Love Gone Mad (32 page)

It’s the last Saturday in July, his sixth weekend with the Wilhelms. The bedside table clock reads seven thirty. It’s almost the middle of the day for Conrad. At Whitehall, he’s up at five, does his two hundred crunches, followed by a hundred push-ups, and then reads a book he’s borrowed from the hospital library.

Conrad thinks about his time at Whitehall. It hasn’t been bad. He sees Nicole DuPont twice each week—Tuesdays and Thursdays—and the psychologist, Jim Morgan, once a week. Even though Jim looks like a pencil-necked geek, he’s really a good guy and has worked hard with Conrad—not as effectively as Nicole DuPont—but Jim’s got a good heart and really tries to help. Conrad sees Grayson every other week, which is always tough. The guy’s a straight shooter and takes shit from no one—doesn’t move the needle a micron on the bullshit gauge.

Then there’s group therapy: a gabfest of nonstop insanity from the inmates. The food at Whitehall is institutional—doesn’t compare to Martha Wilhelm’s—but it’s wholesome and plentiful. Conrad uses the treadmill and pumps serious iron; he’s added plenty of rock-hard muscle. He now weighs two hundred fifty-five pounds.

Conrad can read as much as he wants: law, medicine, chess, anything. He knows it’s his right as an insanity acquittee. His rights are enumerated in Part III of the Connecticut Statutes relating to the Department of Mental Health.

And he’s thoroughly familiar with the US Supreme Court’s recognition of the special status of criminal acquittees as set forth in
Jones v. United States
, 463 U.S. 354, 370, 103 S. Ct. 3043, 77 L. Ed. 2nd 694 (1983). The US Constitution permits the government to confine him to a mental institution until he’s achieved “restoration of sanity.”

Lord Jesus, restoration of sanity could take years and years. He
had
to get better.

So how’d he do it?

First, he kept his cool, suffered through the amiable chitchat with inmates, even with the craziest of the loony bin bunch. It wasn’t easy, but he suffered through it.

Second, he never missed an appointment with Jim Morgan, with Grayson, or with Nicole DuPont, his primary therapist and lifeline.

When he first got on the ward, he was on CO—constant observation. An aide escorted him everywhere. Even in the crapper. They were worried he might hang himself in the shower stall. Bedsheets can be dangerous.

But the staff learned to trust him. Which was important because their input was crucial about his eligibility for a weekend pass and eventually, for discharge.

He’d researched plenty on Don Compton’s laptop, especially the case of John Hinckley, the guy who tried to impress Jodie Foster by shooting Ronald Reagan. Hinckley was found NGRI. He had a monomania, just like what the shrinks said Conrad had. Hinckley was confined to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital but eventually got temporary release time.

Yes, it was crucial that Conrad got better. So he began searching his soul and realized that Marlee
is
his very own. Of
course
she is. To believe otherwise would be absolutely crazy—delusional. And as he said to Dr. DuPont, it was ridiculous to think Megan was carrying on with Douglas all those years ago; Conrad would have known
something
. After all, the hospital gossip mill at Yale-New Haven was ubiquitous.

Conrad read all about delusions. Patients rarely renounce them; and if they do, it’s a slow, painful process. It’s rarely a revelation. Rather, it’s a soul-searching evolution. Pastor Wilhelm would call it a spiritual enlightenment. You must labor long and hard to attain such spirituality.

Still, sitting at the bedside, Conrad thinks about the Mental Hygiene Law.

Part II of the General Provisions of the Connecticut Statutes governs state hospitals and the Department of Corrections. Section 17a-521 is very clear: “The Director of the Whitehall Forensic Division, under provisions he deems advisable, may permit a patient—under the provisions of Section 17a-584—to temporarily leave the institution, in the charge of his guardian, relatives, or friends.”

Conrad knew he needed a place to go—one the PSRB would find acceptable.

So he contacted Pastor Daniel Wilhelm, a sixty-year-old Lutheran minister he’d heard about through the hospital grapevine. The pastor worked with former inmates, parolees, and psycho-acquittees.

He and the good pastor read the Bible regularly—from Genesis to Apocalypse—and now Conrad’s virtually memorized the scriptures. Has it all down cold.

He’s on his sixth weekend pass, not locked up in Bedlam—that state-sanctioned snake pit where the psychos—in their soul-sapping sicknesses—shuffle through the hallways, drool like ghouls with glazed eyes and spastic gaits, grunt garbled word salad, and shout shit-twisted obscenities. Twice each day they line up at the nursing station amid the funk of unwashed bodies, where they wait like cattle for their medications.

Since his sanity’s been restored, he spends weekends with the Wilhelms, away from Whitehall with its mind-dead zombies, locked doors, the electronic monitoring system, exposed commodes, the straitjackets and isolation room—the sheer madness of it all.

C
onrad stands, bends forward, and touches his toes. He holds the position, letting the muscles in his lower back and hamstrings uncoil from their sleep-induced tightness. Then he reaches for the ceiling, stretches, and hears his spine put out a series of cracks.

No time for his morning crunches or push-ups. He has too much to do. He pads over to the window and looks out over the lacy green canopy of sycamores and Norway maples. The sky is quite light at this hour, and finches flutter from bushes to trees. Conrad can hear the house wrens’ bubbling calls. And a dove coos in the early morning light. Through the slightly opened window he catches the scent of cedar and Scotch pine in the neighbor’s backyard. He can smell the earth, too, an organic mix of soil, loam, and mulch. It’s going to be a clear July day with very little humidity. Last night the radio said the temperature would be seasonable, in the mideighties—just perfect for an outing.

He puts on his sweat socks, making sure the left one slides beneath the ankle bracelet; he steps into his jeans, dons a T-shirt, his new hiking boots, and a lightweight work shirt, grabs his day pack, and slips out of the bedroom. He treads lightly on the hallway’s polished oak floor, knowing the pastor’s a light sleeper.

He moves stealthily to the Wilhelms’ bedroom door and stops. He hears the pastor and Martha breathing—deep, regular intakes and exhalations of air. It’s the rhythm of sound sleep. Conrad hears the rustle of sheets as the pastor rolls onto his side. There’s a snort, then a series of deep breaths.

Conrad slips down the stairway, silent as a hand passing through a spider’s web. He’s thankful the stairway’s carpeted because every floorboard in this old colonial farmhouse creaks and groans. The worn wood of the banister slides smoothly beneath his hand as he descends, and he thinks the stairs should be replaced. He could renovate the entire place by himself in three months.

Crossing the living room, Conrad steps lightly on the hand-hooked rug and slips into the pine-paneled den. Holding his breath, he listens and hears soft breathing from the upstairs bedroom. He closes the den door—very gently, not even a tick of the metal latch—switches on the Tiffany desk lamp, peers beneath the computer table, and lowers the speaker volume to “Mute.” He boots it up.

Conrad thinks of the trail he’s followed, thanks to Don Compton’s laptop. A few months after the trial, Douglas and Haggarty got married and moved to Trumbull—set up house in a small ranch-style place. But they soon moved back to Eastport, probably to be closer to the hospital. Conrad followed their little migratory trail on Don Compton’s laptop, and though he doesn’t have their exact address in Eastport, it’s only a few clicks away.

He opens the Web browser and clicks on the address bar. He types in eastportct.gov and hits “Enter” on the keyboard. The town of Eastport’s Web page appears on the screen.

Eastport’s Web page displays the town’s fancy emblem. Plenty of information about the town’s history, population, demographics, more than you’d ever want to know.

On the right side of the screen, a heading appears: Online Services.

Beneath that, a list appears. It includes Board & Committee Meetings Minutes, Pay Taxes Online, Search for Online Forms, and Others.

He clicks on “Others.”

A new link appears: Offices.

He clicks on it.

A drop-down menu appears.

He clicks on one entry: Town Clerk’s Office.

A link appears: Public Records.

Beneath it: Mortgages, Liens, Property transfers. It’s all public information. There are very few secrets in the digital age. Yes, the information highway’s a treasure trove where almost anything or anyone can be found. Conrad hopes he’s doped it all out.

A click on “Public Records” brings up two boxes:

Upper box: Last Name

Lower box: First Name

He types “Douglas” in the upper box. He types “Adrian” in the lower box. He hits “Search.”

It comes right up: Adrian and Megan Haggarty Douglas.

The address: 14 Maplewood Lane, Eastport, Connecticut.

Mortgage: Chase Bank.

He disregards the other information. Not relevant.

They moved right back to Eastport, thinking Conrad would be locked away for years. Not that it matters: it’s all public—at any town hall. You’re only a few clicks away from anyone, anywhere in the world. Unless you’re in the Witness Protection Program, you can’t disappear. Besides, no one could’ve anticipated the progress he’s made, thanks to Nicole DuPont and Daniel Wilhelm.
It’s been restoration of sanity and salvation of soul
.

In the address bar at the top of the screen, he types in “Google Maps” and then hits “Enter.” A map of the United States comes up. The cursor blinks on the left side of a rectangle at the top of the page. Conrad types “14 Maplewood Lane, Eastport, CT” in the box.

He hits “Search Maps.” A schematic map appears. The picture automatically zeroes in on southwestern Connecticut. A balloon-shaped icon pops up and pinpoints 14 Maplewood Lane in Eastport. Conrad zooms in for a closer look.

Oh, yes … that’s gotta be it.

On the left side of the page, there’s a street level photograph of the house—a midsized center hall colonial—not one of these absurd McMansions that’ve cropped up like weeds, but an older structure, built maybe fifty, sixty years ago. It sits on a tree-lined cul-de-sac. The picture’s a frontal view of the house taken on a bright summer day.

Conrad slides the mouse so the pointer rests on the photograph; he moves the mouse so the picture rotates in each direction—providing views from different angles—left side, right side, front view. He rolls the scroll wheel for a close-up.

It’s pretty much what he’d expect in any of the tonier towns in Fairfield County, where people drive high-end Audis, BMWs, Porsches, Volvos, or Mercedes coupes and live in million-dollar-plus homes. The Douglas house shares the cul-de-sac with three others, all variations on colonial architecture.

Fourteen Maplewood Lane is a two-story, white clapboard house with a cedar-shingled roof, a centrally placed front door, multipaned windows, black louvered shutters, and stately pilasters. Pink and lavender azalea bushes are out front; lush rhododendrons, yews, and boxwoods flourish along the sides, and three apple trees form a small grove out front. A detached two-car garage with a covered portico leads into the house—no doubt, right into the mudroom, if it’s like the scores of houses Conrad’s worked on as a freelancer in the construction trade.

It makes for easy access, either through the mudroom door or the typically flimsy rear door. Conrad can tell the rear is shielded from the neighbors by a dense wall of lush Colorado spruce, like the evergreens he’d see back home. Privacy guaranteed.

He hits “Map” for a schematic of the streets surrounding Maplewood Lane. Moving the cursor to the Altitude Bar, he hits the minus sign and gets a view from five hundred feet in elevation. Each street is labeled.

Another click on the minus symbol: the map view soars to one thousand feet in elevation. It’s an eagle’s-eye view.

The map shows the sinuous course of the Merritt Parkway and all access streets running from the Merritt leading right to Maplewood Lane. Driving at moderate speed, the house is maybe ten minutes from the Merritt.

Conrad studies the map and quickly memorizes every street on the grid. In his mind, he delineates the precise route he’ll take.

He shuts the computer down.

Conrad opens the den door, stands stock-still, tilts his head, and listens. There’s not a sound except for the upstairs bathroom sink faucet dripping. A slow drip, which started last weekend. In the basement, the water heater kicks in, rumbling heavily. It’s straining. The intake valve needs an adjustment to let in more air. Morning light streams into the living room through the east-facing double-hung windows. Dust motes rise in the golden glow.

Conrad treads softly into the kitchen, opens the louvered pantry door, and reaches up to the top shelf, where the pastor keeps a two-tiered toolbox. He sets it on the Formica kitchen counter, unlatches it, and takes out a Phillips-head screwdriver, a folding knife, a long-handled paring-blade chisel, and a roll of black electrical tape. He sets them all on the kitchen counter.

He goes to the hall closet and removes a wire hanger.

Back in the kitchen, he sifts through the toolbox and slips out a wire cutter. Using the tool, he snaps through the hanger near its curvature, makes another cut, and sets the wire cutter back in the toolbox. He straightens the wire and pulls it to a length of two feet. Using pliers, he fashions a curve at one end of the wire and then returns the pliers to the toolbox. He wraps the hanger’s curved end with electrical tape—four complete revolutions—so it’ll grip well and won’t slip. He sets the wire on the counter.

Then it happens.

A sound—a sudden snort, a gulp of air comes from upstairs. Conrad can tell the pastor’s awake. That sound precedes his getting out of bed each morning.

Conrad hears the bedsprings squeak. The pastor’s moving, rolling onto his side, about to get out of bed. Then there’s a rustling of fabric—bedcovers folding back. The pastor sits at the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor.