“Didn’t he try to have you committed to a mental institution?” Uno laughed.
“Yeah, as your roommate.”
We talked about some old times and said goodbye.
I left a message on Kessler’s answering machine and he called back in minutes.
“Explosive compulsive Eddie Perlmutter,” Kessler said, laughing. “How are you?”
“I have a longer fuse now.”
“I doubt it,” he joked. “You probably just have slower reflexes.”
“I have an important psychological question I need answered,” I said.
“I’m flattered,” he said. “Fire away.”
“Why does bad golf happen to good people?”
“You heard about my book?” he said, laughing.
“Lazlo Unitas told me.”
“He hasn’t taken up golf, I hope,” Kessler said. “He’s too volatile.”
“No, but he did know where to find you,” I said.
“I’m delighted,” Kessler said. “Talk to me.”
Without using names, I gave Kessler a quick summary of Sylvia’s history plus my theories on orphanages, adoption, and mental institutions.
“A seventy-six-year-old woman has fifty-six years of memory, and you’re trying to reconstruct her first twenty years,” he summarized. “May I ask why?”
“I want to know if she has any living family for personal and professional reasons.”
“Understood,” Dr. Kessler said. “It sounds to me like she’s in a fugue state or has RAD.”
“And what the fugue is RAD?”
“A fugue state is when someone abandons their personal identity and memories because of a trauma,” he said. “RAD is Reactive Attachment Disorder, which is the result of an infant failing to develop a normal attachment to its primary caregiver.”
“Are these permanent conditions?”
“Not necessarily. But based on your friend’s age, if she was in the mental health system it was during a very controversial time,” Kessler said. “There was a lot of questionable experimentation in those days.”
“What type of experimentation?” I asked.
“Mind control,” he said. “Drugs, shock treatments, you name it. We studied it in medical school. It was called the Eliza Program.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Did you ever hear of the movie My Fair Lady?”
“Sure. Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. He tries to totally change her personality?”
“That’s it. Best picture of the year in sixty-four,” Kessler confirmed.
“I liked Kitten with a Whip with Ann-Margret better.”
“Excellent choice,” Kessler humored me. “Anyway, in the late forties our government started some pretty bizarre experiments on mind control using wards of the State as guinea pigs. It was a Cold War thing and the CIA got involved. They were big advocates of behaviorism and pharmacology.”
“Pharmacology I can understand,” I said. “That’s drugs. But you’re going to have to explain behaviorism.”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” Kessler said. “Let me call you back in a few minutes. I have some books on the subject I want to review.”
Fifteen minutes later we were on the phone again.
I heard him rummaging and turning pages.
“I found what I was looking for,” he said. “Behaviorists believe that personalities are the result of nurturing, not genetics. John B. Watson was one of the original behaviorists. I’m going to read you a direct quote of his that should help you understand the philosophy.”
“Please don’t. Just give me the basics,” I interrupted.
“Okay,” Kessler said. “Watson believed he could mold people into whatever he wanted them to be . . . regardless of their talents or tendencies.”
“It sounds like brainwashing.”
“It is brainwashing.”
“Did Watson ever prove his theory?”
“He tried,” Kessler said. “But his methods were primitive and would never be allowed today. His ‘Little Albert’ study was the worst. In 1920, Watson experimented with an eleven-month infant named Albert. He basically made the kid a guinea pig to support his theories. Listen to this: Watson put a tiny lab rat, very harmless, into the crib with the baby along with colorful stuffed animals and toys. Little Albert responded positively to the rat. But when Watson put the rat in the crib and annoyed Little Albert with noise and distractions the infant feared the rat. Psychiatrists call it a response analysis.”
“I call it horseshit,” I said. “Did Little Albert grow up to be an exterminator?”
Kessler laughed half-heartedly. “Like I said, it was a long time ago,” he said, “But all this experimentation was happening right about the time your friend was in the system. She could be one of those unfortunate victims.”
“How many Elizas were there?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Kessler sighed. “Hundreds, I’m sure. The CIA wanted to create drug-induced, compliant personalities and that would have required a lot of subjects. They tried addictive stuff like morphine to make the patients drug dependent. They tried Thorazine, Ritalin, marijuana, heroin, Temazepam, Mescaline, Sodium Pentothal, Ketamine, and my personal favorite, LSD. The CIA did brain-electrode implants and unproven radiation techniques. They induced amnesia. Everything they did was intended to disrupt normal brain function and to create a compliant subject. It was quite a scandal in the seventies.”
“How did they get away with it?”
“For a long time, no one outside the CIA knew,” Kessler explained.
“So, you think this could have happened to my friend?” I asked warily.
“In those days, anything could have happened in a mental institution: drugs; abuse; misdiagnosis; experimentation. Do I think it happened to your friend? Statistically speaking, it’s not likely. But, who knows?”
We’re all statistics in some category.
“How does your friend act now?” Kessler asked.
“She’s very inconsistent,” I answered. “Sometimes she’s charming and delightful. The next moment she goes into a trance. She steals things and can’t remember she stole them. She has terrible episodes of fear. I never know what to expect.”
“Her behavior is consistent with Alzheimer’s and schizophrenia,” Kessler said. “But it’s also consistent with the after effects of drugs and a mind-altered state. A person programmed to believe they don’t have enough to eat will steal food.”
Bagels!
“A person programmed to believe in things that never happened will swear they happened.”
I married my high-school sweetheart.
“What happened to the Eliza Program?”
“Some very determined doctors fought the system for years and exposed it,” he said. “It was dismantled in the seventies.”
“Those doctors deserve a lot of credit,” I said. “They were heroes.”
“I agree but, unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way,” Kessler said. “It took twenty years to change the system and the original whistle-blowers were no match for the CIA. Some of the older doctors died or retired during the process. Some were discredited by the government and a few lost their licenses fighting city hall. There was a lot of intimidation involved.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. I hate bullies!
“Yes, it was. I remember a young intern at Willis Psychiatric who spearheaded the original Eliza investigation in 1948. He was a real fighter. One day, in 1951, he just dropped out of the conflict without explanation.”
“Do you think the CIA scared him off?”
“They must have done something to him,” Kessler said. “He went from a big name one day to a no name the next.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Harold Goldman.”
I didn’t tell Dr. Kessler that my client was an Eliza but I certainly intended to tell Lou Dewey. I punched his speed-dial number on my cell phone.
“Lou, did you ever hear of My F
air Lady?” I asked when he answered.
“Best picture . . . 1964,” he said proudly. “Though I personally preferred Kitten with a Whip with Ann-Margret.
“I agree,” I said, then proceeded to tell him everything I had learned from Dr. Kessler.
“You’re saying that Sylvia did get lost in the system and Harold Goldman found her at Willis in the Eliza Program. Then he goes after the CIA for their illegal programs and eventually the CIA goes after him. You figure they made a deal in the end?”
“I’m saying it’s possible,” I told him. “Maybe Goldman falls in love with Sylvia and trades his silence for her safety. Then he spends the rest of his life protecting her from her past while being her present and future. He’s still taking care of her after his death.”
“The ultimate love story,” Lou said.
“You and Joy are the ultimate love story,” I told him.
“Thanks, boss. I’ll get right on it.” Lou was excited. “But if our government is behind this . . . all the records will be destroyed. It won’t be easy.”
“If it was easy I wouldn’t need Lou Dewey,” I told him.
Betsy Blackstone called a short time later and asked that we meet as soon as possible at Boca Bagel again.
“Well it’s the happy, horny couple,” the same hefty waitress greeted us.
“I’m pregnant,” Betsy blurted, smiling broadly at both of us. “I did a home test this morning.”
“I’m not surprised,” the waitress said tiredly, and turned to me in disgust. “And at your age.”
I checked her name tag.
“Look, Bertha, I had nothing to do with this,” I defended my honor.
“That’s what they all say,” Bertha said, shaking her head.
“I’m serious,” I said. “She’s married.”
“That’s even worse.” Bertha was appalled. “Have you told your husband?”
“Of course,” Betsy beamed.
“What did he say?” Bertha asked.
“He’s delighted,” Betsy said.
“He’s delighted you’re having this man’s baby?” Bertha bellowed.
“I’m not having a baby with him,” Betsy said and giggled.
I wasn’t sure if I was flattered by Bertha or insulted by Betsy.
“I gotta pee,” Betsy said and dashed to the ladies room, still giggling. I chuckled.
“Okay, wise guy, what’s so funny?” Bertha demanded.
I introduced myself and explained my relationship with Betsy.
“I told everyone you were a dirty old man,” Bertha said, feeling guilty.
“Normally you’d be right.”
When Betsy returned to the booth, Bertha gave her a big hug.
“Congratulations, honey,” she said, and walked away.
“What did you tell her?” Betsy asked, sitting down.
“I told her you were crazy about me,” I said.
“I am.” She touched my arm, which was resting on the table.
“Okay,” I said. “Now let’s talk business. Are you confident in this test you gave yourself?”
“They’re accurate ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time,” she told me. “Plus, I have a pregnant feeling.”
“Getting pregnant was never your problem,” I reminded her.
“I know, but this time is different,” she said, touching my hand.
“Okay, this time is different,” I said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “When will you see Dr. Dunn?”
“As soon as we’re finished here,” she said.
“Thank you for telling me in person,” I said.
“I have to be honest about that, Eddie,” she said, with a guilty look. “I wanted to see you for another reason. I’m sorry.”
She handed me a piece of paper.
“I received this letter in the mail today. I’m afraid to show it to Bradley.”
I scanned the letter and immediately saw a red spot. It was a collection letter from an agency representing Dr. Ronald Cohen.
“When we switched to Dr. Dunn, my husband refused to pay Dr. Cohen’s final bill,” Betsy explained. “He said Cohen was lucky we weren’t suing him for malpractice.”
“Bradley’s right,” I agreed. “But did he tell Dr. Cohen’s office?”
“Yes. He told a receptionist,” she said. “Dr. Cohen wasn’t available.”
“Did Bradley tell the receptionist everything?”
“Yes,” Betsy nodded. “He told her about my tipped uterus and the operation. She promised to relay the message.”
“She probably did.” I sighed. “But Dr. Cohen wasn’t listening.”
“I’m afraid if I show Bradley this letter he’ll do something stupid.”
“If anyone is going to do something stupid it’ll be me,” I assured her.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” she told me. “I just want your advice.”
“My advice is to let me handle this.”
“This is not part of your job,” she said.
“I’m the Boca Knight,” I reminded her. “My job is to save ladies in distress.”
“You already saved me once,” she said.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” I told her. “I was talking about all the other pregnant ladies who go to Dr. Cohen.”
Dr. Cohen’s office was on the fifth floor of a five-story medical building on Glades Road. I pushed open the office door and burst into the waiting room like a raging bull. The room was filled with pregnant women, and not one of them seemed glad to see a man.
Do you realize that every woman in this room puts out? Mr. Johnson asked.
I ignored him.
“Can I help you?” A cute dark-haired receptionist asked pleasantly.
“I’m here to see Dr. Cohen,” I told her.
“I assume this is a business matter.”
“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you mean,” I answered.
“Dr. Cohen doesn’t see business people during office hours,” she said politely.
“I’m sure he’ll see me,” I said in a tone that got her attention.
“Can you tell me the nature of your business?”
I reached into my shirt pocket and handed her the collection letter.
She looked at it and frowned.
“You’ll have to talk to the agency,” she said softly, trying unsuccessfully to return the letter to me.
“No,” I whispered. “I think I’ll talk to a lawyer and all the women in this room about Dr. Cohen’s malpractice.”
The receptionist’s face went pale.
“I’ll be right back.” She got up and scurried away . . . returning in less than five minutes. “Dr. Cohen will see you right away,” she told me.
No shit!
Dr. Ronald Cohen didn’t look dangerous. He wore a comforting white doctor’s coat and a trustworthy smile. He was an ample man and I guessed he was in his early to mid sixties. I calculated quickly that he had been practicing medicine for around forty years. If I didn’t know better, I’d probably be comfortable with him between my wife’s legs.
“I understand you’re here concerning one of my patients,” Dr. Cohen said
“Ex-patient,” I said.
“Mr., Mr.-” He held out his hands palms up, asking for my name.
“Perlmutter,” I told him. “Eddie Perlmutter.”
He recognizes my name, I said to myself.
“Mr. Perlmutter, I’m a very busy man,” he said nervously. “Please get to the point.”
“The point is, Dr. Cohen, I think Mrs. Betsy Blackstone suffered two miscarriages as a result of your incompetence-”
“You’re not qualified to make a medical judgment,” Cohen said, raising his voice.
“Apparently, neither are you,” I snapped back, and watched his eyes blink rapidly.
“This is ridiculous,” Cohen huffed. “I’ve delivered thousands of healthy babies.”
“So have cab drivers and cops,” I told him. “That doesn’t make them doctors.
It makes them lucky. You told Betsy Blackstone after her second miscarriage that she was fine and should try again.”
“That was sound medical advice,” he defended himself.
“Mrs. Blackstone has a septate, redacted uterus, according to Dr. Albert Dunn,” I told him.
A shocked look crossed Ronald Cohen’s face.
“Albert Dunn said that?”
I watched Cohen’s eyes glaze over. His blank stare reminded me of the old man who shot himself in the parking lot of the medical building on Clint Moore Road.
“Yes, Dr. Dunn said that and then he operated on Mrs. Blackstone to resolve the problem,” I told him. “She’s pregnant again and I’m betting she has a healthy baby this time. If she followed your advice, she never could have carried a baby full-term.”
“You can’t say that for sure,” the doctor defended himself.
“How could you not know she had a septate uterus?” I challenged him.
He opened his mouth but said nothing.
“I think you’re guilty of malpractice, Dr. Cohen.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” he said, with the look of a condemned man.
“Yes, it is,” I said, flipping the collection letter at him.
He scanned it briefly. “I’ll withdraw the collection action as a courtesy.”
“You’re not a courteous person,” I told Cohen. “You’re a self-centered prick.”
“While it is possible I may have misdiagnosed Mrs. Blackstone,” Dr. Cohen cleared his throat, “you can’t draw a conclusion on all my work or my character based on one misdiagnosis out of the thousands of cases I’ve handled successfully.”
“You didn’t misdiagnose a case,” I said. “You were criminally negligent.”
“You can’t prove that,” he protested but there was no fight in his voice.
“We can try. We’ll start by checking your records for similar situations,” I said.
“I doubt you’ll find anything. But does Mr. Blackstone intend to take me to court,” he asked.
“Mrs. Blackstone doesn’t want to take you to court,” I told him. “I do.”
“I don’t understand,” Dr. Cohen said.
“Mrs. Blackstone wants to go on with her life,” I explained. “She wants to have healthy, happy babies and put this whole mess behind her. But I’m concerned about your current and future patients. I can’t allow you to continue practicing at the risk of all these people.”
Boca Mournings Page 19
