Over the Edge (17 page)

'Andy!' said his mother sharply. 'What do you say to the doctor?'

'I already did!'

'Then say it again.'

'Thank you.' Begrudgingly.

'Bye now,' said Sarita as they walked away. When they were gone, she shook her head. 'Lots of stress there. Come on, Alex, let's go to my office.'

The room was different from what I remembered. Spartan, less professorial. Then I realised that she'd altered it to accommodate her disability. The bookshelves that once lined one wall from floor to ceiling had been exchanged for low plastic modules that ran around three walls. The massive carved desk that had served as the room's centrepiece was gone; in its place was a low table that fitted into one corner. The wall behind the table had once borne dozens of photographs - a pictorial essay of her athletic career. Now it was nearly blank; only a few pictures remained. A pair of folding chairs stood propped against the wall. What was left was mostly empty space. When the wheelchair entered, the space disappeared.

'Please,' she said, pointing to the chairs. I unfolded one and sat.

She manoeuvered around the table and put down the clipboard. While she checked her messages, I looked at the photos she'd left hanging: a beaming teenager receiving the Gold Medal at Innsbruck; a faded and yellowed programme from the 1965 Ice Capades; an arty black-and-white shot of a lithe young woman gliding on ice, long blonde hair streaming; the framed cover of a woman's magazine promising its readers health and beauty tips from Skating Superstar Sarita.

She swivelled around, and her pale eyes circled the office.

'The minimalist look.' She smiled. 'Gives me easy access and keeps me sane. Since I've been in this thing, I find myself getting claustrophobic. Hemmed in. This way I can close the doors and spin around like a nut. Dervish therapy.'

Her laugh was throaty and warm.

'Well, dear boy,' she said, looking me over, 'time has treated you kindly.'

'You, too,' I said automatically, and immediately felt like a jerk.

The last time I'd seen her had been three years ago at an APA convention. She'd been recovering from an MS attack that had left her enfeebled but able to walk with the aid of a cane. I wondered how long she'd been in the wheelchair; from the look of her legs it had been a while since she'd stood upright.

Observing my embarrassment, she pointed to her knees and laughed again.

'Hey, except for these I'm still first-class merchandise, right?'

I took a good look at her. She was forty but had the face of a woman ten years younger. It was an all-American face, sunny and open under a mop of thick blonde hair, now cut in a pageboy, skin deeply tanned and lightly dusted with freckles, eyes open and guileless.

'Absolutely.'

'Liar.' She chuckled. 'Next time I'm depressed I'll call you up for supportive prevarication.'

I smiled.

'So,' she said, growing serious, 'let's talk about Jamey. What do you need to know?'

'When did he first start to look psychotic?'

'A little over a year ago.'

'Was it gradual or a sudden thing?'

'Gradual. Insidious, really. You worked with him, Alex. You remember what a strange kid he was. Moody, hostile, defiant. Stratospheric IQ, but he refused to channel any of it. All the others got heavily involved in their studies. They're doing beautifully. The few classes he started he dropped out of. Failure to enroll was a clear violation of the project contract, and I could have dropped him, but I didn't because I felt sorry for him. Such a sad little boy, no parents, I kept hoping he'd work it through. The only thing he seemed to care about was poetry - reading, not writing. He was so obsessive about it that I kept thinking he might eventually do something creative, but he never did. In fact, one day he dropped poetry cold and developed an overnight interest in business and economics. Never went anywhere after that without the Wall Street Journal and an armload of finance texts.'

'When was this?'

She thought for a moment.

'I'd say around eighteen months ago. And that wasn't the only change he made. Since I'd known him, he'd been a real junk food junkie. It was a kind of running joke, how he'd eat a buffalo chip if you put Cool Whip on it. Suddenly all he wanted was sprouts, tofu, whole grains, and unfiltered juice.'

'Any idea what led up to the change?'

She shook her head.

'I asked him about it, especially the interest in economics, because I thought that might be a positive sign, an indication that he was getting serious about his studies. But he just gave me one of his get-out-of-my-face looks and walked away. A couple of months went by, and he still hadn't registered for classes or done much of anything but bury himself in the business library. I decided at that point to drop him. But before I had a chance to tell him, he started to act really strange.'

'At first it was the same old stuff, but more so. Moodier, more depressed and withdrawn - to the point where he just stopped talking. Then he began to have anxiety attacks: flushed face; dry mouth; shortness of breath; palpitations. Twice he actually fainted.'

'How many attacks were there?'

'About half a dozen over a one-month period. Afterward he'd get really suspicious, look at everyone accusingly and slink away. It upset the other kids, but they tried to be sympathetic. Since he kept to himself, it didn't create as big a problem as it could have.'

She stopped, bothered about something, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes narrowed, and her jawline hardened.

'Alex, diagnostics has never been my strong suit - even in grad school I stayed away from the crazies and concentrated on behavioural technology - but I'm not blind. I didn't just go about my business and let him fall apart. It wasn't as dramatic as it's coming out. The kid had a history of nonconformity, attention-seeking. I thought it was a temporary thing. That it would self-limit and he'd go on to something else.'

'He called me the night he escaped,' I said. 'Flamingly psychotic. Afterward I did the guilt thing, too. Wondering if I'd missed something. It was counterproductive. There's nothing either of us could have done. Kids go crazy, and no one can prevent it.'

She looked at me, then nodded.

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

'Anytime.'

She sighed.

'It's not like me to introspect, but I've been doing a lot of it lately. You know how hard I've had to fight to keep the project going. A genius-insanity scandal was the last thing I needed, but I got it in spades. The irony is that preventing bad PR was one of the reasons I kept him here longer than I should have. That and being a soft-hearted sucker.'

'What do you mean?'

'The fact that I kept him on. As I said before, just before he started to fall apart, I'd decided to ask him to leave the project. But when he started to look emotionally fragile, I delayed the decision because I was worried it might cause some kind of dramatic reaction. The project grant was up for renewal. The data were beautiful, so scientifically I was in good shape, but because of budget cuts, the political bullshit was flying hard and heavy: Why give money to geniuses when the retarded need it more? Why hadn't more blacks and Latinos been included? Wasn't the whole concept of genius elitist and racist in the first place? All I needed was Jamey freaking out and the papers getting hold

of it. So I tried to wait it out, hoping it would blow over. Instead, he got worse.'

'Did you get renewed?'

'Only for one year, which is garbage, stringing me along until they decide to cut the funds. It means not being able to sink my teeth into anything of substance.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's all right,' she said without heart. 'At least I've got some time to scrounge up alternative funds. The odds looked good until this thing blew up.' She smiled bitterly. 'The foundations don't like it when even one of your subject hacks up eight people.'

I steered the conversation back to Jamey's deterioration.

'What happened when he got worse?'

'The suspiciousness turned into paranoia. Once again it was gradual, subtle. But eventually he was claiming someone was poisoning him, railing on about the earth's being poisoned by zombies.'

'Do you remember anything more about his delusions? Phrases he used?'

'No, just that. Poisoning, zombies.'

'White zombies?'

'Maybe. It doesn't ring a bell.'

'When he talked about being poisoned, did he suspect anyone specifically?'

'He suspected everyone. Me. The other kids. His aunt and uncle. Their kids. We were all zombies, all against him. At that point I called the aunt and told her he needed help and couldn't continue on the project. It didn't seem to surprise her. She thanked me and promised to do something about it. But he showed up the next week anyway, looking really uptight, murmuring under his breath. Everyone stayed away from him. The big surprise was when he came to group - probably the first time in a year. He sat quietly through half of it and then jumped up in the middle of the discussion and started yelling. From what he said it sounded as if he were hallucinating -hearing voices, seeing grids.'

'What kinds of grids?'

'I don't know. That's the word he used. He was holding his hand in front of his eyes, squinting and screaming about bloody grids. It was frightening, Alex. I rushed out, called security, and had him taken to the med centre. I spent the rest of the session calming the other kids down. It was agreed that we'd keep the whole incident quiet so as not to hurt the project. I never saw him again and thought that was the end of it. Until now.'

'Sarita, as far as you know, did he ever take drugs?'

'No. He was a straight arrow, kind of stuffy, really. Why?'

'The grid hallucination. It's typical of an LSD trip.'

'I seriously doubt it, Alex. As I said, he was conservative, overcautious. And toward the end, when he was into health foods, obsessed with his body, it would make even less sense for him to be tripping out.'

'But if he was doping,' I said, 'you might not have known about it. It's the kind of thing kids don't talk about with adults.'

She frowned.

'I suppose so. Nevertheless, I just don't believe he was into acid or any other drug. Anyway, what difference would it make? Drugs couldn't make him psychotic'

'No. But they might have put him over the edge.'

'Even so.'

'Sarita, he went from a troubled kid to a homicidal maniac. That's a hell of a fall from grace, and my job is to make some sense out of it. I'd like to talk to the other kids on the project to see if they knew anything about it.'

'I'd rather you didn't,' she said. 'They've been through enough.'

'I'm not planning to add to the stress. On the contrary, it could make them feel better to talk about it. I counselled all of them at one time or another, so it wouldn't be like a stranger coming in.'

'Believe me,' she insisted, 'it's not worth it. They don't know anything that I haven't told you.'

'I'm sure you're right, but I'd be irresponsible if I didn't interview the people who've been his friends for the last five years.'

SOUZA WAS surprised at my request.

'Doctor, all you're going to see is a large blood-spattered room, but if you think it's necessary, it can be arranged.'

'It would be helpful.'

He paused long enough for me to wonder if we'd been cut off.

'In what way, Doctor?'

'If he's ever lucid enough to talk about the murders, I want to be as knowledgeable as possible about the details.'

'Very well,' he said sceptically. 'I've never had an expert ask for it, but I'll talk to the police and have them clear you for a visit.'

'Thank you.'

'On a more conventional note, I'd like to hear about any progress you've made in your evaluation.'

I gave him a summary of my interview with Sarita Flowers. He latched immediately on to the grid hallucination and my inquiries about drug use.

'What are these grids exactly?'

'People on LSD sometimes report seeing brightly lit multicoloured checkerboard designs. But Jamey spoke of seeing bloody grids, so it may have been something totally different.'

'Interesting. If he did in fact see these grids, how significant is it?'

'Probably not at all. While visual hallucinations aren't as common in schizophrenia as auditory disturbances, they do occur. And Dr. Flowers seemed fairly certain that he never took drugs.'

'But seeing this kind of thing is common in LSD users?'

'Yes, but not exclusive to them.'

'It raises possibilities, Doctor.'

'That Chancellor fed him drugs and turned him into a robot?'

' Something along those lines.'

'I wouldn't push that theory yet. The facts strongly support a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Schizophrenics often exhibit severe distortions of language; words acquire new, bizarre definitions. It's called verbal paraphasia. To him, bloody grids could have meant "spaghetti''.'

'I don't require scientific certainty, Doctor, only implied possibilities.'

'At this point you don't have even that. There are no other indications he took any kind of drugs. Mainwaring must have run tests when he admitted him. Did he say anything about substance abuse?'

'No,' he admitted. 'He said it was a clear-cut case of schizophrenia. That even if the boy had taken drugs, they couldn't have made him crazy.'

'That's an accurate appraisal.'

'I understand all that, Doctor. But should you come across other evidence of drug abuse - anything at all -please call me immediately.'

'I will.'

'Good. Incidentally, Dwight will be able to see you this afternoon at three.'

'Three will be fine.'

'Splendid. If you have no objection, he'd prefer to meet at Cadmus Construction. Away from prying eyes.'

'No problem.'

He gave me the corporation's Westwood address and made another offer to pay me. My first impulse was to refuse, but then I told myself I was being childish, confusing self-denial with independence. Money or no money, I was involved in the case and had come too far to turn back. I told him to send me half the retainer, and he said he'd write out a cheque for five thousand dollars the instant we got off the phone.