge of his guardian, relatives, or friends.”
Conrad knew he needed a place to go—one the PSRB would find acceptable.
So he contacted Pastor Daniel Wilhelm, a sixty-year-old Lutheran minister he’d heard about through the hospital grapevine. The pastor worked with former inmates, parolees, and psycho-acquittees.
He and the good pastor read the Bible regularly—from Genesis to Apocalypse—and now Conrad’s virtually memorized the scriptures. Has it all down cold.
He’s on his sixth weekend pass, not locked up in Bedlam—that state-sanctioned snake pit where the psychos—in their soul-sapping sicknesses—shuffle through the hallways, drool like ghouls with glazed eyes and spastic gaits, grunt garbled word salad, and shout shit-twisted obscenities. Twice each day they line up at the nursing station amid the funk of unwashed bodies, where they wait like cattle for their medications.
Since his sanity’s been restored, he spends weekends with the Wilhelms, away from Whitehall with its mind-dead zombies, locked doors, the electronic monitoring system, exposed commodes, the straitjackets and isolation room—the sheer madness of it all.
Conrad stands, bends forward, and touches his toes. He holds the position, letting the muscles in his lower back and hamstrings uncoil from their sleep-induced tightness. Then he reaches for the ceiling, stretches, and hears his spine put out a series of cracks.
No time for his morning crunches or push-ups. He has too much to do. He pads over to the window and looks out over the lacy green canopy of sycamores and Norway maples. The sky is quite light at this hour, and finches flutter from bushes to trees. Conrad can hear the house wrens’ bubbling calls. And a dove coos in the early morning light. Through the slightly opened window he catches the scent of cedar and Scotch pine in the neighbor’s backyard. He can smell the earth, too, an organic mix of soil, loam, and mulch. It’s going to be a clear July day with very little humidity. Last night the radio said the temperature would be seasonable, in the mideighties—just perfect for an outing.
He puts on his sweat socks, making sure the left one slides beneath the ankle bracelet; he steps into his jeans, dons a T-shirt, his new hiking boots, and a lightweight work shirt, grabs his day pack, and slips out of the bedroom. He treads lightly on the hallway’s polished oak floor, knowing the pastor’s a light sleeper.
He moves stealthily to the Wilhelms’ bedroom door and stops. He hears the pastor and Martha breathing—deep, regular intakes and exhalations of air. It’s the rhythm of sound sleep. Conrad hears the rustle of sheets as the pastor rolls onto his side. There’s a snort, then a series of deep breaths.
Conrad slips down the stairway, silent as a hand passing through a spider’s web. He’s thankful the stairway’s carpeted because every floorboard in this old colonial farmhouse creaks and groans. The worn wood of the banister slides smoothly beneath his hand as he descends, and he thinks the stairs should be replaced. He could renovate the entire place by himself in three months.
Crossing the living room, Conrad steps lightly on the hand-hooked rug and slips into the pine-paneled den. Holding his breath, he listens and hears soft breathing from the upstairs bedroom. He closes the den door—very gently, not even a tick of the metal latch—switches on the Tiffany desk lamp, peers beneath the computer table, and lowers the speaker volume to “Mute.” He boots it up.
Conrad thinks of the trail he’s followed, thanks to Don Compton’s laptop. A few months after the trial, Douglas and Haggarty got married and moved to Trumbull—set up house in a small ranch-style place. But they soon moved back to Eastport, probably to be closer to the hospital. Conrad followed their little migratory trail on Don Compton’s laptop, and though he doesn’t have their exact address in Eastport, it’s only a few clicks away.
He opens the Web browser and clicks on the address bar. He types in eastportct.gov and hits “Enter” on the keyboard. The town of Eastport’s Web page appears on the screen.
Eastport’s Web page displays the town’s fancy emblem. Plenty of information about the town’s history, population, demographics, more than you’d ever want to know.
On the right side of the screen, a heading appears: Online Services.
Beneath that, a list appears. It includes Board & Committee Meetings Minutes, Pay Taxes Online, Search for Online Forms, and Others.
He clicks on “Others.”
A new link appears: Offices.
He clicks on it.
A drop-down menu appears.
He clicks on on
e entry: Town Clerk’s Office.
A link appears: Public Records.
Beneath it: Mortgages, Liens, Property transfers. It’s all public information. There are very few secrets in the digital age. Yes, the information highway’s a treasure trove where almost anything or anyone can be found. Conrad hopes he’s doped it all out.
A click on “Public Records” brings up two boxes:
Upper box: Last Name
Lower box: First Name
He types “Douglas” in the upper box. He types “Adrian” in the lower box. He hits “Search.”
It comes right up: Adrian and Megan Haggarty Douglas.
The address: 14 Maplewood Lane, Eastport, Connecticut.
Mortgage: Chase Bank.
He disregards the other information. Not relevant.
They moved right back to Eastport, thinking Conrad would be locked away for years. Not that it matters: it’s all public—at any town hall. You’re only a few clicks away from anyone, anywhere in the world. Unless you’re in the Witness Protection Program, you can’t disappear. Besides, no one could’ve anticipated the progress he’s made, thanks to Nicole DuPont and Daniel Wilhelm. It’s been restoration of sanity and salvation of soul.
In the address bar at the top of the screen, he types in “Google Maps” and then hits “Enter.” A map of the United States comes up. The cursor blinks on the left side of a rectangle at the top of the page. Conrad types “14 Maplewood Lane, Eastport, CT” in the box.
He hits “Search Maps.” A schematic map appears. The picture automatically zeroes in on southwestern Connecticut. A balloon-shaped icon pops up and pinpoints 14 Maplewood Lane in Eastport. Conrad zooms in for a closer look.
Oh, yes … that’s gotta be it.
On the left side of the page, there’s a street level photograph of the house—a midsized center hall colonial—not one of these absurd McMansions that’ve cropped up like weeds, but an older structure, built maybe fifty, sixty years ago. It sits on a tree-lined cul-de-sac. The picture’s a frontal view of the house taken on a bright summer day.
Love Gone Mad Page 25
