There’s a pause as Mulvaney listens again, shakes his head and sighs.
“All right. I’m sure Doc Sandler’ll be there soon.”
Mulvaney listens for a moment and then says, “About ten minutes.” He nods and says, “No kiddin’.” He’s about to close the phone but adds, “Listen, Ed, do me a favor. Call Dr. John Grayson at Whitehall Institute in Ansonia.”
Mulvaney snaps the cell phone shut. “Lunch is over, Adrian,” he says. “It’s police business.” He pushes away from the table and says, “Actually, you might wanna come along and see for yourself.”
“Why?” Adrian’s stomach gurgles, and it isn’t because he’s hungry.
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
“Hello, Chief,” the pert, ponytailed waitress says with her pad and pencil at the ready. “What’ll it be, a burger, medium rare with fries, extra pickles, then apple pie à la mode?”
“Not today, Cheryl,” Mulvaney says, standing. He drops two dollar bills onto the table, grabs his coat, and says, “Let’s go Adrian.”
Twenty-two Middle Brook Road is a modest brick house set back from the leafy, sycamore-lined sidewalk. Unlike other dwellings on the street, no bikes or toys are scattered about the lawn. Nothing signals that kids live there. Two police cruisers are parked in front of the place; one has its lights flashing. Neighbors—mostly women with young kids and strollers—stand on the sidewalk. Adrian sees two police officers talking at the open front door.
As Adrian and Mulvaney get out of the chief’s car, a green Buick Regal parks in front of them. A distinguished-looking older man with a shock of wavy white hair gets out of the car; he’s carrying a leather satchel. “That’s the ME,” says Mulvaney.
“How ya doin’, Harry?”
“Fine, Patrick. And you?” They shake hands.
“I’m great. Harry, this is Dr. Adrian Douglas. Adrian, Dr. Harry Sandler, medical examiner.”
“You’re a cardiovascular surgeon at Eastport General, right?” Sandler says as they shake hands. “You operated on my brother-in-law, Steve Burnham.”
“I remember him,” Adrian says. “He’s a professor of economics at Yale.”
“That’s right, and he’s doing great, thanks to you.”
“Give him my regards,” Adrian says.
They walk into the house through the open front door.
“Down here, Chief,” Harwood says, pointing to a stairwell.
Through an arched entrance to the living room, Adrian sees a police officer and a dark-haired woman in her forties. She sits on a sofa, elbows on her knees, head buried in her hands. Sobbing, she never looks up. The place is furnished in Early American style, very colonial looking. Curled up asleep on a rocking chair is an orange tabby housecat.
“That the older sister?” Mulvaney asks Harwood.
“You got it, Chief. She decided to come home for lunch to check things out.”
Adrian follows Harwood, Mulvaney, and Sandler down a narrow wooden stairway to an unfinished basement. A bare light-bulb illuminates the gray cinder-block walls and rough cement floor. A furnace and water heater are located on one side of the room. A sump pump is in the corner.
Adrian estimates the basement ceiling’s about eight feet high. Wooden floor planks above are supported by thick, rough-hewn joists. Cast-iron and copper pipes crisscross the ceiling, along with rubber-coated wires intertwined among them. Aluminum air ducts sprout from the furnace, pierce the basement ceiling and lead to different rooms of the house. It’s forced-air heating. A dark crawl space is behind the furnace.
A repulsive odor permeates the dimly lit basement. Adrian thinks it’s the stench of excrement, urine, dust, and mold mixed with damp masonry. Actually, he thinks, it’s the reek of abject misery. It catches at the back of his throat. Mulvaney pulls out a handkerchief and covers his nose. Harwood gags. Sandler has no reaction.
Hanging from an overhead pipe by a thick, braided rope is the limp, nightgown-clad body of Nicole DuPont. Her bare feet droop downward in death, her toes only inches from the basement floor. Her feet are purple and swollen. Body fluids have leaked downward and collected in her lower limbs. Her roped neck is arched and stretched at an obscene angle. Her nose is angled up; the nostrils look like dark ovoid caves. Purple bruising permeates the neck skin beneath the rope. Her face is bluish, with lividly swollen lips and protruding tongue. Her eyes are vacant, bulging, partly rolled up into her head. A short wooden stool lies off to the side.
“A horrible death,” murmurs Sandler. “She knocked the stool over. It was too short a fall to break the neck, so she just dangled and was strangled to death. It took awhile,” he mutters. “The cyanotic face and feces are a giveaway. It’s like she was garroted from behind … slowly.”
Sandler reaches out and touches Nicole’s wrist. “Cold as ice. She’s been dead for a while,” he says. “It takes time for the feet to swell … maybe five or six hours. Must’ve hung herself early this morning.”
“After the sister left for work,” Mulvaney says.
“That’s the way most suicides go … when the victim’s alone,” Sandler says.
Harwood heads for the stairs.
The body sways after Sandler’s touch. Adrian recalls Nicole at the competency hearing and trial, her passion, her confidence, her incredible vitality, and her knowledge—medical and legal—and her potent sensuality. Now she’s limp, lifeless—extinguished.
My God! Adrian thinks. What could have gone so wrong that she now hangs like a gutted animal in a slaughterhouse? Flaccid, swaying at a rope’s end in a dank basement. Life’s so strange, so fucking crazy.
In the dull glow of the sixty-watt bulb, Adrian regards Nicole’s diaphanous nightgown, the silky down on her arms, the painted toenails, and the chalky pale—now ghostly—cast of her skin. Though he’s seen many dead bodies—in hospitals, operating rooms, morgues, and the dissection room in medical school—Adrian’s never seen a suicide victim. It hits him like a fist in the chest.
Two more cops tramp down the stairway. One turns back and retches at the stench. The other covers his nose, turns away, and heads upstairs.
“Eastport cops aren’t used to this,” Mulvaney says. “They shoulda served in New Haven.”
“When the forensic unit gets here, we’ll take her down and process the body,” Sandler says.
“Chief,” calls Harwood from atop the stairs. “The note’s upstairs. It’s printed out and it’s on the computer. Her sister found it, then found the body downstairs.”
They stomp up the stairs. Nearing the study, Adrian sees John Grayson enter the house. He has that dark stubble; his eyes are red, bleary. From his haggard, ashen look, it’s clear that Harwood told Grayson about Nicole DuPont’s suicide.
“Sorry about this,” Mulvaney says to Grayson.
Grayson nods.
“The body’s in the basement,” Mulvaney says. “You wanna see it?”
Grayson shakes his head. He sees Adrian. They shake hands silently.
“I’ve been worried about her,” Grayson says. “She took medical leave from Whitehall two weeks ago, seemed really depressed. It got so bad, she left her place in Hamden and moved in here with her sister.”
“Any idea why?” Mulvaney asks.
“No. She was really withdrawn these last few weeks. I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t.”
“There’s a suicide note in the den,” says Mulvaney.
A schoolhouse clock in the hallway lets out Westminster chimes and bongs twice. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.
In the den, Mulvaney nods to an officer standing at the computer. A sheet of paper rests on the keyboard. Mulvaney begins reading.
“It’s on the monitor, too,” says the officer. “May I?” Grayson asks.
“Sure,” Mulvaney says. “Just touch the side of the mouse; nothing else.”
Grayson sits in the computer chair and touches the mouse. The screen reveals a single-spaced typed letter.
My dear
Nina:
I’m truly sorry for any pain I’ve caused you, my beloved sister, and others.
My life is no longer worth living. This is the only way to right the wrongs that I’ve done. This is the only choice left. My life is an abysmal failure.
Please contact John Grayson at Whitehall and tell him how much I regret my role in what happened. He was right about Conrad Wilson. I was wrong. I was convinced Conrad’s sanity was restored. I became his advocate. It should never have been my role. I was so forceful and so wrong.
Conrad and I had a physical relationship in my office when we met for his counseling sessions. I crossed that boundary and violated everything I held dear. I loved him and thought he loved me. I never saw through his lies and deceit. I convinced myself we would move to Colorado and live together. I even applied for a medical license there.
I lost all perspective. I no longer saw Conrad as a madman. I didn’t let myself see that his only goal was to leave Whitehall so he could exact revenge on Megan Haggarty and Adrian Douglas.
I’m responsible for what happened. I coached Conrad and told him about the MMPI. I warned him about the cross-referenced questions, so he memorized them as he went along and never gave contradictory answers. He outwitted the test and appeared normal. It was all an act. Because I loved him, I was blinded, even deluded by love.
Because of me, Pastor Wilhelm and his wife are dead.
Because of me, Adrian Douglas and Megan Haggarty almost died, and their children were put at terrible risk. I don’t know if their daughter, Marlee, will ever get over what she saw happen. Or if she’ll ever erase seeing John Grayson forced to kill Conrad in their home.
I betrayed my colleagues, my profession, everyone. I thought Conrad loved me, and I was as mad as he was. I caused terrible pain and suffering. I cannot go on.
My dearest Nina, everything I have is yours, especially my love.
Nicole
Grayson shakes his head and peers up at Adrian. “Remember what I said about delusions?”
“They never go away.”
“She loved that crazy bastard,” Mulvaney says. “Maybe love’s mad, huh?”
“Early on, probably,” Grayson says. “You know, the whole falling in love thing, before you get to know the real-life person.”
“You think it’s delusional?” Adrian asks.
“Maybe it is.”
“You think she was crazy?” Mulvaney asks.
“Falling for Conrad Wilson was madness,” Grayson says.
“But was she crazy?”
“Killing herself was crazy,” Grayson says.
“Is love mad?” Adrian asks.
“Do you remember first falling in love?”
“Sure,” Adrian says.
“Maybe it’s temporary loss of sanity,” Mulvaney says.
“Do we ever see a lover realistically … in a completely sane way?” Grayson asks. His eyes look bleary.
“I’m crazy about my wife,” Mulvaney says. “How ’bout you, Adrian. You mad about Megan?”
“Absolutely,” Adrian says, thinking how he wants—more than anything in the world—to go home to the people he loves. Call it absurd, call it madness, or even crazy.
Soon Marlee will be home from school, and she’ll ask him with those eyes of hers, wide and inquiring—as she always does—to help with her homework. It’s a ritual by now, almost a little game they play. Like when they play checkers; and now she’s learning chess. He teaches her and she catches on to everything very quickly. He loves it, and Marlee knows he does. She adores it, too. It’s part of their being together, sharing; it’s part of being a family.
And for the rest of the day, into the evening and night, he’ll be with them—with Megan, Marlee, and Philip—and while the next day’s surgeries will be at the back of his mind, as they should be, the most important part of his life is being with them, spending time with the three beings on this earth who are so precious to him. It’s impossible to find words to express his feelings.
Adrian knows he wants always to be with them—the people who make everything worthwhile, who give his life substance and meaning, who fill his life with possibility, who’ve kept his soul alive and about whom he’s crazy and without whom Adrian knows he’d go mad.
And he thinks to himself, so what if love is a form of madness? That’s just the way it is. I’m lucky to love and be loved. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.
Afterthought
The interface between psychiatry and the law has always been murky.
The cases and principles of law cited in Love Gone Mad are all true. They depict the medicolegal quandaries occurring frequently in American courtrooms. Of course, neither psychiatry nor the law can address the conundrum of the soul. What exactly is a “soul”? Is it the capacity for human empathy, for feelings, understanding, caring, and loving?1 Or does it have some higher, even religious implication?
A novel usually depicts conflict and feelings: love, jealousy, hatred, revenge, greed, lust, and others. In living our lives, we often face dilemmas—legal and otherwise—as complicated as the human condition.
_________________
1 Dr. Leonard Shengold, in his book Soul Murder: The Effects of Childhood Abuse and Deprivation, noted the phrase a soul murder was first used by playwrights Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg to describe the destruction of the love of life in another human being.
Acknowledgments
As I’ve said before, no novel is a product of its author alone. Many people contributed their time and effort to reading and making suggestions, thereby improving the manuscript. They were my brain trust—my partners in creativity—and were indispensable to my writing efforts. I cannot thank them enough.
Deepest thanks to Kristen Weber for showing me the way of the novel. She devoted time, energy, and enthusiasm to this project.
Relatives and friends graciously devoted their time and talent to reading the manuscript at various stages and made valuable suggestions. They include Claire Copen, Rob Copen, Marty Isler and Natalie Isler, Helen Kaufman and Phil Kaufman, Arthur Kotch and Jill Kotch, and Barry Nathanson and Susan Nathanson. Their suggestions, criticisms, and comments were marks of friendship and vastly improved what I’d written. They cared enough to provide me with honest feedback, which was crucial to the novel.
Other people, both living and dead, made their own (most unknowingly) contributions to my knowledge base and authorial efforts. They include Dick Simons, Bill Console, Warren Tanenbaum, Charles Darwin, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Clarence Darrow, Sigmund Freud, Zane Grey, the Grimm Brothers, Edith Hamilton and a vast array of Greek myths, Homer, Herodotus, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Jim Kjelgaard, John R. Tunis, Jack London, Edgar Allen Poe, and William MacLeod Raine.
Equally important to the writing of the novel and its eventual execution were Melissa Danaczko, Bruce Glaser, Sharon Goldinger, Kristen Havens, Lynda Ling, Penina Lopez, Pam Miller, Leonard Shengold, Liz Lauer, Tracy Minsky, Meryl Moss, and a cadre of writers, artists, physicians, attorneys, and educators of every kind.
My brilliant wife, Linda, tirelessly read different versions of the manuscript and made all the difference in the world to the final outcome. She’s a source of courage, inspiration, and love.
About the Author
After graduating from NYU with a degree in business administration, Mark Rubinstein served in the US Army as a field medic tending to paratroopers of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. After discharge from the army, he gained admission to medical school. He became a physician and then took a psychiatric residency, becoming involved in forensic psychiatry and testifying in trials as an expert witness.
He became an attending psychiatrist at New York Presbyterian Hospital and a clinical assistant professor of psychiatry at Cornell University Medical School, teaching psychiatric residents, psychologists, and social workers while practicing psychiatry.
Before turning to fiction, he coauthored five nonfiction, self-help books for the general public. His first nov
el, Mad Dog House, was published by Thunder Lake Press in 2012.
He is a contributor to Psychology Today and a blogger for the Huffington Post. He lives in Connecticut and is working on other novels.
Preview of Mad Dog Justice
Chapter 1
Danny Burns sits at his office desk and rubs his forehead. His temples throb. It’s another headache beginning, and this one’s going to be a bone-crusher. Doc Gordon says it’s tension, because he can’t find a thing wrong—physically. It feels like a vise is clamping down on his skull.
“So what’s troubling you?” Doc Gordon asked.
“Nothin’, Doc … absolutely nothin’.”
“Well, these are classic tension headaches.”
Tension, worry, and aggravation: they’re permanent fixtures in his life, ever since what went down ten months ago.
It’s nearly eight o’clock on this frigid February night. The office is sepulchral. The only sound is the occasional whooshing of tires as cars pass by on McLean Avenue, two stories below. The windowpane rattles as a gust of wind whips against it. Danny reminds himself to talk to the landlord about the thermal pane replacements he said he’d install. Yeah, don’t hold your breath, Dan thinks. Leave it to Donovan and it’ll never get done. The building’s owner is too busy flipping properties all over Yonkers.
Danny gazes at his laptop screen and then at the papers on his desk. The April 15 tax deadline is only two months away, and he’s got a ton of work. Even though most clients have their returns filed electronically, the majority don’t use the worksheet Danny provides them. They mail him hand-scrawled notes and figures—a jumble of jottings along with heaps of documentation. He and his assistants spend more time sorting through the junk than actually entering data into the computer. They’re all billable hours, but it’s mostly crap that could be done by a monkey. He thinks it might be wise to hire another part-time assistant. If he does, it’ll set a personal record for employing temporary help.
Love Gone Mad Page 29
