“Sensory…?”
“Depriving someone of sensory input. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. Normally, it’s done with a hood or a tank. The purpose is to induce a meditative state and allow the subject to focus.”
She stared at him. “Meditative state? Those boxes—”
“I know. Clearly, whoever was in them was not relaxing and enjoying a quiet rest. What I’m saying is that sensory deprivation has been used in psychiatry, and it’s not considered cruel in small amounts. But the system normally used is humane. Like a tank filled with salt water. Not a wooden casket.”
“The journal says that’s why they were using those?”
“It alludes to that. I can’t figure out exactly what they were hoping to accomplish, but it seems, as you saw, that the doctor who wrote the journal became increasingly disillusioned with the work and increasingly concerned for the patients. He began to suspect that he’d been sold a bill of goods.”
“What?”
“That the purpose of the research had been misrepresented to him.”
“What did he think they were really doing?”
“He never says. Even though he was hiding the journal, he was still cagey. No names. No specifics. His concerns are generalizations. As for the supposed treatment, I’ve compiled his oblique references on this page”—he pulled one out—“and my theory is that they were treating depression by inducing a relaxed state with drugs and then putting the patient in the boxes. The closet seems to have been an early stage of the experiment—without drugs—followed by the wooden boxes. Yet while the subjects were all volunteers, not all of them could voluntarily withstand the experience. Some panicked despite the sedative.”
“That primal fear,” she said. “Claustrophobia.”
“Correct. That is where the author began questioning the ethics and purpose of the research. Subjects who objected weren’t permitted another method of treatment.”
“Or allowed to leave.”
Jackson fingered the journal pages. “There’s no proof of that. I’m not defending what they did, Tess, but I don’t like jumping to conclusions that these men were—”
“Evil?”
“Exactly. They were scientists. Yes, maybe subjects were held against their will if they objected, but I don’t want to presume that without evidence. Psychiatrists are supposed to abide by the Nuremberg Code when they do human experimentation. The first principle is that subjects must be able to consent and do so voluntarily, under no duress.”
“All right.”
He seemed to visibly relax at that, as if he’d expected her to argue. He was right though. It was easy to see whatever had happened in that house as something straight out of a gothic novel. Mad scientists experimenting on unwitting patients. Without proof, though, they could travel too far down the wrong road and miss a simple answer while looking for a nefarious one.
“I called my mom last night,” he said. “Asked if she knew of any link between McGill and sensory-deprivation research.”
“What did you tell her?”
He seemed confused by the question before saying, “Nothing. I just asked.” For him, it seemed, that was normal. Raised to ask questions and explore whatever piqued his curiosity. Which explained a lot, and Tess couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy.
“She knew of a connection,” he said. “Donald Hebb. He’s a psychology professor at McGill. Chairman of the department until ’59, and then he served as president of the American Psychological Association in 1960.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, he’s a big deal in the field. He’s still here, teaching, though my mom’s not sure what his position is. She remembers, though, that he was known for sensory-deprivation experiments, because she heard him speak on it a few years ago. He studied its effects on the mind. What he found suggested the effects weren’t positive. My mom doesn’t know much more, but we should be able to dig deeper here.”
“Hebb, you said? Is he mentioned in the journal? I know there’s a Dr. K. mentioned.”
“And a Dr. H., which I’m guessing is Hebb. However, Dr. H. didn’t seem to have anything to do with the actual experiments. He’s cited because of research he did on the subject, and there are a few passages that suggest Dr. K. was a student of his—either literally, by taking his classes, or figuratively, by studying his work. Nothing suggests Hebb was in any way involved with what happened in Sainte-Suzanne. In fact, at one point the journal writer says he told Dr. K. that he’s misusing Dr. H.’s research and that if the man found out, he’d be horrified.”
“They were taking Hebb’s research a step further.”
“Seems so. Now we need to find out what Hebb’s research was.”
After a couple of hours at the library, they had their answers. While at Harvard, Donald Hebb had studied the effects of sensory deprivation on rats. Then, in 1951, the Canadian Defense Research Board paid him to start human trials. He’d given McGill students a lot of money—twenty dollars a day—to volunteer. They were placed on beds in a cell-like room and fitted with goggles to block out light and earphones to block out sound. Tubes over their arms and gloves on their hands ensured they couldn’t feel anything.
The tests were conducted as humanely as possible. Participants ate and used the washroom—still wearing goggles and headphones. They were allowed to quit at any time.
The trial was supposed to last six weeks. Most subjects gave up after a few days. Only one made it a full week.
Hebb had theorized that without sensory stimulation, cognitive abilities would deteriorate. He was right. All the subjects performed poorly on tests afterward. Instead of allowing them to focus, prolonged deprivation actually made them confused, easily misled. Some even reported visual and auditory hallucinations.
The purpose of the experiments had been more than mere academic interest. The defense department feared the Soviets had used sensory deprivation to brainwash Canadian POWs.
Whatever happened at the house near Sainte-Suzanne, it had stemmed from this research. Yet if Hebb had found negative effects from sensory deprivation, why would anyone use it to cure mentally ill patients?
A possible answer came in an article’s reference to another McGill professor: Dr. Ewen Cameron, who’d been head of the psychiatry department while Hebb headed psychology. Cameron had used Hebb’s work to “reprogram” mentally ill patients with a combination of isolation, drugs and hypnosis.
“Is that what we were seeing?” Tess asked. “Cameron’s work?”
“I don’t think so. His work started in the mid-’50s, which means it’s past the date you saw on that calendar. But I know where we might get more information. Cameron’s still doing work here, over at Ravenscrag.”
Twenty-Four
RAVENSCRAG. THESE DAYS it was more commonly called the Allan Memorial Institute. Ravenscrag fit it better. The mansion outside Sainte-Suzanne paled in comparison to this. Built a hundred years ago as a family home, it had been the biggest and grandest mansion in Canada. Donated to the university twenty-five years ago, it was now home to Royal Victoria Hospital’s psychiatry department.
Jackson went straight to the departmental secretary and asked after Dr. Cameron. He introduced himself and showed his student card, and Tess wondered why he did that until the secretary recognized his name. She knew his mother, who apparently gave lectures at McGill.
When they’d first asked about Dr. Cameron, the secretary’s face had gone rigid, and Tess had been certain they’d get a flat no. After realizing who Jackson was, her answer was still no, but only because Dr. Cameron was home in Albany.
Jackson explained that he and Tess were doing a summer project on sensory deprivation. He’d read the basics of Cameron’s work, but they hadn’t been able to find more in the library.
“I’m not surprised,” the secretary said. “As far as I know, he hasn’t published his findings yet. But there’s a research assistant here who works with him. He’s in his office now if you’d like me to ring him.”
“Please.”
The secretary did that and then led them back. A young man stood in an office doorway, looking annoyed. He ushered them in brusquely and closed the door without a word to the secretary.
While the assistant sat on the edge of his desk, he clearly expected them to stand.
“Jackson Labine.” Jackson walked forward, hand out. “My mother is—”
“I’ve heard. I’m not familiar with her work. I’m quite busy, as you can see, and I don’t appreciate being interrupted by a couple of high-school students trading on some psychologist’s name to weasel their way in here.”
He said psychologist the way a surgeon might say veterinarian, as if any link between their professions was unappreciated.
“I’m a McGill student,” Jackson said evenly as he withdrew his card. “I’m going into my second year. This is a summer research project.”
“You bring your high-school girlfriend along on interviews? That’s not very professional.”
“She’s an intern of my mother’s, and I am paying her to assist me in this project.”
Tess opened her notebook and took out her pen.
The man waved at her. “You can put that away. I don’t have anything to say.” He looked at Jackson. “Did you really think that would work? Pretending you’re doing research for a project?”
“I am. I—”
“Yes, I suppose technically you are. It’s the nature of the project you’re lying about, isn’t it?”
“What—”
“Did your mother think this would work better? Sending her son to gather dirt? Whatever she’s heard about Dr. Cameron’s work, it’s slander, started by those jealous of his success, and if she spreads those lies, she will be charged with libel, and the case will be tight enough that your father won’t be able to get her off.”
“I thought you didn’t know my mother.”
“I said I don’t know her work. Her psychology work. Because that’s what she is. A psychologist. If she was a halfway decent one, that’s what she’d be recognized for. But she can’t make a name for herself that way, so she sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong. Your being here obviously means she has Dr. Cameron in her sights.”
“Obviously,” Jackson murmured.
“I suppose the fact that it took her so long should prove she’s not much of a threat. His work here is done. His project is old news.”
“If the truth hasn’t been exposed, it’s still news.”
Jackson’s gaze was fixed on the man. A knowing smile played on his lips. Tess was sure his mother had no interest in Dr. Cameron, but if the assistant had leaped to that conclusion, Jackson seemed happy to play along.
The man leaned forward. “I’m going to warn both of you to back off. The American government doesn’t appreciate having its reputation besmirched, and the CIA is one division you really don’t want to upset.”
“Considering I’m not in America, I’m not too worried. Maybe our government would like to know that the CIA is involved with Dr. Cameron’s work.”
“They’re not. That’s the point I’m making. The rumor is a lie, one the CIA does not appreciate, so tell your mother—”
“My mother’s sole concern is for the patients involved. What you’ve done to them.”
The man tensed, and Jackson couldn’t hide a small smile of satisfaction. Tess realized his remark about the patients had been a blind stab.
The man recovered fast. “The patients are fine. Better than fine. They are improved. That was the point of the experiment, and it has been a rousing success—”
“Rousing? Perhaps that word doesn’t mean what you think it does. You seem to be a native English speaker.”
“I know what the word means, boy.” The man’s face mottled bright red. “The experiment was an overwhelming success.”
“That’s not what some of the patients are claiming.”
A harsh laugh. “If your mother honestly thinks all patients are pleased with their treatment, that shows exactly how inept she is at her profession. We’re dealing with the mentally ill here. They’re troubled. Sometimes we can’t cure them, and they blame us. Sometimes we do cure them, and they still blame us. I’ve seen violent schizophrenics put on medication that allows them to lead a normal life then complain because the meds give them the shakes.”
“True, but as psychiatrists, you’re medical doctors. First do no harm.”
The man’s face mottled darker. “We have done no harm. The memory loss is temporary. It was an anticipated effect of the coma induction.”
“Which was better than Dr. Hebb’s methods of sensory deprivation?”
The man waved his hands. “It’s not exactly the same thing, but yes, on the most simplistic layman’s level, it was more humane to induce comas to reprogram the brain, which comes with the risk of short-term amnesia. Anyone who is suggesting more permanent effects is fear-mongering. And that is all I’m going to say. You can leave on your own or escorted by security.”
As they headed out, Jackson continued to pester the research assistant with questions.
“I’m going to find the washroom,” Tess said.
The man waved her off. He might have been pointing to the facilities…or he might have just been telling her to go away. She walked to the end of the hall and turned. Down another hall and another.
No sign of a washroom, but she wasn’t actually looking for one. She had no idea what she hoped to find. She just kept walking, as if she followed some invisible map. Turn here and here and then here. Finally, she reached what seemed to be a medical area. Peeking through one window, she saw an examination table. When she heard voices, she ducked behind the corner.
She peeked out to see a man leading a hospital-gowned woman toward her. Another man accompanied them. The first man’s face grabbed her attention. It was the research assistant she’d just left.
He couldn’t possibly have escorted Jackson out and then retrieved a patient in so short a time. Tess peeked again and got a better look at the older man with him. She’d noticed his photo in the front hall. It was Dr. Ewen Cameron.
She was seeing a vision.
Tess weighed the risks of her being mistaken and decided they were worth taking. She stepped from behind the corner, walked into the middle of the hall and stood there. The trio kept coming. There was no way they could miss seeing her, yet they gave no sign that they did.
The younger man seemed to be reassuring the woman. As he’d demonstrated in his office, he wasn’t really suited for such a conversation, and the patient grew more agitated as he spoke. Dr. Cameron moved closer. “Depression is not uncommon after a pregnancy,” he said, his voice soft, with a Scottish burr. “But this is the worst possible time for it. Your children need you. We’re going to give you back to them. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
The woman replied in rapid-fire French, and Tess could only pick up something about sleeping and shocks. The doctor patted her shoulder. “All part of the process. Unpleasant, but you’re a strong woman. You’ll get through this and get back to your wee ones in no time.”
Dr. Cameron opened a door, and the three disappeared into a room. Tess hurried over and grabbed the closing door, but it kept shutting. She put her ear to it.
“Que faites-vous là?” What are you doing there? A woman’s voice came from down the hall. Tess blinked, and when she did, a sign appeared on the door, in French and English, saying the laboratory was closed. A woman in a lab coat strode her way.
“I—I’m looking for the washroom,” Tess said in English.
“Well, that’s not it. This is a restricted area.”
“Sorry, I was in the psychiatry department, and I took a wrong turn. Can you point me back toward reception? That’s where my friend’s waiting.”
The woman insisted on walking her out.
Twenty-Five
ONCE TESS AND Jackson were outside, she told him what she’d seen.
“I don’t know what she meant a
bout shocks,” Tess said. “Maybe I translated wrong.”
“No, it’s electroshock therapy. Common enough.”
“Shocking people? Therapeutically?”
“It’s been shown to have positive effects. Negative ones too though. My mother is part of a group of psychologists who advocate against it because—” He made a face. “Avoid tangent. Stay on track. What you saw is significant because it proves—”
A group of laughing students drowned him out, and he plucked her sleeve, impatiently leading her across the road to quiet. “I was still talking to the guy when you saw him. I kept asking him questions. So he’s not dead.”
“Um, no. Unless we’re both seeing ghosts.”
“Neither of us is. That’s the point.”
“Right,” she said slowly. “If I saw someone that we know is definitely alive, then I can’t be seeing ghosts. They’re replays of the past.”
“Which reminds me that we wanted to speak to someone about that. We’ll go see if he’s around.”
The professor’s name was Dr. Augustin, and he was in the psychology building, doing research through the summer term. He was a large man in his sixties, with a ruddy complexion and a bristling gray mustache. He greeted Jackson warmly, asking after his parents and sisters as he led them to his office. Jackson asked if his research was going well.
“Well enough,” Dr. Augustin said in heavily accented English. “We are doing a standard ESP test with psy-Q forms before and after.” He looked at Tess. “That means we ask questions about subjects’ perceived psychic abilities, run an ESP test and then re-question them about their abilities afterward.”
“Seeing whether success or failure on the test influences their answers,” Jackson said.
“Correct, but we also have a second group that is not told how well they did. They guess at their score and then take the questionnaires, testing how perception affects their responses. It is just the first step in an array of escalating tests, ultimately looking at the effects of perceived psychic abilities.” He smiled as he opened his door. “Which is not what you came to see me about.”
The Unquiet past Page 14