by Jack Womack
"You're going to torture him," I said.
"What kind of people you think we are?" Thatcher asked. "We won't do anything to him that'll hurt him physically."
"Think of it as motivational training," said Bernard. "Some call it neopavlovianism. We leave him with a few lasting impressions. Nothing new. Simply reenforcing what's already there, in the event he chooses to stray."
"But what is it?"
"Elegant," he continued. "We recreate for the subject a key event in the subject's life."
"What sort of event?"
"Ideally, a childhood trauma. They can come in so handy later on, if put to worthy purpose. The doctors believe this treatment will be helpful not only for us but for the subject as well-"
"Lester," I said, interrupting. "Not subject. Lester."
"You say tomato," said Bernard. "In any event, by enabling him to reexperience a chosen trauma, lifting it to the surface of his mind, he has a second chance to deal with its effects, using knowledge since gained and-oh, how do they put it?-life experiences to get a better grasp on the inescapable. Everyone's better off afterward, possibly."
The Tombs was in the Criminal Courts Building, on Centre Street, not far from Dryco headquarters. Years ago criminals awaiting trial were held in cells on the upper floors; when the new jail was built to the north of the older structure, those upper floors were renovated for new uses, through a joint effort of the city government and Dryco.
"Behavioral science is such a growth industry," Bernard continued. "I'm told this particular technique is especially useful conjoined with traditional psychiatric approaches, though I don't have to tell you about my qualms concerning psychiatry. The only Freud I appreciate is schadenfreude. Still, now that something more scientific has been added to the mix--
"What have you done to him so far?"
"A brief isolation," Bernard said. "He was given a light sedative, to assist in calming him before the next step, a little walk down memory lane."
Our car pulled into the garage that had been built below the new jail. The elevators that rose through the old building, leading to the Tombs, could be reached through a series of secured tunnels that ran under the street beneath the structures.
"You ever been here before, hon?" Thatcher asked.
"For jury duty," I said. "Six years ago."
"It's a fascinating place, whatever you've heard. You know how shaggy dog stories shed."
"The new computer's mainframe will be installed here directly above the interrogation floor," said Bernard. "It's a good central location."
The elevator reserved for Dryco's use took us up; when we emerged we entered a hall that appeared so washed of personality that it could have been any office building. Discarded monitors, keyboards, and desks were piled high along the walls; the lights flickered and hissed, and smelled of burning tar. Police and men in cheap suits went about their business until they saw Thatcher approaching; then they'd flatten themselves against uncluttered walls until we passed, Bernard and I coming directly behind him, Jake bringing up the rear. We reached what appeared to be the end of the hall. Bernard, stepping forward, pressed a light switch; the wall blocking our progress slid out of sight, revealing a shorter hall beyond, and two unmarked doors.
"That one leads to the staging area," said Bernard, nodding to the door on the left, opening the one on the right. "The observation room. Let us observe."
"Stay back here, Jake," Thatcher said, and Jake took his place by the door once we entered. Walking in, we saw ourselves walking toward us. A mirror: one as high and wide as the room, serving as barrier between staging area and observatory. An oak table was placed perpendicular to the mirror, and the table's chairs were turned away from the door. Two men wearing long white coats were already in the room; I gathered that they could be called doctors. They shifted in their chairs and greeted us.
"Hello, Frank," Bernard said, shaking hands with the older of the pair, a man in his late fifties with a red, wattled neck. His cheeks were scarred with pockmarks; his white hair retained enough blond to lend his crown a greenish corrosion. "How's he holding up? All progressing?"
"His injection was administered twenty minutes ago," Frank said. "Optimum timeframe begins shortly and lasts for an hour and a half."
"Shouldn't think it'd take that long," said Thatcher, pulling out a chair for me that I might have a seat. "This is Joanna, folks."
"He mentioned you," said Frank. "You've made an impression on an impressionable mind."
"She has that tendency," said Bernard.
"What are you shooting him up with?" I asked.
"Let's let these old junkies explain. Medical terminology so disturbs my ears. Howard?"
"The patient receives 450 cc's of Pentathline blended with a trace of Metalysergic," Howard, the younger doctor, replied. Something about him reminded me of the boys I knew in high school biology class, the ones who liked to help the teachers pass out the new-pithed frogs. "Pentathline enables the patient to recall repressed information in infinite detail, while Metalysergic's hallucinogenic properties allow him to believe that events described are events occurring."
"Chemical hypnosis," said Frank. "If you told him a match had been applied to his arm, a blister would be raised on the skin."
"When actual events taken from the patient's life are recounted to him, the combined chemicals produce in the mind an ongoing reality unrelated to actual surroundings."
"Better n' television," said Thatcher.
"And no unwanted side effects are afterward noticed?" Bernard asked.
"None noticed thus far."
"What are you going to make him remember?" I asked.
"Allow him to remember," Bernard said, correcting me. He opened a folder lying atop a small pile stacked upon the table and, pulling from it two Xeroxes of newspaper articles, handed them to me. The clippings were from the Lexington, Kentucky Herald, with dates twenty years distant.
DOCTORS THINK MIRACLE CHILD WILL SURVIVE,
and
LESTER TO TESTIFY IN MOTHER'S TRIAL, DA SAYS
"Sending his own mother to the slammer," said Thatcher. "What a world."
"They had to send her someplace ..." Bernard said.
"Please explain these," I said, letting the copies drop onto the table.
"He didn't even tell you?" Bernard said. "See what we mean about this fondness for secrecy? I'd almost call it a fetish."
"One day Lester's mother went a little funny in the head," said Thatcher.
"Afterward," said Bernard, "her sense of purpose persuaded her to plead neither guilt nor insanity. She discharged three lawyers before setting her sights low enough. Young Macaffrey was the only witness for the prosecution, and once he recovered the trial began. His testimony was given in closed session, with only the lawyers and judge present. They were considerate enough to take his age into account. She was convicted, and sentenced. She filed no appeal and so went up the river, or wherever it is they go in Kentucky. Six months later a fire of suspicious origin gutted her cell. She was in it, at the time."
"Suspicious?" I said. "How?"
"Only cause of the fire they could come up with was spontaneous human combustion," said Thatcher.
"Not a favorite of coroners," said Bernard. "It was put down as--" He paused; thumbed through the stack until he found the document he sought. "Death by misadventure," he read. "So Macaffrey was put, briefly, in the care of the commonwealth, poor boy. He was given a remarkable number of tests pertaining to intelligence and personality. He had no surviving family and after a time they began shooting him through a series of foster homes, all the while being periodically tested. Emotional fractures were noted early on, along with a keen but unbalanced intellect. He fooled them enough even then that at one point he was given the Rhine test for ESP. Results were inconclusive, which hardly surprises-"
"Seems he got put in homes where the fathers had lots of time on their hands," said Thatcher. "He got beat pretty regularly in one of 'em, sound
s like. He seemed pretty content in another, but then the family moved to Houston to look for work and the agencies responsible for his well-being wouldn't let 'em take him along. They put him in a place where, when the father wasn't beating him, he was molesting his daughters. Lester was fifteen by then. Don't know how old the daughters were, or if he knew about it, or did anything if he did know."
"We know he ran away," said Bernard. "Then for four years we have no record as to what he did, or where he was. He came to New York ten years ago, living in perfect obscurity until the yen to fulfill this perceived role of savior of Loisaida came over him. The rest is silence. Frank, recap results of our tests."
"Pervasive disassociation is noted," said Frank. "Perhaps predisposing the subject to schizophrenic disorder over the next few years. Manic-depressive syndrome in the purest manifestation is not found, though he experiences bouts of severe depression interspersed with episodes where the observable messianic complex would appear to be more pronounced. We find unmistakable signs of ethylithic mythomania-"
"Run that by me again," said Thatcher.
"A tendency to identify oneself too closely with historic events," said Frank. "Believing that one's actions effect one's society, now and in the future, even in the past. Bear in mind that in most studies of even the so-called great, psychotic propensities are always noted. We can say-"
"We can say he's not the sort of fellow we'd like to have our daughters bring home," said Bernard.
"You still don't give him enough credit," said Thatcher.
"He's overspent what he had."
"We'll see," said Thatcher. "Can we get on with this? I don't want to miss Susie when she calls."
"Very well." The room darkened; a white light shone through the mirror with the gleam of the sun striking a glacier. The mirror's glass was two-way; the staging area was lit so evenly, and painted so white, that Lester could have been sitting a foot or a mile away, so absent was perspective. He'd drawn his knees tight against his chest, and clasped his hands around his knees. His labored breathing came as roar over the intercom. Avi entered that room, standing in the far left corner, wearing a knee-length coat. Two mannequins were close by; half-mannequins, truly, resembling sewing dummies with unsculpted heads. Their plaster torsos were mounted upon wheeled tripods.
"Having all source material at hand," said Bernard, sitting next to me, picking up a wireless mike, "court transcripts, police reports, photographs of the house and of his family, testimony given and newspaper accounts, we can begin. Keep in mind that a certain role-playing is essential on the part of the interrogator, and unavoidable on the part of the subject."
"Bernard," I said. "This isn't right. You're punishing him. You're not helping him-"
"Punishment is a biblical precept, I believe," he said. "Onward and downward. Miracle boy? You with us?"
Distance notwithstanding, I saw how his eyes were so dilated that all blue was supplanted by black. He looked across his white world, his head wobbling loosely upon his neck, as if, having once been removed, it hadn't been properly reattached.
"How old are you, Lester?"
"Twenty-nine," he said. With one hand he mussed his hair, as if attempting to comb it. "Think so. Don't know."
"We must be as a child to enter the kingdom of heaven," said Bernard. "You're nine years old."
"Nine," Lester repeated. "Nine years old."
"Very good. Do you recognize where you are? Look around you."
"Where am l?" he asked.
"In the living room of your parents' house. You see it? See the fireplace over there? A big, stone wall? Three brass plates hanging over the wooden mantelpiece? The slate hearth and the butter churn? What else do you see?"
"The andirons," Lester said, reading a swatch of white wall. "A little bench. The dog's basket."
"Every family should have a dog," said Bernard. "What's your dog's name, Lester?"
"Snoopy."
"Original," said Bernard. "Considering your father's profession I'd have thought it might be Saint John the Divine--
"Mister Leibson," Frank said, lowering his voice, shaking his head. "Don't confuse him unless it's necessary."
Bernard cupped his hand over the microphone's tip. "My fault," he whispered. "Lester? Has Snoopy been acting funny this morning? Almost as if he knew something was wrong?"
"Uh-huh."
"Someone else in the house hasn't been themselves lately either, have they? Who's the troublemaker?"
"I'm twenty-nine," Lester said.
"You're nine years old, Lester. You know what today's date is?"
"No."
"September the nineteenth, 1978. Who's the troublemaker, Lester?"
Lester drew himself into a ball, and pressed his face against his knees. "Momma."
"Your mother's acting funny? What's she up to?"
"She won't come out of her room," he said. "She won't let Dad in."
"Poor Dad," said Bernard. "Is your sister at home?" Lester nodded once, and stopped. "Her name's Betsy? How old is Betsy? Twelve?" Hearing no answer, Bernard shifted into a new line of questioning. "What's Dad up to right now?"
"He's in the den. Writing his sermon. For tomorrow."
"Today's Saturday, then," Bernard said. "He's listening to music as he writes?"
"Yes."
"Reverends should always be reverential of classical music," Bernard said. "What's he listening to? I suspect he's not much for serialism. Nor any heavy romanticism to clog the arteries of the soul."
"Mister Leibson-"
"Choral music is so inspiring." Music rose in volume over unseen loudspeakers, filling both rooms. "Gregorian chants, was it? Bach? Taverner? Our sources aren't so clear on this. Let's say Thomas Tallis. Isn't that lovely music? What do you think of when you hear it?"
"Angels," said Lester. "Millions of angels flying around."
"Worse than gnats, I'd think," said Bernard. "You don't have any trouble seeing the room now, do you?" Lester shook his head; he didn't. "Dog's in his basket. Sis is in her room. Mom's in bed, Dad's communing with spirits. All's right with the world. What are you doing? Were you reading?"
Avi knelt, and slid a book across the floor; it skidded to a stop near Lester's feet. Seeing it, he reached across and picked it up. His hair was wet with perspiration.
"Quite a reader for your age, I hear. What are you reading now?"
"Stories," he said, examining the jacket. "Edgar Allan Poe."
"Good bedtime reading. Isn't that awfully hard reading for a boy your age?"
"I like it," Lester said. "They say it's too hard for me at school. It's not. Dad thinks it's good that I read."
"I suppose your mother has her own opinions."
"She used to think it was good," said Lester. "She says Dad pushes me. Pushes everybody."
"Push comes to shove after so long, doesn't it?"
"They've been fighting a lot lately."
"About what?"
"Everything."
"About religion? About God?" Lester nodded. "Didn't they once believe in the same God?"
"Yes."
"Your father's an Episcopal priest?" Lester nodded, again. "Once they believed in a God of love? Now your mother believes in a God of wrath? Well, each to their own. Complicates matters unnecessarily I'd say. What did your father once call your mother, Lester? You know big words, you can say it. What did he call her?"
"Charismatic."
"Sounds like a disease, doesn't it?" said Bernard. "Rather like rabies. God bites the believer and leaves them foaming at the mouth. Dad doesn't think much of this, does he?"
"I hate to hear them fight."
"Do you pray at night for God to make them stop?" Lester nodded his head, and then rested it against his knees again, as if its weight was too great for him to carry unaided. "And God answers some prayers. What's the weather like, by the way?"
"It's been pouring out."
"I gather you mean rain. What they call a frogstrangler in those parts? What tim
e is it now? You see the grandfather clock? By the door to your sister's room. What time is it?"
"Two-thirty."
"Here comes your sister now," Bernard said. "See her?"
"No," said Lester, hiding his face. "Stop it."
Bernard sighed and took a photograph from one of his files; held it before him as he continued. "You see her."
Avi gently pushed one of the mannequins toward Lester; it rolled across the floor on well-oiled wheels, and stopped short of where Lester sat.
"Stop," Lester repeated, still shielding his eyes.
"Don't you love your sister?" Bernard asked. "You haven't seen her in so long. You haven't forgotten what she looks like. Skinny little thing. Taller than you. Straight brown hair and braces. Green eyes. You see her."
Lester cried. "Stop--
"You're a big boy, Lester. It's all right-"
"Stop it, Bernard," I said. "Look at what you're doing. stop--
Thatcher grasped my arm; pulled me nearer. Lester raised his head and looked at the mannequin, smiling through tears. "Bets," he said, and then his smile faded. "Betsy. Talk to me."
"Cat must have her tongue," said Bernard. "She wants to know if you're hungry, Lester. She'll fix you whatever you want to eat. You hungry?" Lester shook his head. "What's she wearing?"
"A white sweater," Lester said. "Blue jeans. Sneakers with pink laces."
Bernard smiled. "Such an eye for detail you've developed. What does she usually fix you to eat on weekends?"
"Grilled cheese sandwiches." The odor of toasting bread permeated the rooms.
"Almost smells good enough to eat, doesn't it? Now you're both in the kitchen, talking about your parents. Isn't the kitchen a homey place? Shame your mother insisted upon painting the walls that dreadful red. Almost like blood, isn't it? You're sitting at that big round table in the center of the room. What communion does your family take there?"
"We have family meetings," Lester said. "Every Wednesday night at seven. After Dad watches the news."
