Of Half a Mind

by Bruce M Perrin

  Sorting through five thousand pages, if the larger box was packed full, would take some time, but it was manageable. Then, Huston looked toward the corner of the room. My eyes followed his gaze where I found three more of the large containers.

  I stepped over and removed a lid from one, nearly gasping at the contents. It was packed tight. It wasn’t loose pages, but rather, sheets inside of hundreds of folders. I checked another. It was the same.

  “I never expected there to be so much,” Huston said. “The offer to hire a grad student still stands…or maybe a couple of them.”

  I’d been through the pros and cons of that offer in my mind and the magnitude of the task didn’t change those factors. “Thanks, but no,” I said, as I returned to my chair and sat. “We’ll go through them.”

  “Do you happen to know what type of external drive Dr. Worthington would have used?” Sue asked.

  Huston stood and walked over to his desk, where he pulled open a drawer. From it, he produced a thin, black external drive of about four by six inches and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. “They would look like this.”

  Great. One of those could be slipped into a folder between pages. We’d never find them without opening each one. And the surveys? They might still be in their original, paper format. We would have to look at every page to be sure we missed nothing – all 20,000 or so of them.

  My curiosity had grown, seeing the mountain of paper. Just how and where did it fit into Worthington’s story? And why did he do it?

  Huston returned the disk to his desk and rejoined us. Once seated, he nodded at Scott.

  “I’m convinced that Ned’s death was the result of some type of foul play,” she said.

  What an opening statement.

  I would have been more shocked by her words, except Sue, Nicole and I had discussed the possibility at length. In fact, we were living our lives as if this was true. But it was still disturbing, hearing the statement come from her mouth.

  “Ned had always been excited about his career, but his passion grew to new levels when he started on that damn Blocker,” said Scott. She looked down at the floor, shaking her head before she continued. “And frankly, it was a bit contagious. I also began to think he was on the brink of a true revolution in the field – using the brain’s natural plasticity to cure itself? Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.”

  She was evidently not concerned about the rumors that she had conspired with Dr. Jerome Caufield, the marriage counselor, to steal the Blocker. Otherwise, this would have been an incriminating admission.

  “But that was the mood last year, during the study. I understand you and Jon have already discussed that period, correct?”

  “We have,” I said.

  Scott nodded. “OK. After the study, in January and February, Ned became frustrated. The disappearance of A.T.’s abilities bothered him. He couldn’t explain it. And the money had been spent, so he couldn’t investigate it. He spent February trying to get the VA to give him more funding, but they balked.” Scott paused a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t blame them. The reasons were obvious.

  “In March or April – even though Ned never said so – I’m convinced he used the Blocker on himself in a last-ditch attempt to find a way out.”

  Again, her statement was troubling, but nothing we hadn’t considered before. And unfortunately, like us, she had no proof. Then, she launched into a story with such vivid detail, I could see it in my mind.

  Three Months Earlier, Wednesday, May 6, 11:27 AM

  Elizabeth Scott stared out the window of her second floor, bedroom window, watching as her husband placed an oil painting at the curb. The picture had been a few hundred dollars several years ago, the work of a local, starving artist. But it wasn’t the money that concerned Scott. It was her husband.

  She picked up her phone and placed a call to an often-used number.

  “Dr. Jon Huston, Worthington-Huston Technology,” came the voice over the line.

  “Hi, Jon. It’s Beth. Have a minute?”

  “Sure, Beth. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Ned.”

  There was a pause. “So, he’s not coming around with the counseling?”

  Scott took a long breath and released it slowly. “No. If anything, he’s getting worse, but I didn’t call to tell you my problems. I just wanted to make sure there’s been nothing new at work. Something that might have caused him to get worse.”

  “Something here?” asked Huston slowly. “Beth, I don’t think Ned has been in the office in a month. At least, I never see him. He’s not hanging around home?”

  Scott sighed again. “He probably is. He’s been keeping the door to his study locked. I can’t tell if he’s in there anymore. Look, I have to go. I need to talk to him while I can find him.”

  “Sorry, Beth. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thanks, Jon. I will.” She disconnected.

  Scott left the bedroom, turning right down a short hallway. When she reached the head of the stairs to the living room, she paused. The dark, wooden handrail and carved spindles of the curving staircase was an architectural detail that had sold her on this house. Its elegance was still intact, but now it led to a room devoid of warmth and character. The picture had been the last decoration on the walls, and now, it was gone.

  The smell of paint drifted up the stairs, hardly registering in Scott’s mind. It had become as commonplace in their home as her perfume or the aroma of meals she cooked but they never shared. She looked down into the room. Ned was sitting on the floor, painting around the baseboard before rolling a new coat on the walls. Soon it would be the same flat, light gray as much of the rest of the house. She was losing the battle for color, and she had no idea why.

  She went out to the curb, retrieved the painting, and put it in the garage. She’d move it up to the attic later, so it could take its place next to the other pictures and knickknacks she had saved from the landfill. She went back into the living room.

  “Ned, honey?” she said. She might have heard a grunt in response, but doubted it. “I thought we weren’t going to repaint this room.”

  This time she was certain that silence was the only response.

  “We talked this over with Dr. Caufield. It’s a common area, and we were going to leave those spaces alone. See how we felt about them later. And the picture? Can’t we put it back up, at least for a while?”

  Still nothing.

  “Honey, don’t you remember talking to Dr. Caufield about this?”

  “I remember him talking. What I don’t remember was him listening,” replied Worthington.

  “He listened,” said Scott. She had expected the response, but hoped it might be different this time. “The places we share that haven’t been changed yet – this room and the dining room – we were going to leave them alone. Wait a while and see if you….”

  “Got better?” said Worthington coldly. “Caufield’s a fool.”

  “I was going to say, change your mind. And Dr. Caufield isn’t a fool. He’s been in practice for over 20 years.”

  “Spewing nonsense for 20 years does not make it wisdom.” Worthington laid the brush on the top of the paint can and stood. He looked closely at his wife. “You need to listen, because Caufield can’t or won’t. I can’t work, I can’t even think with the swirling chaos of this house in my head. The gray works.” He sat down and resumed painting.

  “But it doesn’t work for me, Ned. I can’t live in a house that’s so…depressing.”

  Her husband said nothing. Scott recognized the impasse, having reached it many times before. His proclamation that gray was good enough would be his final words. This standoff had been so frequent that she and Dr. Caufield had discussed it in the last appointment – a meeting her husband had refused to attend.

  “Ned, Dr. Caufield suggested a way you and I can get beyond this difference.” Scott waited a beat, but he said nothing. “He believes we need motivation, more of a reason to really
sit down and talk things through. It doesn’t have to be at his office, but we need to talk. Don’t you agree?”

  Worthington moved to a new section of the baseboard, checking that the drop cloth had not pulled away from the wall in the process. Taking a brush full of paint, he continued the detailed work.

  Scott sighed. “So, he thought each of us should give up something we like. He’d hold it safe until we earned it back by talking through our issues. You know how I love gardening, right?”

  Silence.

  “Well, I’m giving him all my gardening tools. I’ll let the weeds overtake my roses, until I’ve gained the right to use them again. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Sense? Hardly,” said Worthington, wiping a tiny drop of paint from the baseboard with a damp rag.

  “Let’s give it a try,” said Scott. “For you, Dr. Caufield suggested you give him the big notebook that describes the Blocker. That’s more symbolic than real, since you know all the information in it by heart. But that’s OK with me.”

  Worthington froze, the brush in mid-stroke, paint starting to drip down onto the drop cloth. He turned his head so he was looking at his wife’s feet. “Caufield suggested this, or did you?” He spoke quietly, his voice flat.

  “What?” asked Scott. “I don’t remember. Why’s that….”

  “Did you come up with this idea, or did he?” asked Worthington, his voice still barely above a whisper.

  Scott leaned forward, straining to hear her husband’s words. He looked up into her face. His eyes were empty, lifeless. She drew back, her hand coming to her throat.

  “It’s not a hard question,” Worthington said, staring into her eyes. “It wasn’t that long ago. Who suggested I give him the Blocker documents?”

  Scott had seen flashes of this demeanor before, but they had never lasted. Now, however, this mask of cold inhumanity seemed permanently etched into his features.

  She drew back, creating some distance between them. If she gave up on their counselor’s recommendation now, she would seal the fate of her marriage. If she persisted? She wasn’t sure what might happen, but she had to try one more time.

  “I told Dr. Caufield the things that each of us value – my gardening, theater, volunteer work. For you, I didn’t have many suggestions except work, but we can come up with something else.”

  Her husband stood and Scott took an involuntary step backwards. He was taller than her, but now, she felt dwarfed by his presence. His cold aggression overtook her like a gathering storm.

  “Ned, please, we can find something else. Maybe your golf clubs? I know you haven’t played in a while, but you love the game.” Her words were coming fast, driven by a growing fear. But for all the sound she was making, she was certain her husband heard nothing. His black stare bored through her, seeing something that wasn’t there, wasn’t even in the room.

  “You best hurry, because Caufield won’t be around much longer.”

  Scott gasped. “Ned, stop. You’re scaring me.”

  “It’s him or me.”

  “What?” stammered Scott, her eyes blinking rapidly. She took another step backwards, her shoe catching on the carpet. She nearly fell. “He’s not trying to harm you. He’s trying to help.”

  “He’s trying to separate me from my mind, leave my body without the world in which I live. He must die…or I will.”

  Worthington started toward his study.

  “Ned, stop, please,” pleaded Scott, tears running down her cheeks. He stopped, but didn’t turn. She swallowed, hoping to steady her voice. “We can talk this out. We just need to try.” She wanted to approach him, but couldn’t. She raised a trembling hand to her lips, trying to hold back the sobs.

  He turned around. His stare bored into her. “Don’t make me think you had a part in this scheme,” Worthington said coldly. “You don’t want his fate.” He turned and left the room.

  Thursday, August 20, 2:44 PM

  “I ran from the house and I’ve never been back,” Scott said, as she brought her story to a close. “Of course, I called the police and Dr. Caufield, told them what Ned had said, but neither seemed to take it seriously.” She laughed bitterly. “Why should they? I was describing a man possessed by a machine.”

  Possessed by a machine?

  Her words spun in my thoughts. Why would that be? I could think of nothing in our confusing and incomplete picture of this device that would explain such a fixation.

  Scott paused, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “Shortly after that day in May, I filed for divorce. I hoped the act would get Ned to meet me, hopefully to restart the dialog some place safe. But he ignored me.”

  Scott released a single laugh filled with disdain. “In fact, about the only people to pay attention was the press, who made Dr. Caufield and I look like criminals.”

  I admired Scott. Those days had been hard and to recount them for us with such candor couldn’t have been easy. “It’s no real consolation of course, but we’ll use everything you’ve said to help us understand this technology.”

  “You’re wrong,” Scott said, almost before I finished speaking. “It is a comfort to me, because helping you understand the Blocker gets me one step closer to knowing what happened to Ned. Jon isn’t sure he was killed, but I am.” She glanced in Huston’s direction.

  “It’s more that I don’t know than I doubt it,” said Huston. “Ned wasn’t around here much during that time. And when he was…. Well, he kept to himself.”

  Scott nodded. “Anyway, after that he started trying to get his life back. He was coming into his lab here…maybe even sneaking in. I don’t know. But within two months, he had requested funding for a study on training. That, of course, is when you got involved.”

  “Do you think he had quit using the Blocker…I mean, if he was?” asked Sue.

  Scott took in a long breath, then released it slowly. “No. He was fighting it, trying to manage it…but no, I don’t think he ever stopped completely. Sometimes, he’d call. And when he did, he’d sound exhausted from the battle, old and tired. I could hardly hear him, he spoke so softly. It broke my heart, but at the same time, it made it stronger. He was trying.”

  The Worthington she now described was the same man who had called me the night he died. Her description couldn’t be a coincidence. “Did Ned warn you that you were in danger?” I asked, remembering well the phrase ‘I fear for the lives of those around me.’

  For a moment, there was a blank look on Scott’s face, and then, realization. “He talked to you. He told you about the danger he’d created.” It wasn’t a question; there wasn’t even a trace of uncertainty in her voice. Scott knew.

  I had never mentioned the details of the call to Sue or Nicole and I hated catching them off-guard, but I had started down this path. “Yes, he did. He called when I was still in the office, the night of his death. He spoke just as you described – slowly, softly.”

  Scott’s eyes became moist and she looked overcome with grief. I turned away, not wanting to see the pain I had caused. But in a moment, she said simply, “You need to tell this to the police.”

  “The police are investigating?” asked Sue, stealing the words from my lips.

  “Reluctantly,” Scott replied, a touch of bitterness in her tone. Then, her voice softened. “With all the strangeness in his actions, it was hard to know what to believe. And his warnings? He kept repeating them, but he never explained. I should have found out…and now, it’s too late.”

  Her grief over these memories became too great, and she dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders shook in time with the sound of soft sobs.

  “I’m a little thirsty,” Huston said quietly. “Anyone else want a bottle of water?”

  Nicole and I shook our heads, but Sue said, “I would.”

  Huston got up and walked over toward his desk. He opened a wood panel that covered a small refrigerator. “This thing pays off when you’re stuck in the office for hours on end.” I had never seen or heard Scott respond
, but Huston pulled out three bottles. He returned and handed one to Sue and Scott.

  “I’m almost done,” said Scott, as she regained her composure. She removed the cap and took a sip of water. She looked face-to-face around the circle. “I believe that A.T. killed Ned. I’ve gone to the police, but they say they can’t do anything because we don’t know who he is.”

  At this point, I wasn’t surprised when she finally named her suspect, but frankly, I was stunned to hear the rest. “You don’t know who A.T. is?” I asked, turning to Huston.

  “The informed consent form that links his initials with his contact information is missing. It’s not in the filing cabinet where it should be. Or anywhere else we’ve looked.”

  “But you or Laverne would have seen A.T. coming and going,” said Nicole. “You’d know who he is, at least by sight.”

  Huston slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Much of our work is sensitive, including research on some types of neurological disorders. To maintain our patients’ confidentiality, we have a separate, locked entrance to the lab in the back of the building.” Huston sighed. “Ned sometimes hired part-time help, but he was running this study alone. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out how we could identify A.T., but I’ve come up with nothing.”

  “But if the informed consent form might be in one of these boxes, wouldn’t the police want to look through them?” I asked.

  “Well…,” Huston started, his head tilting to one side.

  “Let me,” said Scott. “If we find the form, they’d like to know the name, but they’re not going to look. Their minds are made up. They want to close the case as a death by natural causes. And they would, except they’re not sure why he died except that it was due to a lack of oxygen. It’s like he was strangled, but there’s no sign of a struggle. As for the form being in one of the boxes? I looked twice, but I might have missed it, so please, keep your eyes open.”