Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (31 page)

“Briefly, what is hypnosis?” asked Boone.

“The mind works at two levels—conscious and subconscious.” Golde used his large hands to help explain, the hankie still in one of them. “At the conscious level, the mind causes the body to perform daily activities, such as washing the car, going to work, or cooking dinner. Meanwhile, the subconscious mind causes the body to perform daily functions that we don’t even think about, like breathing, swallowing, heart beating, and such.

“During hypnotism,” Golde continued, “the conscious mind is subdued, making the subconscious mind more readily open to instruction, or manipulation. In essence, the subconscious mind can be instructed what to do and, in turn, can preside over the body accordingly.”

“You used the word
manipulation.
” Boone took his jacket off and laid it across the back of the chair. “Can a mind be manipulated while under hypnosis?”

“I don’t mean to make your question sound…repetitive or trite, but that is basically what hypnosis is: manipulation of the mind.”

Dooley squirmed ever so slightly in his chair.

“Dr. Golde, most hypnotherapists would say that hypnosis is all good, that it is a science that has helped thousands of people overcome their problems,” Boone said. “One of our previous witnesses, Twila Yonder, even testified under oath that Madam Endora hypnotized individuals to help them conquer problems such as weight control, drug addiction, insomnia, and other phobias. So while some believe no harm can come from hypnotherapy, you disagree. Is this correct?”

“Strongly.” Golde nodded. “Hypnotherapy can be a marvelous tool, when used appropriately. That’s one of the ways I make a very good living.” He grinned, getting a few smiles from the crowd. “However, I have personally been made aware of a number of cases in which hypnotism has been terribly abused.”

“How has it been abused?”

“Under hypnosis, the minds of innocent people have been programmed, if you will, to commit robberies, to purposefully forget things, to become sick, to slander, to lie, and to assume other people’s identities. I’ve even heard of several cases in which people have been hypnotized and convinced to take their own lives. All of these things fall under the umbrella of what we in the profession call criminal hypnotherapy.”

Boone clasped his hands, took a few steps, and glanced around the room, giving the jury plenty of time to digest Dr. Golde’s testimony.

“Is there more?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Golde said, sniffling and dabbing his nose again with the hankie. “We’ve heard of cases in which people’s minds have been manipulated to make them hallucinate, to make them feel unbearable pain, and to perform all kinds of inexplicable behavior.”

“Including…murder?”

“Yes, including murder.”

Finally, a score for our side, as the courtroom lit up with surprise.

“Dr. Golde, why would a person allow himself or herself to be hypnotized in such a way?” Boone walked away from the doctor.

“Therein lies the enormity of the problem with criminal hypnotherapy. Through what we call disguised induction, a person can be hypnotized without even knowing it. It can happen fast, and it can happen in any number of ways.”

“What ways?” Boone asked, eyeing the jurors. “Tell us more about this
disguised induction.
”

“A good hypnotist can induce someone—and I mean gain
complete
control of him in a deep trance state—while that person sleeps, while he shares a conversation, even while he talks over the phone.”

The people in courtroom B-3 seemed stunned and excited by Golde’s testimony.

“And the subject of such hypnosis would never know he or she had been hypnotized, is that what you’re saying?” asked Boone, on the tips of his toes.

“Objection!” yelled Dooley from his seat. “Leading the witness.”

“Overruled.” Sprockett looked at Golde for an answer.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s on the rare side, but it is reality.”

Boone walked toward me. “Dr. Golde.” He turned to face the jury and positioned himself right next to the chair in which I sat. “Please answer a very important question for the court today. Would it be possible for a good hypnotist—a professional—to hypnotize a man, have that man commit a murder with a gun, and have that man not remember one iota of that heinous crime?”

Dooley scrambled past his table to get to the bench.

Boone raced toward Judge Sprockett right alongside Dooley.

“Your Honor, what is going on here?” Dooley tried to whisper but failed. “Are you going to allow this, this…freak show? I object! Hearsay. Leading the witness.
Conjecture!”

I felt chaos, relief, and tension all mixed together.

“Mr. Dooley, be seated.” Sprockett looked directly at the doctor over the top of his thin glasses. “Dr. Golde, answer the question.”

His face was slightly red as he concentrated on giving the answer he’d been trying to hold for the past minute. He cleared his throat. “Yes.” Golde leaned toward the mike. “Yes, I consider that murder scenario feasible indeed.”

With this, several reporters actually broke out their cell phones and began making calls.

“Let me say,” Golde raised his voice above the frenzy, “I’ve seen enough criminal hypnosis to sympathize with Mr. Lester’s case—”

“You were not asked your opinion, Doctor.” Dooley stood up with his arms outstretched. “Can we have some order, Your Honor?”

Sprockett cracked his gavel repeatedly as Boone and I grabbed each other’s shoulders and laughed.

24

NEITHER GRAY NOR BRIAN
thought I should go to Topeka. Boone was vehemently opposed. In fact, we ended up arguing about it into the night, when the three of us were way too tired to speak seriously—about anything.

In my heart, however, I had a hunch this would be my last opportunity to meet Karen in person for quite some time. I was already in hot water. And if this trip would turn up the heat more, then so be it.

The next morning in the back of a white limo on the way to Miami International, I phoned Mary to give her an update on the police interrogation and to tell her of my plans to visit Karen. I also asked about Olivia, whose condition remained the same.

I could tell Mary was surprised by my attitude that morning. She probably expected me to be in a deep state of depression over the circumstances in which I now found myself. However, there had been an evil about Endora so subtle, yet so eerily real and powerful…I must confess, I was relieved she was gone.

I felt as if my life was beginning all over again.

Certainly, I was concerned about the future, about the very real possibility of going to prison. Boone had made it sound as if he was surprised I wasn’t locked up already. But something was different that day. A peace had settled over me. It penetrated my soul and surpassed understanding.

When I told Mary I had finally surrendered my life to God, I thought she had literally passed out. The phone went silent for a long time. Then I heard her sobbing. She said she would call me later, when she could talk.

Meanwhile, I had a mission to accomplish—in about the next twelve hours.

The DeathStroke jet provided a beautiful view of the shiny lakes and flat farmlands of Kansas before it touched down at Forbes Field midday. I decided to rent a car, grab a bite, and run an errand before trying to locate Karen’s new residence at 1585 Primrose Lane.

Amid brochures for the “World-Famous” Topeka Zoo, the Kansas Museum of History, Gage Park, and other local attractions, I found a Topeka street map in the lobby of the rental car company. Soon, I pulled away from Forbes Field in a dark green Chevy Lumina and headed straight into town on Topeka Boulevard.

For a state capital, Topeka seemed fairly small, probably around 150,000 people. It had that familiar Midwestern feel, with many traditional, low-rise government-style buildings and slightly dated architecture.

I stopped at a cozy local café to study my map over a cup of soup and a sandwich, then I ducked into a shop next door to pick up a surprise for Karen.

Back in the Lumina, I cracked the windows, because the skies were sunny and the fall air was crisp and refreshing. After driving across the peaceful Kansas River, it was another twenty minutes or so before I spotted Karen’s street and found my heart beating a mile a minute. I checked myself in the rearview mirror and made the left-hand turn on Primrose Lane.

The houses along the wide, tree-lined street were mostly older, two-story traditionals with rocking-chair front porches. They were midsized homes and quite close together. The huge trees and small, well-manicured front lawns made it look like a wonderful, peaceful place to live. Uneven, cracking sidewalks ran down both sides of the leaf-filled street.

Karen’s house appeared freshly painted in white, with glossy black shutters. Some kind of pretty white, yellow, and orange flowers filled the area in front of the house along the sidewalk that led to the front porch; I thought they were chrysanthemums. The door to the separate, single-car garage out back was down, and my heart sank when I realized she might be at work or church or wherever she went during the day.

I held her gift delicately behind my back and rang the doorbell anyway, nervously looking around at the porch swing, rocking chairs, and wicker furniture. After several more rings, I walked around back to peer in the garage. It was indeed empty.

Bummer.

Backing the Lumina out of the double concrete driveway, I eased it along the opposite side of the street and stopped to glance back at Karen’s house. Sitting there for a few moments, a brilliant idea came to me.

I jotted down a note to Karen and ran it to her mailbox, placing it with the rest of her mail. Then I resumed my position in the car and, with the windows down and the seat tilted back, closed my eyes and waited.

The sound of the street getting busier as the workday ended roused me a bit, but I was still snoozing when I heard a car pull up. Raising my seat but staying low, I watched the white Honda Accord come to a stop in Karen’s driveway. As the driver side door slowly opened, I found myself completely mesmerized to finally see Karen and have the chance to meet her in person.

I must have gulped aloud when I saw the lady who now unfolded out of the little white car. She was about five foot seven, with long, shiny blond hair, wearing a dark blue skirt, matching jacket, white blouse, and dark high heels. The spring in her step and the cheerful way she carried herself confirmed this was the Karen I had come to see.

News flash from Topeka: Karen Bayliss is gorgeous!

Why had I envisioned her so much younger? All this time I pictured myself coming to meet a college-age student. But why? She had told me not long ago she was twenty-seven. It had just never registered until that moment, in front of her home.

Okay, Lester, keep your mind on the business at hand…

Juggling a stack of folders, a briefcase, and a coffee mug, she made her way to the side of the house where she keyed her way in. Although tempted to run up to the front door and ring the bell again, I stuck to my plan and remained slouched in the rental car, waiting for her to get the mail.

The next half hour felt more like three hours. But finally I saw movement in the front room downstairs, and then the heavy front porch door unstuck and opened wide. Karen wore blue jean overalls, a red sweatshirt, moccasins, and a wide, white hair band that pulled the bulk of her light hair back so you could see her bright face.

She bounced down the front steps, waved to two boys riding past on their bikes, then—of all things—she stopped to talk with an elderly lady watering her flowers in the lawn next door.

The suspense was too much.

After another grueling ten minutes, she said good-bye and finally made her way across the street to the black mailbox. I was several houses down and tilted way back in my seat so she wouldn’t see me. She gathered the thick stack of mail, looked both ways, and crossed back over the street toward her house, sorting through the mail on her way.

That was my cue to move out.

Quickly, I eased out of the car and nudged the door shut. Next, I quietly assumed my position, leaning casually with my behind against the hood of the car, cradling the gift gently in front of me.

Holding several pieces of mail in her teeth and flipping through the remaining stack in her hand, Karen made her way up the steps to the porch, opened the screen door, and went back inside, closing the big wooden door slightly with her foot.

I waited, my heart thumping.

About three minutes later, I saw a reflection in the front window. She was looking out, I thought, directly at me. Slowly, the silhouette disappeared. It was another minute or so before the curtain in the other front room moved slightly. She must have read the note I left:

Dear Miss Bayliss:

I was
here with a special delivery for you today, but you were not home. If you will kindly look across the street, however, you will notice that I was able to leave the delivery with that kind man you see leaning against the green car.

Along with the dozen white roses he is holding, he sends special thanks to you for your many years of prayer and devotion. By the way, Miss Bayliss, since you seem to know so much about roses and their colors—do you know what the white rose means?