GRAY MATTER (14 page)
Authors: Gary Braver
I
t had been days since Travis Valentine had seen his mom, and he missed her. All he remembered was being down by the canal looking for butterflies, and then he woke up in this room with the TV cartoons going all the time and the animal paintings on the walls.
t had been days since Travis Valentine had seen his mom, and he missed her. All he remembered was being down by the canal looking for butterflies, and then he woke up in this room with the TV cartoons going all the time and the animal paintings on the walls.
There was a tap at the door, then the turn of the lock, and a woman came in with a plate of cookies. She had said that her name was Vera. She also said she was a nurse and a friend of his mother’s.
“Here you are,” she said, putting the tray on the beanbag chair. “How you doin’?”
“When am I going home?” It was the same question he asked every time she delivered something.
“Soon,” she said. “How do you like the books?”
On the floor there was a pile of picture books of butterflies. (Somebody must have told them about his hobby.) He already had three of them at home.
The woman picked one up and thumbed through it. “Very pretty. What’s this one called?”
“A barred yellow swallowtail,” he said, knowing she wasn’t really interested.
“You’re a smart little guy.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Because you’re special, that’s why.” Then she said, “I hear you have your own butterfly collection at home.” She fanned through the book.
He said nothing. He did not like her face. It was pinchy and mean looking.
“Where’s my mom?”
“She’s home.” Vera’s mouth was small with thin lips that were very red. “And if you cooperate you can go home real soon.”
Cooperate. That meant eat their food, swallow their medication, and take their tests. He didn’t know what the tests were. But Vera had said that was the reason he was here: to take the tests. Then he could go home.
He looked at the cookies, but did not take one.
Vera got up. “Enjoy the cookies,” she said and left using a key.
That was the only way out of the room—a key. And they didn’t give him one.
He hated the room. There were no windows, the door had no handle and was always locked from the outside. The floor was padded with some plastic-covered foam. The furniture was also soft—beanbag chairs, air mattress on the floor, a plastic table, and a hanging plastic clothes organizer. There were five of everything—shirts, pants, pairs of socks. Five days’ worth.
It was clearly a place for kids because of the stupid paintings on the wall and all the stuffed animals, the boxes of “nontoxic” Crayolas on the floor, and coloring books and paper. And there was nothing hard or sharp. No pencils or pens or metal or even wooden toys. Just soft puzzle pieces and rubber building blocks. And stuffed animals. Even the food was safe—sandwiches served on easily crumbled Styrofoam plates; and there were no forks or knives, not even the plastic kind. The only hard surface in the place besides the TV cover was the black plastic hemisphere on the ceiling.
Travis couldn’t see the camera, but he knew there was one inside because he had once asked his mom what those black bubbles were on the ceiling of the Target in Fenton on Florida Highway 75. Mom had said it’s how the people in the back room make sure folks don’t shoplift stuff.
There certainly was nothing worth stealing in here. But the folks in the back room were watching him—even when he went to the bathroom—which made him feel creepy. He hoped they went to sleep at night. That was another thing: The lights never went off, they just dimmed automatically at bedtime, which was when the TV went off.
In the corner was a toilet with a plastic blue curtain, but you could see through it. The TV was built into the wall and was covered with a hard Plexiglas front. It wasn’t a real TV since all it showed were cartoons which he had seen dozens of times. And it was on whenever he was awake, so that the sound
constantly filled the room. He couldn’t hear the outside—no cars or planes. No sounds of other people.
constantly filled the room. He couldn’t hear the outside—no cars or planes. No sounds of other people.
He missed the canal. He missed the woods. He missed the sounds of birds. He missed his friends. But most of all, he missed Bo and his mom.
He didn’t know where in the world he was, but he had a sense that he was far away. Really far.
He looked at the cookies which made him think of his mom and her cookies. And he began to cry. He didn’t want to cry. He had done a lot of that for the last two days. Sleep, stare at the TV, and cry. But he couldn’t help it.
So he lay on the mattress and cried a deep cry, hoping he would fall asleep and wake up at home.
T
he first thing Greg did on the morning after his visit to the Essex Medical Center was to multifax a memo to the medical examiner’s offices throughout the state asking if anybody had seen any human remains with such a pattern of holes in the skulls as in the accompanying photos—holes that appeared to have been made by medical drills: “Any information may help in the investigation of two missing children, one of whom is a kidnap and possible murder victim.” He left his name and number.
he first thing Greg did on the morning after his visit to the Essex Medical Center was to multifax a memo to the medical examiner’s offices throughout the state asking if anybody had seen any human remains with such a pattern of holes in the skulls as in the accompanying photos—holes that appeared to have been made by medical drills: “Any information may help in the investigation of two missing children, one of whom is a kidnap and possible murder victim.” He left his name and number.
Nobody seemed to know what the holes were for, but every instinct in his being told him that there was some sort of plan—some sort of connection between the Essex case and the remains of the two kids.
When he was finished, his telephone rang. It was his supervisor, T.J. Gelford. He wanted him to come to his office. Something in the tone of Gelford’s voice told him it was not a routine conference.
Greg went upstairs to the detective sergeant’s office. Greg stiffened as he entered. Gelford was not alone. With him were Chief Norm Adler and the internal affairs officer, Rick Bolduk. They nodded when he came in, but nobody was smiling.
“Have a seat, Greg,” Gelford said.
Greg felt his heart rate kick up.
“I’d like to know where you were yesterday afternoon.”
Greg gauged their expressions as they waited for his answer. Their faces could have been hewn from Mount Rushmore. “I was on a case.”
“Which case?”
Before he went off on a job for any length of time, he was supposed to report to his supervisor or at least leave word with the dispatcher, especially if the investigation took him out of town. But failure to report did not call for a tribunal. “I was on the North Shore.”
“The North Shore? That’s a hundred miles out of our jurisdiction. You were supposed to be working the high school break-in.”
Some kids had broken through a rear window and trashed a room, maybe doing eight hundred dollars’ worth of damage. It was not a Priority One crime. “That’s not what this is all about.”
“That’s right,” Gelford said and glanced at a piece of paper in front of him. “We got a call from a Dr. Paul Doria, an internist from the Essex Medical Center that you’d been up there mucking around about this skull case.”
“I was investigating some leads.”
“He said that you threatened him and two other ER staffers with arrest unless they showed you somebody’s X rays. We contacted the other two, and they confirmed.”
“Because they failed to report suspicions of child abuse.”
“What suspicions of child abuse? The kid had some old scars in his head.”
“That’s right, and in the same places as the holes in the two skulls. I wanted to see if there’s a connection.”
“Did you?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“No you’re not, because you coerced three members of a medical staff to compromise a patient’s right to privacy, and that’s a violation of policy.” He handed Greg a piece of paper.
Greg didn’t have to read it to know it was a formal letter of reprimand.
“I sorry to say this, Greg, but you’re being put on notice,” Rick Bolduk said. “If you do anything else on this skull case, we will proceed with disciplinary action.”
Greg stiffened. He knew what that meant. At best, they would take away his gold shield and bust him back to a foot officer chasing speeders. At worst, he could be suspended, maybe even terminated.
“Nobody wants to do this, Greg,” Rick Bolduk added, “but you’ve stepped over the line and shown insubordination to your supervisor. Those are grounds for dismissal, but we’re giving you a second chance. From this point on, you’re off this case. Period.”
Greg nodded.
“It’s in the letter, but I’m putting you on night shift, seven to three,” Norm Adler said.
Greg made a flat grin. “Great.” Nothing happened on night shift in Sagamore except car accidents or drunks beating up their spouses. So what they’d give him to fill his time would be a bunch of petty larcenies and bum-check cases. His punishment was to further marginalize him. “Starting when?”
“Tomorrow.”
Greg knew that it was useless to protest, only because they were right to do this. He had operated on hunches, none of which had panned out. And he wasn’t doing his job in the town he was hired to protect.
“I apologize,” he said, and got up to leave, taking the letter with him.
“Greg, I don’t know how to say this without saying it, but maybe you should see a professional about this obsession you have for this skull case. I don’t think it’s healthy for you. I can give you some names.”
He was saying that Greg was weird: that his pursuit of this case was pathological. That he could end up like Remington Bristow, the investigator in the Philadelphia medical examiner’s office who spent thirty-six years doggedly investigating the 1957 “Boy in the Box” case, only to go to his grave without ever determining the identity of the murdered child found naked in a cardboard carton by the side of a country road—or his killer. That Greg should see a shrink.
Maybe they were right.
But it crossed Greg’s mind that working nights freed up his days. He nodded his appreciation. “I’ll be okay.”
B
y eight-thirty on Saturday morning Thorndyke Field was a mob scene. The four adjacent soccer fields had been sectioned off with orange cones as eight teams all in different-colored uniforms practiced kicking maneuvers. Along the sidelines, parents and other spectators had gathered with orange wedges and coolers full of drinks.
y eight-thirty on Saturday morning Thorndyke Field was a mob scene. The four adjacent soccer fields had been sectioned off with orange cones as eight teams all in different-colored uniforms practiced kicking maneuvers. Along the sidelines, parents and other spectators had gathered with orange wedges and coolers full of drinks.
The parking lot was nearly filled as Rachel and Martin arrived with Dylan. The boy looked positively adorable in his crisp white uniform and new blue soccer shoes and bright red sports bag over his shoulder, the contents of which consisted of three boxes of granola bars—enough for everybody on the team (his idea)—and his Curious George doll. At this age level the teams were designated only by their colors. This morning the Whites were playing the Reds.
As they approached their corner of the field, Rachel spotted Sheila. Lucinda was on the Reds. In Hawthorne, boys and girls competed on the same teams.
Dylan looked forward to these games, and he always arrived full of enthusiasm. This morning was no different. Dylan did not start, which was fine since there were so many kids on the team.
A few minutes into the game, somebody kicked the ball point-blank into Lucinda’s midsection, sending her to the sidelines whimpering. While Rachel took some shamed-faced satisfaction in that, Dylan went over to her and handed her his Curious George. It was clear from Lucinda’s perfunctory dismissal of him that she did not comprehend the comforting gesture, or was just
too grown-up to accept it. But Dylan’s untainted compassion brought tears to Rachel’s eyes. After a few seconds, Lucinda got up and joined her teammates, while Dylan returned to the sidelines.
too grown-up to accept it. But Dylan’s untainted compassion brought tears to Rachel’s eyes. After a few seconds, Lucinda got up and joined her teammates, while Dylan returned to the sidelines.
After fifteen minutes or so, when the score was 3 to 2 in favor of the Reds, Dylan was sent onto the field.
Dylan was playing forward end. The kickoff went deep into the Reds’ line. After some back and forth, the ball came to Dylan. He quickly positioned himself but kicked it the wrong way. A fast response from one of his teammates on defense sent it back toward the Reds. Dylan rushed into the fray and got the ball. Martin yelled and pointed toward the Reds’ goalie, but again Dylan kicked it the opposite way.
Some of his teammates yelled at him, but Dylan ran after the ball and continued to run with it toward the Whites’ goalie who tried to wave him back. But he was too lost in his footwork. And before anybody could stop him, Dylan toed the ball into the net.
The Reds jumped up and down and the Whites shouted protests.
The coach came out and put his hand on Dylan’s shoulders and tried to explain to him that although he played the ball well, he had scored for the Reds. That he should run for the net with the Red goalie not the White goalie.
Dylan didn’t seem to understand at first, but when he was taken out of the game, he began to cry. Out on the field, Lucinda was consulting with her coaches, looking like a World Cup champ discussing strategies. Meanwhile Dylan squatted behind the chalk line, crying in his hands. Rachel and Martin went over to console him. “There’s nothing to cry about,” Rachel said.
“I’m a dummy. Everybody says.”
“No you’re not. And don’t say that.”
Rachel looked at Martin. She could read his expression. Several times in the last few weeks Martin had practiced passing maneuvers with Dylan, trying to get him to understand which goal was theirs, but nothing seemed to have stuck. He simply didn’t get the fundamentals of the game even though he had been playing for nearly two months. He was much better at T-ball, which started up next week. But Rachel still feared that he was developing an inferiority complex.
“Hey, Dylan,” Lucinda sang out as she pranced by after the ball. “Thanks for the free goal.”
Goddamn little bitch.
But Rachel said nothing. Across the field she spotted Sheila in a clutch of other parents rooting on the Reds. She had no idea that Rachel was fantasizing about Lucinda falling on her face. She knew it was awful of her, but at the moment she hated that little girl.
When the game was over, Sheila caught up to Rachel on the way to the parking lot and pulled her aside as Martin and Dylan went to their car.
“Did you give them a call?” Sheila asked, meaning the Nova Children’s Center.
Rachel was still upset over the incident with Lucinda, but she did not let on. “Yes, and we have an appointment in two days.”
She had spoken to a Dr. Denise Samson and explained the nature of Dylan’s problems. The woman said to bring him in for an assessment. In addition to past test results, they needed a complete profile of his language skills, long-term/short-term memory, sequencing, abstractions/concrete tests, et cetera. They also wanted to schedule a functional MRI, which meant viewing his brain during cognitive testing.
Sheila seemed to beam at the news. “Great. You’re not going to regret it. They’re miracle workers over there.” Then she checked her watch. “Oops, gotta go. Showing a place on Magnolia Drive. Big buckaroos.” She blew Rachel a kiss, still grinning.
Rachel watched her hustle after Lucinda toward her car, wondering why she was so elated over her appointment at the Nova Children’s Center. Much more than Rachel was.
As always when Dylan went to bed, Rachel or Martin would read a book with him.
Tonight he had picked
Elmo, the Cat from Venus
. Of course, Dylan technically could not read, but they called it reading. He had simply memorized the story line with the pictures and knew when to turn the pages. But it made him happy.
Elmo, the Cat from Venus
. Of course, Dylan technically could not read, but they called it reading. He had simply memorized the story line with the pictures and knew when to turn the pages. But it made him happy.
Halfway through the book, Rachel felt her heart slump as she thought of Dylan trying to entertain the Dell kids with funny faces while they composed poetry on the computers.
She kissed his silky hair as he recited the pages, feeling the warmth of his head beneath her lips. No matter how hard he tried, he would forever feel
stuck, humiliated, surpassed by other kids who would go on to bigger things. And he would never grow to appreciate the higher aspects of science, math, literature, or art. He would never know the higher pleasures of discovery or creativity.
stuck, humiliated, surpassed by other kids who would go on to bigger things. And he would never grow to appreciate the higher aspects of science, math, literature, or art. He would never know the higher pleasures of discovery or creativity.
As she listened to him recite, all she could think was that he would grow up feeling inferior—that his wonderful enthusiasm would turn in on itself as he learned what a limited space he occupied in the world.
After they finished reading, Rachel sat on the rocking chair in his room and watched her son sleep, his Curious George on the pillow beside him.
Sometime later, Rachel awoke.
She was in a hospital ward. For a moment, she was totally confused and frightened because she couldn’t recall how she got here. Maybe she had had a stroke, that while putting Dylan to bed she’d been struck by an aneurysm, sending her into a blackout.
She was in a bed and hooked up to an IV and a vital-functions monitor that chirped as neon lines made spikes across the screens. They appeared normal. In fact, she felt normal. So what was she doing in a hospital?
As she stared around the room, odd features began to assume a pattern of familiarity: A small crib sat at the foot of the bed; flowers sprouted from vases on the tables; stuffed animals filled a visitor’s chair. Hanging across the mirror was a CONGRATULATIONS streamer. And cards. Lots of cards on the food table to her right. Some with cartoons of naked bouncing babies. IT’S A BOY!!!
My God
. She was in a maternity ward.
. She was in a maternity ward.
That couldn’t be. She didn’t recall being pregnant. Besides, that was medically impossible. She had had a hysterectomy two years ago. It made no sense.
Of course it made no sense, she told herself. This was all a dream. A flashback dream. And the sounds of someone approaching the room cut through the thick mist of sleep. And fear and confusion gave way to a sudden rush of joy.
“Here he is,” announced the nurse.
Through the door came a nurse who looked vaguely familiar. But Rachel was too confused to rummage for an identity because the woman was holding a newborn baby. “Here he is,” she sang out. And she gently placed the little bundle in Rachel’s arms.
Rachel couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Dylan, and a replay of the day he was born.
Tears of joy flooded her eyes. She was reliving the most beautiful moments of her life. The birth of her only child. Her beautiful little boy. What a wonderful dream.
In that hazy margin between wakefulness and dream-sleep, she wished it wouldn’t end. She wished the moment would telescope indefinitely. Because deep down in the lightless regions of her conscious mind she recalled a stalking fear born out of a report she had read somewhere. In the article a phrase had cut through all the technobabble like a seismic shock—the single solitary phrase:
chromosomal damage.
chromosomal damage.
Not my baby.
The moment passed as somebody put a hand on her shoulder. Through her tears she recognized Martin beside her in a chair. She hadn’t noticed him before, but that was part of the Lewis Carroll absurdity of dreams.
“He’s got your head.”
“Yes,” she said, not wanting to break the spell by questioning his odd wording. So she nodded as if Martin had said,
He’s got your eyes.
He’s got your eyes.
Dylan was wearing one of the little knitted caps they put on newborns. With the little point at the top he looked like a baby elf. But he was beginning to fuss. And though his face was still red and a little wrinkled, Rachel decided that the cap looked tight across his brow.
“It’s okay, little man, it’s okay. Mommy will remove this thing.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said the nurse. “It’s a little cool in here.”
“Oh, just for a moment. Besides, he’s half-hidden.”
The nurse rocked. “Well, I suppose.”
Ever so delicately Rachel peeled back the little cap with her fingers. For a moment, Rachel froze.
Then from deep inside, a scream rose out of her as her mind tried to process what her eyes were taking in: The top of Dylan’s skull was missing. And in its place was a gaping dark hole, edged with red raw tissue and a white layer of bone.
Rachel was still screaming as she stared into the gaping brain pan of her infant’s head, wondering in a crazy side thought why no blood had stained the tiny white cap, and why Dylan was still alive, in fact, behaving like a perfectly healthy infant, staring at her wide-eyed, his little pink berry mouth
sucking for her nipple, his hands making little pudgy fists—all in spite of the fact that the top of his head was missing.
sucking for her nipple, his hands making little pudgy fists—all in spite of the fact that the top of his head was missing.
Rachel’s scream caught in her throat like a shard of glass. In the overhead light she spotted something inside his skull. It was his brain, but it was a tiny shrunken thing lying at the bottom.
“Boy, oh boy! He’s sure got an appetite, haven’t you, little guy?” the nurse chortled.
“Well, that’s
Something
he inherited from his old man,” Martin said with a big happy grin.
Something
he inherited from his old man,” Martin said with a big happy grin.
Was it possible that they didn’t notice?
Rachel wondered. But how could that be under these harsh lights? Or maybe she was hallucinating?
Rachel wondered. But how could that be under these harsh lights? Or maybe she was hallucinating?
While Dylan nursed happily at her breast, Rachel closed her eyes tightly, counted to three, then opened them again, hoping against hope that that hideous vision would go away. But it persisted. “Wh-what happened to his brain?” she cried.
“Oh, that.” The nurse glanced over her glasses at Dylan. “Just your basic DBS.”
“DBS?”
“Dope brain syndrome.”
“WHAT?”
“Dope brain syndrome.
Dysgenic occi-parietal encephalation.
We see that from time to time. It’s from mothers who did a lot of TNT when they were younger. Take enough of that stuff, and it discombobulates the chromosomes,” she added while straightening out Rachel’s sheet. “But, you know, except for the minibrain, you almost never see any funny physical stuff—flippers or webbed fingers or extra toes. Really, just the ole dope brain.”
Dysgenic occi-parietal encephalation.
We see that from time to time. It’s from mothers who did a lot of TNT when they were younger. Take enough of that stuff, and it discombobulates the chromosomes,” she added while straightening out Rachel’s sheet. “But, you know, except for the minibrain, you almost never see any funny physical stuff—flippers or webbed fingers or extra toes. Really, just the ole dope brain.”
“Dope brain,” Martin said simply, his voice without inflection. “He takes after you.”
Then they both looked at Rachel and in unison said, “DOPE BRAIN DOPE BRAIN DOPE BRAIN—”
“Stop!” Rachel screamed. “Please stop.”
“Nothing to get upset about,” the nurse said, and poked her fingers into Dylan’s skull and pulled out his brain as he continued to suckle. “Pardon my French, but you musta done a lot of shit, if you ask me, ma’am.”
Paralyzed with horror, Rachel stared at the poor pathetic little thing in the palm of the nurse’s hand. Like all the pictures of brains she had seen, it
was yellow and split down the middle and wrinkled with convolutions. But so small. Like a peeled chestnut.
was yellow and split down the middle and wrinkled with convolutions. But so small. Like a peeled chestnut.
“See? It doesn’t even bother him,” the nurse said, and she dropped the thing back into Dylan’s skull. “There you go, little guy.”
Dylan burped and went back to the nipple.
“He’s
awfully
cute, though,” the nurse said, grinning expansively. “Aren’t you, you little monkey.”
awfully
cute, though,” the nurse said, grinning expansively. “Aren’t you, you little monkey.”
“Don’t call him that,” Rachel protested.
Suddenly the nurse’s face shifted as if the flesh were re-forming across her skull. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly and suddenly she was Sheila MacPhearson. She pressed her face to Rachel’s until it filled her vision. Her lips were big and rubbery and they muttered something.
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