Twisted (16 page)

49

One of the first things I learned during my early clinical studies was that trauma is attracted to trauma. While my childhood experiences bear no resemblance to Donny Ray’s, the family dynamic feels awfully familiar: a father who inflicts deep psychological pain on a child, and a mother who checks out, only to inflict yet another layer of damage.

It would be difficult for any psychologist to hear a story like Donny Ray’s and not feel affected by it. We are, after all, human. We have emotional vulnerabilities just like everyone else, and while we’ve been trained to compartmentalize in order to help others, every so often a patient comes along who holds up the mirror to us. When that happens, it can be difficult to ignore what’s looking us in the face.

Still, I refuse to believe that I’m losing objectivity with Donny Ray—I’m simply using my own human experiences as a tool to get information I need.

There’s a difference.

It doesn’t mean I can’t separate my feelings. It just means I need to be mindful of my own past while assessing him.

And perhaps my instinct after our previous session was right. Maybe I can parlay our connection into finding the missing link: does Donny Ray remember murdering Jamey Winslow?

I begin sorting out my thoughts, hoping to integrate new knowledge with the old. I don’t think there’s any question that Donny Ray’s father murdered Miranda. He had the means and the opportunity, and the files indicate the cops thought so, too. Was she intentionally waving good-bye to her brother that day for the last time? After seeing Donny Ray’s detached reaction twice while he spoke of Miranda, I have to wonder whether he might have actually witnessed her murder. This could explain why he appeared so disconnected.

Which brings me back to Dr. Philips’ notes. She entertained the possibility there was some kind of psychological disorder at play but never could pinpoint the pathology. Since the doctor made no mention of Donny Ray’s sexual abuse—or the subsequent punishment his father inflicted—I have to assume she was unable to get him to open up about it. That might be the critical cornerstone she failed to uncover.

But what does this new information mean?

I allow my intuition to wander. Young incest victims don’t just notice the inanimate during their abuse: the inanimate becomes their entire world. I revisit that eerie image of the lightbulb, how all this little boy could do was focus on it, obsessively counting the number of times it swung from a cord while his father violated him.

A violent and intolerable shiver rides through my entire body.

Logic tells me that from what Donny Ray described, during those moments, he could very well have entered into a dissociative state. But plenty of kids detach from reality during traumatic events, and it doesn’t turn them into killers.

There has to be more.

What kind of incident might have pushed Donny Ray into such predatory killing behavior that he can’t recall? The repetitive rounds of sexual abuse would certainly qualify. And being abandoned in public afterward, wearing his dead sister’s dress, piled one trauma on top of the other, which would be more than enough to push him over the edge.

But how would the effects of that experience express themselves? Is becoming a serial killer a guaranteed outcome? I’m not sure yet, but my mind is trending toward the idea that the other victim in this—Donny Ray’s sister—may be able to tell me.

I look to the Internet and search the news coverage of Miranda Smith’s disappearance. The first thing that pops up is a school photo of her. I zoom in and see that, much like Donny Ray, she was positively striking in appearance. Same raven-colored hair, same well-defined features. But Miranda’s eyes were mirror opposites of Donny Ray’s: dark as night, yet in their own way, just as intense.

I begin reading an article and learn that she disappeared on her way to school one morning.

Wait a minute.

I flip back to the notes on Donny Ray’s last victim, Jamey Winslow, who also went missing on her way to school. After pulling up the news story about her murder, I at first think it’s the wrong link. Then my stomach seizes.

No way.

Jamey Winslow bore a remarkable resemblance to Miranda Smith.

I bring up more stories about Donny Ray’s other victims, and one by one, with each photo, my mind whirls into a tailspin. Every one of them resembles Miranda Smith—some not as markedly but all with the same color hair and dark, intense eyes—each disappearing on her way to school.

Each wearing a blue dress.

How did I miss these connections while reading through the files? Then I remember . . . I’d planned to go back and look at the girls’ photos but got sidetracked when Donny Ray’s juvenile record was missing. Then his attorney was missing, and after that, so too was Dr. Ammon.

I never saw these images.

My thoughts fly into reverse and land on an earlier session with Donny Ray. How he seemed lost in thought, staring at that picture on the wall. A picture that happened to feature a little girl wearing a blue dress. He wasn’t just lost in thought—he was lost inside his own mind.

A clear pattern: relentless and consistent layers of abuse, followed by behavior that mirrors it in a most striking and disturbing way.

A causal relationship.

Dr. Ammon discounted Donny Ray’s inability to recall murdering Jamey Winslow because his head injury proved inconsequential. And while Dr. Philips was definitely on to something, any progress went flying out the window along with her credibility after the hospital sex scandal broke. But the bottom line is that Donny Ray Smith may be telling the truth about having no ability to recall killing Jamey.

Possible diagnosis: dissociative amnesia, brought on not by a head injury, but instead by acute and repetitive psychological trauma.

50

Don’t tell Adam.

“What are you talking about? We’re working this case together. Of course I’m going to tell him.”

You cannot. He’s part of the Big Plan, him and his bootlicking disciples—they’re all working to destroy you.

“What?”
I pull open the door.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Adam says, frowning at me from his desk. “I just heard you called a security incident down on Alpha Twelve about an hour ago? For no apparent reason?”

“What do you mean,
no reason
? Of course there was a reason.”

Motioning for me to close the door, he says, “We need to talk.”

I grab a seat across from him. “When I got there, all the patients were wandering in and out of their rooms and through the hallways. Not one locked door, not a single security officer in sight. It was the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. So
of course
I called an incident.”

Adam’s eyes are hazy with doubt as they search mine.

“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Chris, the rooms in Alpha Twelve are never locked, unless a patient is under special order.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I laugh but there’s no amusement in it. “Of course they are!”

He shakes his head. “That would be illegal.”

“But it’s a safety precaution. They’re not supposed to . . . Wait. You think I just
made up
this policy?”

“I’m not saying that.” But his expression states otherwise.

I stare at him for about five seconds. He stares back at me, and sticky tension stretches between us.

“Anyway, I’m sure security has the whole mess under control by now, so we’re good there.”

But judging by the crease in Adam’s brow, my assurance offers little relief.

“I’ve got something much more important to tell you,” I quickly move on, “something huge that could blow Donny Ray’s case right out of the water. We just had a breakthrough. I’ve found the trauma trigger that Philips missed. Donny Ray has a pathological need to repeatedly murder his sister, then make her disappear. I strongly believe that’s what caused his dissociative amnesia when Jamey went missing.”

Adam’s eyes flutter.

I start telling him the history of Donny Ray’s abuse, along with an explanation about the picture on the wall of a girl wearing a blue dress. How every victim resembles Miranda. He shakes his head as I continue, but it’s hard to tell whether he’s following me.

“So here’s how the events might have played out.” I lean in toward him. “He sees a girl who looks like his sister, who also happens to be wearing a blue dress, probably the same color dress his father made him wear.”

“You say
probably.
”

“Well, we weren’t at that level of detail in the interview. He was racked with deep emotional pain, and I wasn’t able to ask him about it.”

“Okay, go on . . . ,” Adam says and starts twisting the ring on his finger.

“The blue dress strongly relates to his psychological trauma. He experiences the humiliation and shame all over again, and that activates the rage he’s unable to express. And in that state, since he can’t take out the rage on his father anymore, Donny Ray instead transfers it to Miranda, possibly because, through his subconscious and distorted reasoning, he blames her for leaving him alone to shoulder all the abuse.”

“Possibly . . .”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know that for sure yet. I’m just hypothesizing.”

Adam concedes with a tentative nod.

“So anyway, he kills the girls instead. And here’s something else. Donny Ray said his head injury happened after falling onto the family tractor’s bucket loader, but he can’t recall the exact date, only that it happened the summer his sister went missing. Tractors can be used to bury bodies, right? Maybe Donny Ray saw his sister being murdered. Maybe he was even forced to help dispose of Miranda and doesn’t remember hitting his head after blocking it out. That would create three layers of trauma. And it could explain why he hides the girls’ bodies.”

Adam flinches, then blinks a few times. “Chris, I feel like you’re overreaching into a lot of places with no firm foundation.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“First of all, the bucket loader thing. Don’t you think the detectives considered that possibility?”

I tell him I already thought about that, how there’s nothing in the report to indicate Texas cops followed up with the local hospital to get the exact date of Donny Ray’s head injury, which means they probably missed the connection and never looked further.

“The detectives couldn’t find enough evidence to charge the father,” I explain. “So what if they were unable to complete the chain of events? I mean, the dad was clearly disturbed, and he could have been clever enough to cover his tracks.”

“But you’re still assuming a lot of things.” Adam is smiling, but there’s no twinkle in his eyes. He looks frustrated, also a little concerned. “And you’re playing cop again.”

“How am I
playing cop
?”

“Speculating that Donny Ray’s head injury happened while he was helping his father bury the body? Other than a bucket loader, there’s nothing to support the theory. You have to admit, that’s a fantastical leap. It feels more like you’re trying to help solve Miranda’s murd—”

“Fantastical?”

“And you’re using some picture on the wall as a springboard into dissociation, when you don’t even know if Donny Ray’s father made him wear a blue dress. Besides, I never saw anything in the police report indicating the other victims were wearing blue dresses when they disappeared. So how are you reaching that conclusion?”

“I missed it the first time myself, but go look again, and you’ll see. The information’s all there in the police report.”

“Okay, but weren’t you the one who reminded me we’re not even supposed to factor in the other cases?”

“Adam”—I feel my throat tighten around his name—“they gave the information to us for background purposes. I’m just throwing around ideas. I’m brainstorming, thinking of possible scenarios. And you’re completely missing the entire point. Philips couldn’t get Donny Ray to open up about his abuse. That’s what she was trying to do, and
that’s
a really
big deal, because it explains a lot of things.”

“But what I’m trying to tell you is, without solid footing on that reasoning, you still can’t prove whether his need to kill the girls is driven by disassociation or psychopathy, which brings us back to the original question of whether or not Donny Ray is malingering—and on that note, how can you be so sure he’s even telling you the truth with this sexual abuse story? How do you know this isn’t just an attempt to step up his game plan with you after things fell apart at Miller?”

He thinks you’re unloading a pile of horseshit.

“Why do you keep throwing doubt at me? I’m a psychologist. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not saying you don’t.” Adam stops, tries to speak, then starts again. “And I’m not throwing doubt at you.”

“Then what
are
you doing? What exactly are you trying to tell me here?”

“That you’re hopping all over the place with a theory that doesn’t hold water. It’s not like you, Chris. You’re usually so—”

“That’s not true! It all relates. It’s all extremely relevant. I just need to figure out how.”

“Okay . . . okay.” Adam raises both hands, aims his palms at me. “Fine. But you still need to connect a lot of missing pieces, and your evaluation is due tomorrow.”

“I’ll find them,” I sharply say, “
before
I jump to any rash decisions.”

“Chris, stop that.”

With arms locked tightly against my chest, I look away from him.

“Listen,” he says, “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that you came in here sounding so hellfire sure about all this, then after you explained it, the inconsistencies confused me. That’s all. We’re friends, remember? This is what we do for each other. We watch each other’s backs.”

I study Adam’s face for a few beats to determine whether he means what he says.

He’s patronizing you.

I don’t like it.

He’s judging you.

Things get very quiet. Then Adam asks, “So how did things go with Rob yesterday?”

“Wow, that came out of nowhere fast.”

“Not really. You never called back to let me know how it went. I was just following up. I’m concerned.”

But it feels like his concern is more about my mental and professional competence.

“He got me in for the MRI,” I say.

“Hey, that’s great. Did it go okay?”

“It’s over with.” I shrug. “That’s the best thing I can say about it.”

“Do you know when you’ll have the results?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will you let me know as soon as he calls?”

I hesitate. Again, it’s not what he’s asking, more what seems to be trolling just beneath the surface. A little too much urgency. Like he’s getting leery of me.

He knows you’re losing it.

I try to relax my posture, but it seems as though Adam can tell the action is forced.

“Hey.” He lets out a small laugh, obviously meant to disarm me. “Isn’t it okay for your best friend to be worried after you’ve had a head injury?”

He’s setting you up.