The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  Sydney frowned as she shook her head. “No, probably not.”

  “Then why come all the way out here?”

  Sydney’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure. I can’t explain anything that I’m feeling right now. Initially, I was just curious— about anything and everything having to do with my sister and her life. And then, when the police suggested that maybe Liz wasn’t killed by a random burglar, I guess I got caught up in trying to work through all the other possibilities. On some rational level, I know it makes no sense for me to have driven all the way out here, but I somehow felt like I had to do something—anything—to make myself feel like I was accomplishing something for my sister.”

  Mayer sighed in a sympathetic way. “Well, as I said, we’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have, and we’ll do whatever we can to put your mind at ease; but I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high.”

  She smiled back at him. “Thank you.” She took a notebook out of her shoulder bag and flipped it open on her knee, pulling a ballpoint pen out of her jacket and readying herself to take some notes. “So, do you have any idea why my sister came out here—what she was looking for or investigating?”

  Mayer shook his head. “I know only that she was looking for information about the way in which this place, the Institute, was run back in the old days—in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s—before the state mandated a systematic reform. I’ve only been here for a few years, and I’m not much of a history buff, so there was very little I could tell her. As a result, my conversation with your sister was very short, and I merely referred her on to Drs. Zorn and Golden. They’ve been here longer than anyone else, so I was guessing they’d have the best chance of helping her.”

  “You don’t have any idea what she was after?”

  Mayer hesitated. “Well,” he began, “I do know that she was looking for information about the treatment of the inmates prior to the reform. She seemed particularly interested in any experiments that were performed, and the practice of eugenics that was active at the time. But I don’t know why.”

  “Inmates?” Sydney let some shock slip into her tone. “Don’t you mean patients?”

  “Today, yes, they’re called patients—of course. Back in the middle of the twentieth century, though, they were called inmates, and, sadly, that’s more or less how they were treated.” Dr. Mayer could clearly see the horrified expression on Sydney’s face. “You must understand that this facility was entirely reformed thirty-five years ago, and no longer follows any of the practices from the decades before.” He sighed in admission. “It is true, though, that back when this hospital was known as the Virginia Juvenile Institute for the Mentally Defective, it took a vastly different approach to the ‘treatment’ of those who were sent here. Back then, any child with an IQ judged to be below 80 who didn’t have anyone to take care of them was eligible to be committed here. Once they were here, there was little hope of release.”

  Sydney frowned. “My understanding is that an IQ of 80 may be a little low, but it’s hardly a cause for institutionalization.”

  “Certainly that’s true today, and many doctors have recognized that IQ tests are of limited value in measuring a person’s overall intelligence. They are often a better test of what a person has learned than of what they may be capable of learning. That’s particularly true in children. The tests also suffer from cultural and linguistic biases that tend to favor those people who have been raised with a particular kind of background. But back when this Institute was founded in 1922, there was a strong national movement afoot to cleanse the American society of inferior genes, so any child who was deemed ‘inferior’ for whatever reason might potentially find their way here. In many respects, that movement remained strong through the 1950s and into the 1960s.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “It is,” Mayer agreed. “Worse still was that the testing that was done at the time made modern IQ tests look like paragons of scientific measurement. Very often they assumed a basic knowledge and skill level, even when testing children who’d had no education whatsoever. As a result, a great many children who most likely had average or above-average intelligence levels were probably condemned to grow up in this institute, and many others like it across the country at the time. Eventually, this place became nothing more than a dumping ground for society’s unwanted children—orphans, abandoned children, offspring of convicted criminals. Sometimes even wealthy families sent their children here if they were embarrassed by them: if they were slow, or if they had clear abnormalities that might call the family’s genetic suitability and strength into question.” He shook his head. “I’d like to think that at least those parents thought that their children would get treatment here.”

  “But the children didn’t, I take it?”

  The buzzer rang on Dr. Mayer’s phone and he flipped on the intercom. His secretary’s voice could be heard both over the phone and through the closed door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Dr. Mayer, but Drs. Golden and Zorn are here to see you.”

  “Thank you, Lisa,” Mayer said. “Please send them in.” He turned back to Sydney. “As I said before, I only arrived here a few years ago, so all I know is the lore. These two will be able to tell you much more.”

  The door opened and a man and a woman came in. They both had on white medical coats, and they both looked to be in their sixties. Sydney and Dr. Mayer rose for the introductions. “Sydney Chapin, these are Drs. Golden and Zorn; Doctors, this is Sydney Chapin.” He paused for a moment, unsure what else to say. Then he added, hesitantly, “Ms. Chapin is the sister of Elizabeth Creay, the reporter from Washington who was here to visit us a few weeks ago.”

  A look of understanding broke on the older woman’s face. “Oh, my word—the woman who was murdered!” She stepped forward and took Sydney’s hand, holding it in her own in a manner that felt more like an embrace than a handshake. “I read about your sister’s death in the paper. I was shocked. She seemed like such a kind, caring person. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Sydney responded.

  “My name is Sandra Golden. But you can call me Sandy.”

  The other doctor who’d walked into the room with Dr. Golden extended his hand, though it was stiff and awkward in comparison to Golden’s. “Mark Zorn, Ms. Chapin,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you, and you have my deepest sympathies as well.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  A moment passed during which no one seemed to know exactly what to say. Mayer finally stepped in to fill the void. “Sandy, Mark, Ms. Chapin is here to follow up on her sister’s visit. She’s trying to determine why her sister was here, and whether her visit might have had anything to do with her murder.”

  Sandra Golden let out an audible gasp and put her hand on her chest. “You don’t really think that’s possible, do you?” she asked.

  Sydney shrugged, feeling foolish and awkward. “I don’t know,” she said. Then she corrected herself. “No, actually. I guess I really don’t. The police thought they had the murder solved, but now they seem unsure, and I found out Liz had been up here asking questions, and then she was in Professor Barneton’s office right before she was killed—” She was talking quickly, hardly taking a breath, and she realized her explanation wasn’t making any sense, particularly to the three doctors who had no idea what she’d been through in the past few days. She could read the sympathy in the eyes of the psychiatrists evaluating her as she spoke, and recognized that it bordered on pity. They think I’ve lost my mind, she thought. Then again, maybe I have. “I don’t know why I came, really. I feel silly now.” She fought back tears of frustration as she stopped talking.

  Dr. Golden stepped forward again and took her by the arm, guiding her back down into her chair. “Sit down, dear,” she said. Then she turned to Mayer and directed him. “Aldus, have someone fetch Ms. Chapin a glass of water, please.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mayer said sheepishly. He flipped the intercom on his phone and asked his secretary to bring a gla
ss of water.

  Golden sat in the chair next to Sydney, still holding her arm. “Don’t worry, dear, this is all quite normal.” The older woman smiled and Sydney felt remarkably comforted. “You’re looking for a way to be close to your sister—to keep her with you as long as possible. You’re also struggling with the guilt of being the sibling who didn’t die, and that guilt naturally makes you want to do something to help your sister—to make things right and relieve yourself of the guilt. What better way than finding her killer?”

  Golden smiled again. “Mark, sit down,” she instructed Zorn. He took a seat against the wall without questioning her. “I think you’ll find that your sister’s visit here had nothing to do with her murder—in all candor, I don’t see how it possibly could—but we will do whatever we can to help you.”

  “I already told her that her sister was asking questions about what went on at the Institute prior to the reforms in the 1960s, and that I directed her to you two because you’ve been here longer than anyone else,” Mayer explained.

  Zorn nodded. “That’s true, although I didn’t come here until several years after the reforms had been implemented, so I didn’t have much information to give your sister either,” he said. “I told her that Sandy was the only one still here who was involved in the reforms themselves, and that she would be a better person to talk to.”

  Golden looked from Mayer to Zorn, and then back to Sydney. “I talked to her for quite a while. I couldn’t answer all of her questions, or even most of them, but it did seem that she found some of the background information I gave her helpful.”

  “What did you talk about?” asked Sydney, who had regained her composure.

  Dr. Golden took a deep breath, as though steeling herself against a terrible force. Then she patted Sydney on the knee. “I talked to her about what we found when we were sent here to reform this place.”

  z

  Outside in the parking lot, Lee Salvage ambled through the maze of cars toward the main building. He had donned a baseball cap and some sunglasses, both appropriate accoutrements for the hot weather and remarkably efficient at obscuring the way a person looks. Had anyone noticed him, they wouldn’t have given him a second thought. He could have been a relative of one of the patients, or one of the many vendors who ventured far out into the woods to fulfill their lucrative government contracts with the Institute. The parking lot was empty, and those within the building were otherwise occupied with the business of looking after their charges.

  Toward the front of the parking lot, he passed the blue Honda Accord with the California license plates he’d been following from a distance for the entire morning. As he came parallel with the rear tire, he bent down to tie his shoelace. After pulling the laces tight, he went to stand up, resting a hand on the rear wheel to steady himself. One would have to have been watching him very carefully to notice the long, thin knife in his hand as he inserted it between the rim and the tire. The aperture barely made a sound as air began leaking very slowly from the tire. He withdrew the knife, and the hole healed itself, at least for the moment. The tire would hold, he knew, until the car started moving and the additional pressure from the motion forced the slit open. Then the leak would work its effects gradually, though with increasing speed as the tire sagged. It would take thirty miles, maybe forty, by his calculations before the tire would give out completely. That should be just about right, he thought.

  He stood up and straightened his cap, keeping it low on his forehead to hide his blond hair. He took two steps toward the building, and then made a show of snapping his fingers as though he’d forgotten something in his car, and turned to head back to the far end of the lot. Once he was safely back to his car, he flipped open his cellular phone again to take a look, though he knew what he’d see. Still no service. He cursed. It would be better if he could check with his client to confirm his plans, but it looked as though that would be impossible. He could drive down to the nearest town to find a pay phone, but that was fifteen miles up the road, and not knowing how long the girl would be, he couldn’t leave her for that long.

  He rubbed his chin. Fate had made the decision for him, it seemed. His orders had been clear: If it appears that she is moving in a direction that would cause any significant risk, I give you complete discretion to handle the matter as you see fit. That was how his client had instructed him, and that left him little choice.

  Chapter Thirty

  “I WASN’TAPART of what went on here prior to 1968,” Dr. Sandra Golden said firmly. They were still in Mayer’s office, and Sydney’s attention was completely focused on the older woman. “I made that clear to your sister, and I want to make it clear to you. I tell you that not in defense of myself, but so that you’ll understand that much of my knowledge isn’t really knowledge—it’s reasonable assumption, calculated speculation, and logical conclusion. We’ll probably never know the full extent of what happened here, but it is true that I probably know as much as almost anyone else.”

  “How?” Sydney asked breathlessly.

  “I was one of the first people sent here to carry out the reforms. I was young and idealistic, with a brand-new medical degree and a specialty in psychiatry. I don’t know if I would have chosen to come here under the best of circumstances, but it was still unusual for women to be doctors at the time, and jobs were hard to come by. I’d planned on getting some seasoning here by working with hard cases, and then moving into private practice.” She sighed heavily. “But after we saw what had happened here, I was never able to drag myself away.”

  Golden leaned forward in her chair and addressed Sydney directly. “To give you some background, you must remember that the world was changing in 1968, and that meant the entire world was changing—including the medical establishment. In the real world, you had the idealists fighting for racial equality, sexual equality, nonviolence, and basic civil liberties. In the medical community, you had doctors fighting the same sorts of battles. The medical community in general, and the psychiatric community in particular, were still entrenched in a more traditionalist approach—treat the symptoms when possible, and isolate the patient or disease when not. Many of the younger doctors, however, were starting to approach medicine and psychiatry differently; taking a more patient-centric view, and working hard toward integrating those with problems into normal society, rather than isolating them.”

  She drew herself up in her chair and continued. “You have to realize how all of this impacted this place. As you’ve probably already learned, back then, this place was known as the Virginia Juvenile Institute for the Mentally Defective.” Sydney nodded, and Golden shook her head in frustration at some unseen force. “I think people had some idea about the problems here for a long time,” she said angrily. “It was a place that was still mired in the treatment schemes and medical philosophies of the 1930s. The driving principle was that people were born into their station in life—born smart or stupid, tall or short, sane or crazy—and that the most that could be done with those deemed ‘defective’ was to control their evil tendencies, usually through inhuman discipline. The ultimate goal, of course, was to keep them from infecting the greater population, and keep them from perpetuating whatever defect they had by preventing them from reproducing in the normal course.

  “In 1968, however, a more progressive and proactive doctor was appointed to oversee all of the state’s medical facilities— including this one. He fired everyone in this place, just about, and brought in a whole new team of young idealists to try to turn this place around. That was when I came.” She shook her head as the memories came flooding back.

  “That was a hard time,” she continued. “The things that I saw when I arrived—I couldn’t have imagined them in my worst nightmares. We found rooms with shackles attached to brick walls smeared with feces. We found leather straps and chains and bludgeons, and other instruments of torture we couldn’t even identify. We found children who’d been beaten so badly that even radical surgery couldn’t correct the muti
lations. We found older boys—men, really—who were in their twenties and hadn’t been released or transferred to another facility as required. Children as young as twelve had already undergone significant, and in some cases experimental, lobotomies; children had been sterilized; children had been used in experiments. And of course, as you’d expect in a place like that, sexual abuse was rampant. The inhumanities visited on the poor children who were unlucky enough to have found their way here were breathtaking.” She paused. “And we found graves,” she said in hushed tones. “We found so many graves, unmarked and uncared for, that we didn’t know what to do.” She looked at Sydney for a long moment. “There should never be that many graves in a facility for children.”

  Sydney shivered. “It must have been awful.”

  “It was more than awful.”

  “How did the children die?”

  “We don’t know,” Golden said. “When the first team of us arrived, we found the Institute deserted by the former medical staff. Most of them had seen the writing on the wall and had resigned weeks earlier. The guards abandoned the place a day or two before we were scheduled to arrive, probably realizing that they might be held responsible for some of what we found. Only some of the maintenance crew remained, and they didn’t even have keys to the parts of the facility where the patients—or inmates, as they were called then—were kept. When we got here, we found that most of the children hadn’t been fed for days, and had only been left with enough water to get them through to our arrival. We lost four of the younger ones to complications from dehydration in our first week.”

  The room was silent for a moment, until Mayer interjected stiffly, “Of course, this was a long time ago, and the practices from back then have been entirely abandoned.”

  “It’s true,” Golden agreed. “After the shock wore off, those of us who were brought in to change this place made a promise to each other to make sure that nothing like what we saw would ever happen in this place again. We worked tirelessly to turn this facility into a model of what good juvenile psychiatric care should be. I’m happy to say that I think we’ve succeeded in large part. Obviously, no facility is perfect, but I believe that for the past quarter century we’ve done an exemplary job not only of housing or ‘controlling’ our charges, but also of providing them with the best therapy and education we can, to give them a fighting chance to live full, satisfying lives in the real world when they leave here.” Her face grew dark. “But there are still times when I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because some painful shard of memory from those first few weeks has been kicked loose in a dream, and I find myself right back here in 1968, reliving the horror.”