Ms. Palmer says that her ultimate objective is to perfect a diagnostic that can identify a psychopath from the electrical patterns of their brains—and do so remotely. “The technology isn’t quite there yet,” she explains. “But great progress is being made on two fronts. First, scientists are learning how to pick up electrical impulses from the brain to control artificial limbs, video games, and the like. If we can download movies wirelessly, we should be able to detect brain waves wirelessly—at least from a short distance. The trick is to find identifiable differences in electrical patterns between psychopaths and normals, which is one of the things I’m working on. My ultimate goal would be to develop a device you could have on your key ring that would vibrate, or alert you in some other way, when a psychopath is within fifty feet. An early warning system.”
The article continued, this time switching gears to another topic in the study of psychopathy. She and Apgar finished the article at about the same time, and she wasn’t mentioned further.
Erin glanced at her advisor and winced before turning to the dean. “This is from years ago,” she explained. “Three years ago to be exact. It’s from an interview I did with a tiny local paper.” Her features darkened. “Can a reporter do that?” she demanded. “I mean, a reporter can’t just take a quote I gave to another paper and use it three years later like it’s a fresh one,” she finished, her voice filled with outrage.
The dean shook his head in disgust. “Well, I’m guessing a reporter can do that,” he snapped. “Since this one did.” He eyed Apgar. “Why wasn’t I told about this interview three years ago then?”
“It was harmless,” replied Apgar. “I didn’t even know about it until the paper put it online. It was small-time. Even when it was posted online it hardly got any hits. And I made it very clear to Erin that she had stepped on a land mine and never to think about saying anything like that again. Who could have known it would go national three years later?”
The dean ignored Apgar and turned his focus back on Erin. “You’ve really stepped in it this time—whether it was this weekend or three years ago. Makes no difference. As if your research wasn’t controversial enough. I had reps from the ACLU calling me all morning, and any number of news stations and papers. You do realize we survive on grants here, right? We do solid research. Not flamboyant research. Or controversial research. And we don’t showboat.”
“What did the ACLU want?” said Apgar.
“What do you think? You know, or you wouldn’t have told Erin she hit a land mine three years ago. They were outraged! And I don’t blame them. Talk about infringing on civil liberties. What Erin says she’s trying to accomplish—in the name of the University of Arizona, for Christ’s sake—is a modern-day Scarlet Letter.”
“Look, I know why it was wrong,” said Apgar. “But Erin’s heart was in the right place, even though her head was in the wrong one. And I bet most of the people who read this article would love to see a project like this succeed. Psychopaths destroy lives, even the ones who aren’t violent criminals. In a perfect world, it would be extremely useful to know who fell into this category.”
“I’m sure it would be,” said Borland. “So you could discriminate against them. Even if they were never arrested or convicted of any crime or wrongdoing. A device that would turn every citizen into their own private thought police, convicting other citizens to a lifetime of being shunned on the basis of their brain-wave patterns alone. And if this isn’t bad enough when the test is accurate, what about false positives? If even one in a hundred was a mistake—can you imagine? Wives leaving their husbands. ‘Wow, he was a loving husband and father, but my key ring vibrated—so he must be a psychopath. Who knew?’”
The dean shook his head angrily. “I’ve seen the research proposals for every student in the department. And this was never mentioned. Were you both trying to hide it from me? Is this some kind of stealth project?”
“No,” said Apgar emphatically. “Because it isn’t a project. Erin was just speculating. Three years ago, she did hope to initiate a second phase of research, geared toward wireless detection of psychopaths. But she hadn’t yet written up the proposal or discussed it with me. When I read about it online, I told her the same thing you’ve just told her; that a project like this would be fraught with controversy and unintended consequences. She understood what I was saying and agreed with me. Yes, she’s still trying to identify differences in electrical patterns between psychopaths and normals. But not for the purpose of creating a remote diagnostic. I promise you.”
“That may be so,” said the dean, “but that doesn’t change the fact that no one will believe it. You think they’re going to believe me that this misguided project—a gleam in the eye of a raw young grad student—was aborted before it started three years ago? When the goddamned Wall Street Journal has her quoted, yesterday, as saying this is a research goal of hers? A research goal, by extension, supported by the University of Arizona?”
Erin knew the vast majority of people would be thrilled to have the device she had so carelessly described. Ironically, only a short while ago her roommate had been clamoring for a way to conclusively test for psychopathy. And there was no doubt that even if mistakes were made, lives would be saved on balance. But she had come to agree with the dean. She had developed her thinking on this subject far beyond that of either the dean or her advisor, of that she was sure, and she was paying a terrible price, emotionally, for this evolution.
Apgar had, indeed, gotten her to think deeply on this subject three years earlier, and she had been doing so ever since, which had led her to a deep study of philosophy and ethics and to a seismic shift in her thinking. She had ultimately come to concede the validity of his—and now the dean’s—point of view on this subject. And it couldn’t be very fun for the dean to get outraged calls from the ACLU and others, especially since he had the responsibility of protecting the university and the department from controversy.
Erin took a deep breath. “We can demand a correction,” she said. “I’m pretty sure they can’t do what they did here.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” said Dean Borland dismissively, as though she had just fallen off the turnip truck. And in this case, maybe she was out of her league. The media had considerable power, and the last thing she needed was more controversy—or more of a spotlight on this topic.
“Ever since Jason completed his work,” continued the dean, “I’ve had to deal with conservative groups, worried that if we proved the brains of psychopaths were truly structurally aberrant, these monsters might use this information as a defense at trial. Insisting they had no control of their actions. And now I have liberal groups worried about discrimination against psychopaths, for Christ’s sake. That’s my dream, to be a punching bag for both ends of the political spectrum. Just shoot me now.”
“Look,” said Apgar. “I know you feel like we’ve kicked a hornet’s nest. And we have. But this will blow over before you know it. I’m sure it will.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it will also. Because I’m pulling Erin from her project.”
Erin’s eyes widened. “What!” she said. “You can’t do that.”
But even as she said this, like half of a schizophrenic personality, a weary voice whispered to her to let it go. That this would be for the best. She was so tired. Tired of deception. Tired of guilt. Tired of wrestling with issues of ethics and morals so thorny the densest rosebush seemed like a downy pillow by comparison. How easy it would be to cave, to use this as an excuse to stop what she was doing and bring the one foot she had hanging over the abyss back to firm ground. But something in her wouldn’t let her. Not after she had come this far. Despite the severe price it was extracting, she couldn’t leave matters unfinished.
“Look … Erin,” said the dean. “I’m doing you a favor here. You have more than enough data to get your Ph.D. and move on. Write up what you have and then find a nice university—one not named the University of Arizona—to do a postdoc. Jason should have
forced you to begin writing up your thesis six months ago anyway.”
“But I’m at the most important part of the research,” said Erin, fighting to keep her voice calm.
“This isn’t a discussion,” said the dean.
Erin’s mind raced. Ideally she could use two or three months of further study. To confirm, and polish, and refine, and measure. To get her scientific arms fully around the phenomenon. But she could get to a quick and dirty confirmation fairly quickly. It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do.
Erin blew out a long breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “You’re right.” She paused for a few seconds to make sure the dean digested the fact that she was surrendering without a protracted battle. “Just give me two weeks to wrap up what I’m doing,” she added casually, as though this was a request that was beyond reasonable. “And then I’ll pull the plug.”
“No. You’re off the project. Effective immediately. When this meeting ends, I have to return dozens of calls. And you can bet your ass I’ll be telling them you were removed from this project the instant I became fully aware of it. This will be just the beginning of damage control. God knows how I’ll explain why I wasn’t aware of it earlier.”
Dean Borland shook his head. “Consider yourself lucky that I let you go on this long,” he added. “You were a hair away from being removed from the project a year ago. I don’t know if you’re bad luck or what. But as good and dedicated a student as you are, trouble follows you. There are a number of groups around the world visiting prisons and studying psychopaths. So how is it that all of them combined have had one test subject die during their studies, and you’ve had three? In the past two years. This project was damned from the beginning.”
Erin was speechless, but Apgar didn’t have this same problem. This decision impacted him as much as it did his student. As her advisor, Apgar would be a coauthor on the scholarly papers that would come from the research. “Richard, these unfortunate deaths are a separate issue,” he insisted. “Having nothing to do with the Wall Street Journal piece. So I hope you didn’t factor them in to reach your decision. Two prisoners had a stroke and died in their sleep. Yes, it was one in a million, but one-in-a-million events happen. Every day. The pathologist verified their strokes had nothing to do with Erin’s research activities.”
“Okay, two deaths are one in a million,” responded the dean. “But then add in her being attacked in the trailer. I don’t believe in curses, but if I did, this project would be cursed. Three inmate deaths. What are the odds of that?”
“Would you have preferred I let him kill me?” said Erin angrily. “Would that have helped the odds? Two inmates and a grad student dead?”
“No, of course not. Although you could have told us you were a female Chuck Norris earlier. Before this happened, Jason and I used to wonder if we were insane for agreeing to let you do this project in the first place. If we would have known how easy it was for the hundred-and-twenty-pound damsel to strike a lethal blow against the two-hundred-pound, weight-lifting inmate, we could have saved ourselves the trouble.”
“I didn’t mean to crush his windpipe,” said Erin. “It was self-defense, and I struck harder than I realized. But why rehash any of this? I can only second what Dr. Apgar has said. The prison conducted a thorough investigation of all three deaths, and I was exonerated. If I hadn’t been, the prison wouldn’t have let me continue. So that’s in the past. It isn’t fair to link that case and this one.”
“Yes it is,” said Borland. “Because I’ve already been asked about these deaths today by the media. The media and the ACLU don’t have to do much digging into your research to learn about these incidents. It’s not like they’re hidden. They just pop right out. I have no doubt some people will wonder if you’re studying inmates, or picking them off one by one, Ten Little Indians style.”
Erin frowned deeply. “The thing about the wireless psychopath detector was a mistake. I admit that. But one I made years ago and didn’t repeat. The other incidents happened, but I had nothing to do with them. Please don’t do this,” pleaded Erin. “Not now. Just give me a single week.”
The dean shook his head, his expression even grimmer than before, if this was even possible. “I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that suggested he really wasn’t. “But you’re done. As of this second. And no power on earth is going to change that.”
5
“GOOD MORNING, ERIN,” said Alejandro cheerfully as she entered the prison grounds and the heavy steel door slid shut loudly behind her.
“Morning,” she said, adjusting her hideous and useless glasses and trying hard not to look as nervous as she felt.
She had ended her meeting with Dean Borland by making sure he knew how much she disagreed with his decision, but also making it clear that she was prepared to respect it. She would halt her current study and begin writing her doctoral thesis. He was right. This was long overdue, and she had enough data for two doctorates.
She had assured both the dean and her advisor that she would inform prison authorities immediately that her study had come to an end, and make arrangements for the mobile lab to be removed from the yard once and for all. She had also told them she would be taking a two-week vacation to sort things out in her head and get a new lease on life, starting immediately. She would get a fellow grad student to fill in for the two missed teaching days this would entail.
After they had left the dean’s office, Apgar had apologized profusely for what had happened, and told her she was the most impressive graduate student he had ever had. She thanked him for trying to defend her and reassured him that her thesis would make him proud.
But she had no intention of pulling up stakes. Not when she was this close.
“I know you won’t believe this,” she said to Alejandro, “but I’m actually taking a vacation soon.” He had often told her she spent more time on the prison grounds than the inmates, and encouraged her to do just this.
“No!” said the guard in mock horror. “Say it isn’t so.”
Erin forced herself to smile. Her actions needed to appear perfectly normal, no matter how nervous she was on the inside. “I’m afraid it’s true. I finally decided to take your advice, Alejandro.”
She sighed. “But here’s the bad news. I have a lot I want to accomplish before I go. So I’ll be working far more hours than normal for at least the next few days. And seeing far more prisoners.”
“Is that even possible?”
“You wouldn’t think so,” she admitted. “But I’m planning to be very efficient. The inmates will be in and out. Like an assembly line. Each examination will be much shorter and more focused than usual.”
Her research would be quick and dirty. But she would have her confirmation. She hadn’t run a marathon to be stopped just a few blocks short of the finish line. Too much was at stake to let an academic bureaucrat stand in the way—even if he was right—which she knew in her heart he probably was. So she would forge ahead at top speed, not even stopping for the weekend, which luckily wasn’t a necessity, since a prison was the ultimate 24/7 establishment.
As Alejandro left to bring her the first prisoner on her lengthy list, she pulled out her cell phone and called her advisor, knowing he wouldn’t be in for another hour yet. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves. The phone rang and then was kicked over to voice mail. She waited for his message and the beep, her heart beating faster than normal. This kind of deception wasn’t like her. But then again, she had been engaged in a vast deception for years—so maybe it was like her. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore.
She heard a loud beep and began. “Jason, this is Erin. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve notified the prison I won’t be coming back. And Mobile Medicine will pick up their MRI trailer later today, although, according to the lease, they’ll still bill us ’til the end of the month. If you need me for any reason while I’m away, feel free to call my cell. Anyway, give my best to everyone in the lab, and I’ll see you in a few w
eeks. And thanks again for giving me a chance to do this work—and for defending me.”
Erin ended the connection and stared off into space. If Apgar or the dean happened to call the prison this week, things could get very ugly, very quickly. And while they probably wouldn’t call, there were no guarantees. So she was working on borrowed time. At some point, something would happen to tip them off that she had lied to them and hadn’t yet pulled the plug. So she was in a race to the finish line. If she were caught, she was almost certain she could kiss her Ph.D. good-bye.
Alejandro returned with yet another in an endless series of men dressed in orange. The first of the morning. The first she would see in direct violation of the dean’s edict. This one was named Tony, and he had robed three convenience stores, wearing a Homer Simpson mask, killing the clerk in each store with a single bullet between the eyes.
Erin told Tony the visit would be shorter and more focused than usual.
“Too bad,” he responded with a friendly smile. “You know how much I enjoy your company.”
She nodded but didn’t reply. If only she hadn’t seen his record, or known him for what he was, she might have enjoyed his company as well.
Erin braced herself psychologically. It was going to be a long, long day. The first of many.
6
FIVE STRESS-FILLED DAYS and fifty-seven prisoners later, looking over her shoulder the entire time, expecting to be found out at any moment, Erin had her answer.
Her preliminary results had been confirmed. And then some.
She had purposely not breathed a word of her progress to Hugh Raborn in California. She hadn’t wanted to raise false hopes, only to later uncover sharp, exposed nails beneath what at first glance looked like a plush, inviting carpet. During her recent discussion with Raborn, she had been careful not to even hint that there was anything newsworthy to report. She hadn’t mentioned that she had been pulled from the project, or that she had been forging ahead against direct orders.
The Cure Page 5