Peña nodded, closing the door behind him.
I looked at Estíbaliz. Her eyes were red, and her lips were pressed in a taut line.
“How are you?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“I’ve been sick a few times, but I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“You’re safer away from the hospital,” I said. “If Ramiro Alvar hasn’t managed to get away, he could be hiding in the building. I’ll make sure you have protection.”
“I don’t want protection! I just want to know what’s going on. Is it him? Did he kill MatuSalem? Did he fool us all?” She sank down onto the edge of the bed.
I sat next to her.
“I’m afraid he did.”
“And how did he know you were going to arrest him?”
“We still have to figure that out,” I said. “Peña said he called to tell you the results of the DNA test and that we were waiting for an arrest warrant. He offered to post two officers on your door and you refused.”
“I don’t want protection,” she insisted.
“Swear to me you didn’t do it.”
“You think I warned him?”
“Or that you decided to confront him, and he wormed it out of you.”
“I didn’t refuse protection so I could tip him off. And if you don’t believe me, you can check the security camera footage,” she replied irritably.
This wasn’t getting us anywhere. And besides, this was Estíbaliz, the same woman I had been friends with forever.
“No need. I believe you.”
We stared out the window in silence. Both of us needed to get away from that hospital.
“How did he manage to fool us like that?” she asked at last.
“Because I profiled him incorrectly. He was a magician; he made a shiny object vanish and reappear right before our eyes. He seduced us both. You and me.”
I stood up. I needed to get moving.
“Finish packing. I’m supposed to give a lecture on profiling at Arkaute in two hours. Why don’t you come with me? I could use your support.”
Estíbaliz arched an eyebrow.
“Stage fright?”
“Not at all, but if we don’t want this case to affect our relationship, we’re going to need to work on creating mutual trust again. You’ve asked me to trust you, and I’m asking you to come with me. It’ll be good for both of us.”
“It’s a deal,” she said, giving me the first smile I had seen from her in weeks.
While Estí finished dressing, I returned to Ramiro Alvar’s room. Something had caught my attention. He’d made his bed before leaving, which was consistent with his neat, tidy nature, but he had left a copy of The Lords of Time open on the chair. I picked it up and looked at the page. He was giving me a message.
That’s interesting, Ramiro, I thought. Most interesting.
* * *
—
Marina Leiva welcomed us when we arrived at the academy. Estíbaliz and I walked into the packed lecture hall; the lights had been switched off and a blank projector was waiting. Doctor Leiva and Estíbaliz sat in the back row, where Estí’s neck brace and bandaged arm generated a lot of interest. Everybody knew who we were anyway. Why bother hiding?
I stood facing the students. My eyes rested on their pens for a moment. They were poised to take notes the instant I opened my mouth. I smiled and decided to put aside the sanitized presentation I’d prepared.
“I’m here today to talk to you about psychopathy and how to detect psychopaths in our midst. As profilers, the first thing we need to learn is to forget our prejudices. The public tends to think we always look for maladjusted monsters, for bogeymen with deformed skulls, as though we were nineteenth-century phrenologists. In fact, the serial killer is more likely to be a skilled professional with an outstanding CV. He’s an expert in his field, which happens to be getting away with murder. That’s why serial killers aren’t easy to catch. They evolve. They become adept at evading arrest, at flying under the radar, because of what we might call their compensatory façade. How often have we heard neighbors or friends, when asked to comment on a recent arrest, say, ‘He’s a good son’ or ‘a good brother’? And of course, they are.”
A student in the first row raised her hand.
“How can people say that?”
“Because of a cognitive bias known as an attribution error. We are at a disadvantage individually and as a society. It’s difficult to believe that we are incapable of detecting evil in a person just because we find them affectionate and charming. Psychopaths use our cognitive dissonance to their own advantage, and they exploit our inability to see manipulation at work when we are deceived by a charismatic individual. It’s the same psychopathy whether the person is a murderer or is physically or verbally abusive. I know you’ve studied the profiles of several psychopaths, so I want you to tell me some of the traits you’ve detected.”
“A parasitic lifestyle,” answered a student at the back of the room.
“Good: Their life consists of preying on others. They live in the present—there’s no such thing as tomorrow because they have no conception of the future. They usually have brief relationships. Their long-term goals are unrealistic. Other traits?”
“Lack of empathy.”
“They learn to imitate emotions and facial expressions,” I concurred. “They even claim to master nonverbal language. Psychopaths feel empty inside, but they know they need to fit in so that we can’t detect them, for example, when they fail to respond properly to a tragedy, or to a death in the family.”
“They’re good actors,” another voice offered.
“Yes, and they depend on that ability to achieve their goals. Psychopaths don’t have friends; they use people and throw them away. They acquire followers, or flunkies, or disciples. They employ their compensatory façade to manipulate their parents, siblings, grandparents, whoever comes under their influence. Only outsiders can detect the way those closest to a psychopath are in thrall to his or her aims, whatever they may be: work contacts, childcare, money, a family support network. Thanks to their cognitive dissonance, their followers refuse to believe the psychopath is anyone other than the construct that friend has conditioned them to believe. And this is why, after a person commits an atrocious series of murders, we often hear that he was a good neighbor, or we see a wife who continues to visit her husband in jail despite the evidence stacked against him, despite his signed confession. This compensatory façade is the psychopath’s lifeline, and they work at it constantly.”
“What do you mean by a compensatory façade?” the same voice asked.
“It’s basically a mask that psychopaths put on every day. They’re quite accustomed to wearing it. Underneath, they’re incapable of feeling remorse for the pain they inflict. Whenever possible, they convince others to do their work for them, especially their dirty work. They’re intrinsically lazy and are often con artists. They’re likely to be spendthrifts because they rarely think about tomorrow. They don’t know how to save, so they run up debts and borrow money. They are easily bored, fickle. They change jobs frequently because they derive no pleasure from work. They are only interested in instant gratification. Many psychopaths flunk out of university because they can’t apply themselves to anything long-term. They have no scruples about how they obtain whatever they want and will happily exploit their parents or partners. Other traits?” I asked.
“They’re adrenaline junkies. They may gravitate toward extreme sports or high-risk activities. They lack a sense of danger,” someone added.
“Good. What else?”
“They use a kind of hypnosis to get into your head and control you.”
“And how do they achieve that?” I asked.
“With a compelling stare. It instantly creates the illusion of empathy. If the psychopath is targeting a romant
ic partner, it would feel as though the person had just met their soul mate.”
“That’s the short answer, but it’s more complex,” I explained. “Psychopaths will get into their victim’s head by becoming a chameleon: they mimic their victim. Generally, they follow a four-step approach. First, the ego massage: they praise their victim, especially if the person has low self-esteem. Second, they become their victim’s soul mate: you and I are identical; we were meant to be together. Third, they gain their victim’s trust: you can rely on me; tell me all your weaknesses. By the fourth stage, they’ve become the perfect friend, partner, child, or sibling. They become almost mythical: their reputation is unimpeachable to their disciples, which is useful because they need their followers to carry out the work they don’t want to do or to defend them when they reveal their true nature. These followers—family members, coworkers, neighbors, relatives—don’t see the psychopath’s true personality; they see only the perfect imitation the psychopath has created. Disciples will even cover up the psychopath’s crimes because they believe the rationalizations they are told.
“Psychopaths cannot tolerate criticism and will persecute and banish critics from their social milieu. Only a fraction of psychopaths commit crimes, yet on average, a person will meet seven psychopaths in his or her lifetime. One psychopath will victimize approximately fifty-eight people. In this country alone, approximately one million people have a severe psychopathic personality disorder, and four million are functioning psychopaths. They are successful professionals, friendly neighbors…Anyone could be a social and domestic predator with a trail of wrecked lives in their wake.”
A profound silence followed, and I knew I’d gotten my message across. I was talking to each one of them. And I could see what they were thinking: they were dredging up memories of possible psychopaths they’d met.
“Now for the bad news: psychopaths can’t be rehabilitated. They don’t respond to therapy. In fact, therapy makes them worse unless their psychopathy is detected at a very early age, when they can be reeducated. Why? Because psychopathy isn’t an illness; it’s a way of being. Believe it or not, the years psychopaths spend in therapy provide them with an endless supply of emotional resources they can use to manipulate others more effectively, starting with their therapist.”
The students all took notes on this point.
“We know about serial killers in the United States, like Ed Kemper, who were in therapy and, according to their psychiatrists, were making progress. Yet, they were committing the most gruesome crimes imaginable. Even within the prison system, psychopaths pose a problem for society because their psychiatric evaluations are based on the responses they provide. A convict who wants to get out of jail will tell his or her therapist whatever they want to hear. We have statements from inmates serving life sentences for serial murders who have said, ‘Give me the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I’ll pick a mental disorder at random, and in a couple of sessions, I’ll convince any therapist I suffer from those symptoms.’ ”
I looked toward the back of the lecture hall. Doctor Leiva was beaming at me, and Estíbaliz was listening intently.
“As far as what to do in your own lives,” I said in conclusion, “all I can say is that we need to train ourselves to detect psychopaths because they represent a real danger for each and every one of us. Do not try to rehabilitate or change a psychopath; that approach will destroy you. Consequently, my only piece of advice for what to do when you identify a psychopath is to have zero contact. Drop everything and get the hell out of there.”
48
LAND OF THE ALMOHADS
DIAGO VELA
Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1200
The months that followed were a living hell. The army cut off our supplies, and the market vendors had nothing to sell. All passage from the outlying towns was stopped, and Héctor Dicastillo’s diplomatic attempts to cross the blockade were rebuffed. We received no more messages from outside the wall. Our ignorance as to the fate of the neighboring towns was the worst possible punishment for the lieutenant, whose sardonic smile gradually faded.
Sometimes, at night, King Alfonso’s army would sound the clarion for hours on end to wear us down by making us fear an imminent attack. On All Souls’ Day, the soldiers galloped around the town walls holding aloft bits of roast game. The aroma of venison in red wine and wild boar with rosemary wafted inside. A number of the townsfolk watched from the guard walk and returned home weeping. Many still recalled the celebrations with anger.
There was a single beacon of light amid all the darkness, though. Alix gave birth to a calm baby girl. We had her baptized quickly, lest a surprise attack take her from us before she received the blessings from Alix’s God. Grandmother Lucía became her godmother, and she became the old woman’s great-great-great-grandchild.
Gunnarr was named her godfather, and he swore by the Crucified One to protect her. Though he crossed his fingers behind his back as he solemnly recited his vows, I knew he would die to save her.
* * *
—
And just when we believed all was lost, salvation appeared.
A clarion call announced its arrival in the form of a man accompanied by an escort of Castilian soldiers who were wary of the intruder.
The news spread like wildfire and the town’s inhabitants congregated on the battlements.
“What is going on?” Chipia shouted from above.
“King Alfonso has allowed me temporary passage to bring tidings. Open the gate before he changes his mind. My journey from Pamplona was arduous. Don’t let it have been futile as well,” Bishop García said with a smile.
We all heaved a sigh of relief. We had not seen a fresh face since the summer.
The priest had grown thinner and had aged a great deal over the past few months, but he ran to the tower at the Santa María Cathedral and began to ring the bells.
The sound was music to our ears.
Chipia, prudent as ever, positioned his crossbowmen around the North Gate.
Then the rest of us encircled them, armed with the first weapons we could lay our hands upon.
“Open the gate!” commanded the lieutenant. “But just enough to allow a single man and his steed through!”
The rusty hinges on the door made a horrendous din.
The head of Bishop García’s horse appeared and Chipia’s men hastened to close the gate after him.
The cleric dismounted and Onneca, who had been drawn by the peal of bells along with everyone else, embraced her cousin.
“I never thought I’d see you again!” she cried, heaving a great sigh.
“If this continues much longer, you won’t. And I have no wish to hold a funeral Mass for your town, Cousin.”
The bishop studied us all with a frown.
“You are a sorry sight. This siege must end immediately,” he said.
“If you’ve come here to persuade us to surrender,” Chipia replied, “your journey has been wasted.”
“It is not for me to decide such weighty matters. But I fear for your souls, so I am willing to travel to the lands of the Almohads, accompanied by one of the town’s nobles, whomsoever you choose. I will speak with good King Sancho and explain to him that the siege must end. I will ask whether he intends to send reinforcements or if he has other orders for us. Does this sound reasonable?”
Separate groups of gentlefolk and vendors formed. Hushed exchanges followed, punctuated by the occasional curse, until finally everyone agreed to the bishop’s proposal.
“I’ll ride with you, García,” I said.
“Out of the question,” objected the mayor. “You’re the voice of reason in this town. Without you, we would all have perished.”
“He’s right,” Nagorno whispered in my ear. “You and I must remain and stand together.”
“Who, then?”
/>
“One resident from Nova Victoria and one from Villa de Suso,” interjected Mendoza. “We can only trust our own.”
“So be it. Any volunteers?” asked Chipia.
To our astonishment, Onneca stepped forward.
“I will accompany my cousin, riding Olbia. I’m still strong enough to endure the two-month journey.”
A murmur spread among the various groups, but no one dared oppose her.
“Anyone from Villa de Suso?” ventured the mayor.
“I’ll go,” said Alix, who was standing by my side and cradling our sleeping daughter. She handed her to me and I looked at her mutely.
Who was I to stand in her way? This was her town; these were her people.
“Then prepare to leave at once. The road south is a long one,” said Chipia.
* * *
—
Of that journey to the lands of the Almohads, I can relay only what was described to me. Part of the story that follows I heard from my wife, Alix de Salcedo. Other details were revealed to me by my sister-in-law, Onneca de Maestu.
The trip was hampered by bad weather, and it took nigh on five weeks for them to reach their destination. Once there, Alix and Onneca waited while Bishop García was given an audience with King Sancho the Strong. They argued at length, but García was a seasoned diplomat and much respected by the monarch. He emerged victorious with the letter of dispensation permitting us to surrender the town.
“What else did our king say?” Alix asked anxiously.
“There will be no reinforcements. The Miramamolín has problems of his own in Tunisia, and he needs the men of the monarchy. He is not keeping our king against his will, nor is he being held prisoner, but he’s being showered with gold and jewels, and there are rumors of a beautiful infidel woman. King Sancho is releasing you from your pledge to defend the realm. He vows to retake the town as soon as he returns north, but he cannot know when that will be.”
The Lords of Time Page 35