Twisted (5 page)

9

The temperature in my office feels as though it’s dropped about ten degrees. Outside the window, dark clouds tumble by, casting murky shadows across my desk.

The storm is finally coming.

I read Ammon’s comment again, this time not so much because of what it says, but rather what it does not. In our profession, we deal with a different kind of patient. Warnings like this are not uncommon, but it is very unusual to find no explanation.

I need answers, so I reach for the phone and dial Ammon’s number.

“Miller Institute,” a detached, almost mechanical female voice recites, “how may I direct your call?”

Okay. Apparently it’s not Ammon’s number. It’s the main switchboard.

“Can I help you?” she says, more as a prompt than a question.

I clear my throat. “Yes. Sorry. Dr. Christopher Kellan at Loveland. I was trying to reach Dr. Ammon.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Ammon,” I repeat.

“One moment, please.”

Click.

It seems customer service is sadly lacking at Miller Institute—either that or Robo-Receptionist is due for a tune-up.

About twenty seconds later, I hear someone on the line. “Hello?” The voice is male, older, but definitely human.

“Dr. Ammon, it’s Christopher Kellan over at Loveland. I was hoping to ask about your—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, “this isn’t Dr. Ammon. I’m Dr. Pritchard.”

“My apologies, Doctor. The receptionist must have made a mis—”

“No . . . It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, voice taking a noticeably deeper tone. “His calls are being forwarded through the switchboard for now. I’m the hospital administrator. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well . . . you could start by telling me how I can reach Dr. Ammon.”

“That is a good question.”

I tell him I’m confused, and he responds, “You’re not alone. He failed to show up for work about five days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

I skim Ammon’s report. His disappearance happened a few days before Donny Ray was transferred to Loveland.

The hairs on my arms flick up.

“Are the circumstances suspicious?”

“No . . . no . . . ,” he says through a drawn-out sigh. “Nothing like that. At least, the authorities don’t seem to think so. No evidence of foul play.”

“Do you have any idea why the doctor would just take off?”

“Unfortunately, I might. A few weeks ago, Dr. Ammon became extremely depressed, and it kept getting worse.”

“Do you know why?”

“We have a pretty good idea, yes,” Pritchard says. “We’d just lost another doctor. A suicide. They found her at home.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been a rough few weeks around here. Dr. Ammon took it especially hard. He and Dr. Philips were very close friends.”

“Wait a minute.” Heat flushes my forehead as I check the report. “Doctor, I’m calling in reference to Donny Ray Smith. Philips was the attending psychologist on that case.”

“Correct. I’m sure you’re aware that she was under review.”

“She killed herself over it?”

“That seems to be the consensus, yes.”

I look at my screen and wonder why Jeremy never mentioned this, then dismiss the thought, deciding he probably felt it was irrelevant to Donny Ray’s case.

“And still no clue where Dr. Ammon might be?”

“Not a one. It’s like the man disappeared off the face of this earth.”

A man who stood in the way of Donny Ray’s insanity plea.

I try to connect dots I can’t yet see. “Dr. Pritchard, did Donny Ray Smith leave the hospital at any point during that period? Perhaps he was transported for ancillary medical care? A court hearing, even?”

“No, and he remained under high-level security the entire time he was here. Why do you ask?”

I hang on to my suspicions because I’ve got nothing to support them. Ammon and Philips are adults, not young girls. And the cryptic warning—plus a lack of explanation—could have easily been a product of Ammon’s depression.

“Just covering all bases,” I say. “One last thing, Doctor. I’d really like to get more information about Donny Ray. Is there a chance you could provide some?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help in that respect, other than reciting what’s already on Ammon’s evaluation. I had minimal contact with Smith. Practically none at all, actually.”

I thank him for his time, hang up the phone.

What exactly do I have here?

Bodies falling away all around this guy.

And those hauntingly familiar eyes.

My persistent and unsettled feeling creeps back. I need to get to the bottom of it, prove or disprove whether Donny Ray and I have met once and for all.

I begin with our patient database, narrowing down my search to male patients only, then narrowing further by age group. A more manageable number of files come up, but they reveal zilch. Nothing to indicate that Donny Ray Smith has ever set foot inside Loveland before now.

I go back to the Internet. Donny Ray has been making headlines for months. With headlines come in-depth background pieces and, occasionally, older photos. I search through all the links for anything that might indicate we’ve previously crossed paths.

Nothing.

I continue skimming through headlines, then land on video coverage from one of the TV stations. About a minute in, it seems there’s nothing new here, a repeat of information I already know. Just as I’m about to move on,
I zero in on footage of Donny Ray Smith as he’s being moved from a transport van to the court building for one of his hearings. Cuffed, shackled, and wearing a jail-issued, orange jumpsuit, he shuffles forward, then looks directly into the camera lens.

My skin flashes hot and cold.

Because I just saw something pass through those eyes, which, during my meeting with him, never once did I witness. An unforgiving cloud of darkness, devoid of anything that resembles even a modicum of human emotion.

Now a biting chill arcs through my entire body.

Which throws me back into a sea of swirling uncertainty. I still don’t know what to think. Everything associated with Donny Ray Smith seems laden with equivocality and unanswered questions: his appearance so innocent, the accusations so drastically opposite. Then there’s the odd string of disappearances all around him.

And that look I just saw.

Maybe we can both find it.

If it’s the truth my patient is after, he’s sure taking a circuitous route in getting to it, and so far, pulling me right along with him.

I need to talk this through with Adam.

10

“People do seem to vanish all around him.” Adam leans back in his chair and looks like he’s thinking. “But only one of the doctors is actually missing, and as for his attorney, he was all the way clear over in San Diego. I can’t imagine how Donny Ray could have anything to do with that. He’s been locked up. Besides, adults don’t seem to be his forte.”

“I know, but it does seem awfully coincidental.”

Adam shrugs. “I’d leave it at that.”

“But what if it’s not a coincidence? What if Ammon knew something? Or maybe Philips didn’t actually kill herself.”

He grins, and I catch that twinkle in his eyes I know so well.

“What?” I ask.

“We’re docs, remember?”

“I know what we are,” I say a little too defensively.

“We’re not detectives.”

I nod at his tie.

He looks down at it, then back at me.

“You’re wearing Scooby-Doo on your chest,” I say. “Doc.”

“Hey.” Adam straightens his tie. “Don’t go hating on Scooby, okay?”

“Yesterday it was George Jetson.”

“Don’t mess with my man George, either. Guy’s an American icon. His feet never touched earth. Like to see you do that.” He protectively rearranges the rubberized Gumby, Pokey, and Prickle figurines on his desk.

I’m positive there’s some sort of neurosis at play.

Adam takes a sharp poke at the air. “And don’t go analyzing me, either.”

“Doctor
and
mind reader, no less.” I grin. “Impressive.”

“Can we get back to Donny Ray?”

“Okay . . . Okay. Back to Donny Ray. So what do you think?”

“Well . . .” He runs a finger across his chin a few times. “The note from Ammon does seem to indicate a concern of some kind.”

“The question is, what?”

“Could be something less sinister than what you have in mind. He thought the patient was malingering, right? Maybe it was just a warning to be on the lookout for that.”

“Or maybe it was something more.”

“Well, I don’t know what he meant, but from one neurologist to another? I’m with Ammon. I think Donny Ray Smith is trying to sell us a bill of goods.”

“Your reasoning?”

He shrugs. “Tests don’t lie, and I’ve seen this scenario play out more times than I can count. From a purely medical standpoint, I can’t believe the defense is trying to use a minor head injury from childhood to explain ten dissociative episodes.”

“Just the last one,” I remind him.

“Right now, but trust me, that will become the precedent once those other charges start rolling in.”

I nod. He’s right.

“From where I stand, his legal team is just blowing smoke up everyone’s ass. What we have here are lots of moving parts and plenty of missing pieces. It’s quack science. Nothing adds up. I just can’t see this any other way.”

I don’t respond.

“Your turn now,” Adam says, not affording me the luxury of silence.

“I’m thinking.”

He motions with a hand. “Care to externalize?”

“I’m not saying I think he’s innocent.”

“But?”

“But my mind keeps seesawing.”

“Between what and what?”

“Stages of indecision? I’m just not sure what we have here.”

“You think he might be telling the truth.”

I shake my head. “I’m not willing to take that leap yet. But something’s missing here.” I tell him about Dr. Philips’ mention of an unidentified psychological issue and the conflicting test results.

“Well?” he says. “Do you think she was on to something?”

“Not sure. I mean on one hand, having her license suspended, and then committing suicide, definitely compromises her credibility.”

“But on the other?”

“It doesn’t mean she didn’t have the skill to see things as they were.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“I need to finish what Philips couldn’t. Dig into Donny Ray’s childhood and confirm whether this psychological issue she mentioned actually exists.”

“Fair enough. I’ll do my medical thing, and you do your clinical stuff. We’re good at that. But we don’t have much time, so you’d better get busy fast.”

I glance at my watch. “How’s five minutes from now sound? That’s when our first session starts.”

11

I reach the consulting room in a wing that connects to Alpha Twelve. Evan McKinley stands at the door. He greets me, and I peer inside. Donny Ray is seated and waiting at the table, wrists and ankles under restraint, body slumped forward, elbows jammed into his sides.

Holding the floor firm under his gaze.

I enter, then keep silent and still, not only to prevent my presence from feeding his apparent distress, but also as an opportunity to more closely scrutinize and process his overall presentation. The perspiration that soaks his collar. The disheveled hair. It’s safe to surmise that Donny Ray had a rough night. I can also deduce through these physical cues that he’s trying to make his body appear as small as possible, which would seem to indicate fear. But not just any fear—it’s powerful. So close to his skin I can almost smell it hanging on the air.

I take a few steps forward, and Donny Ray shoots his head up to look at me, then just as fast, he lowers it.

Whether those actions were reflexive or for my benefit, I don’t yet know. With a patient suspected of killing ten kids, anything can be possible. I move closer toward him, and he again acknowledges my presence—albeit only by pulling his feet in beneath the chair and latching them around the legs. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’m already aware that getting him to warm up could take some time.

“It’s okay, Donny Ray,” I say, voice quiet yet assertive.

The corded tendons in his neck loosen and smooth. By no means is the response anything earth-shattering—however, if genuine, it’s perhaps a small opening. A start to the process of gaining trust.

“But I can’t help you,” I continue, “unless you give me your attention.”

Donny Ray slowly lifts his head again, vision still aimed at the floor.

“We’re just going to talk today,” I say, taking my seat across from him. “I’ll ask some questions, and you can answer them to the best of your ability. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

He nods but still won’t look at me.

“Donny Ray.” I raise my voice. “Your attention, please?”

He at last shows me his face. Despite all attempts to keep my emotions steady, his blue gaze rattles me.

This is driving me crazy. Where have I seen those eyes?

“Before we start, I was just wondering. Have you heard anything from your attorney lately?”

He lifts one shoulder, shakes his head.

I pause to deliberate on Donny Ray’s indifference. His attorney disappeared a week ago. Has nobody told him, or is he just stonewalling me?

“Let’s start off by backtracking a bit. Are you able to recall memories from your past at this time?”

Donny Ray offers no answer.

I allow the silence to linger.

“Backtracking . . . ,” he finally says. His thick southern drawl carries a new rasp that sounds like tension or exhaustion or maybe both.

“Yeah,” I say. “Like for instance, when you were younger. How did things go in school?”

A listless shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

“Okay, as in . . .”

“Nothing great.”

“Did you get along all right with other kids?”

“Yeah.”

“So then what did you mean by
nothing great
?”

“Just that I never fit in real good.”

“How about your friendships during that period? What were those like?”

His expression appears a little vacant, but I’m not sure why, so I press. “Did you have friends?”

“No, sir, not really,” he replies.

“
Not really
, meaning, not many or not any?”

He pulls his knees together, shifts his attention off to one side.

“Donny Ray?” I probe.

Then, through a weak sigh of surrender, “No, sir. I didn’t have any friends.”

The only expression he’ll find on my face is empathy. I want to avoid any physical cues that could indicate I’m passing judgment.

“You know, as a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends myself,” I say, “because my dad was sick, and I spent most of the time taking care of him. It was awful. Lonely. I can’t imagine how you must have felt not having any friends at all.”

Donny Ray levels his gaze on me as if trying to verify the authenticity of my story. Then, for the first time since we’ve met, his legs move out from under the chair. His shoulders fall ever so slightly. Like he’s releasing some of the tension—perhaps fear even—that he’s been clinging to for days.

An inlet. A start.

“What about pets? They can be a lot better company than most people.” I smile at him.

He fights back a smile of his own.

“Did you have any?”

He shakes his head rather adamantly. “No, sir. We didn’t.”

“How come?”

“Because of my dad.” Donny Ray lifts his hands a few inches from his lap, almost as if unsure where they should go. Discomfort, and I’m curious what’s causing it. “My dad always said that animals weren’t worth anything unless they were used for work.”

“And did you feel the same way?”

Donny Ray nods.

I ask if he can explain.

“Guess I never really thought about it. Maybe since we didn’t have any animals, it was hard to know what I was missing?”

I find his response curious. He refrains from saying
pets
, instead referring to them as
animals.
This, of course, could merely be a product of his rural upbringing. But what has my interest more is not just his answer, but rather what rode just beneath it. A note of detachment that, along with his social history, may give my previous questions about him new context: no friends, no affection for animals. No relationships, period. This is a common building block for a lack of compassion and love, a tenet in the development of a psychopathic mind. Am I sitting across from a man who grew up isolated and lonely, or is he simply modeling the effects of what those circumstances should look and sound like?

Hoping to at least find the start of an answer, I go a little deeper. “It sounds like you didn’t have a lot of allies in this world as a kid, Donny Ray.”

He looks down again, says nothing.

“How did that make you feel? Having nobody you could turn to.”

“Alone.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Really alone. You know?”

And I do know, more than he realizes.

I push the feeling aside, smile sadly, and nod. But I’m also watching him carefully. Checking his demeanor. Trying to see through his outer layer. Yet, hard as I attempt to find even a shred of disingenuousness, I cannot. Donny Ray radiates vulnerable innocence. Then I think about all the people in his life—past and present—who seem to have mysteriously disappeared. My wrinkles of doubt. Adam’s comments about Donny Ray’s immaterial head injury. All of these troubling undertones run counterintuitive to the candor I’ve just witnessed here.

I’m stuck.

I look at my watch and realize that our session is drawing to a close. Evan waits at the door, ready to escort Donny Ray out.

“We have to stop for now,” I say, giving Evan a nod. “We’ll continue this in a—”

“Okay,” Donny Ray interrupts softly, then with a polite smile says, “Have a safe night, Christopher.”

An eerie sensation wriggles down my back.