Perfect Poison

by M. William Phelps

  “What are you up to now?” he asked.

  Glenn was disgusted with her. Not only had she taken off on him and bedded down with another man whose apartment he was right now standing in, but now she had the nerve to get him involved in their relationship. How pathetic. How heartless. Yet Glenn was a decent man, which was more than he could say for the two people who now stood before him. The only reason he had gone over to Perrault’s in the first place was because of the kids.

  “You have to believe me, Glenn; I didn’t have anything to do with what they’re saying. . . .”

  Perrault just shrugged his shoulders.

  “What?” Glenn asked.

  “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything,” Kristen, getting louder, kept moaning.

  Glenn then dialed up Kaiser Permanente, a local emergency health center.

  “Can I get her any help without involving the police?”

  “First, you should contact the police,” the woman told him. “Then an ambulance, so they can take her to the hospital.”

  After a moment, Kristen got up off the kitchen floor and, astonishing Glenn and Perrault, began to walk around the apartment as if she were a real estate agent showing it to a newly married couple looking to move in.

  Glenn and Perrault just looked at each other.

  “It’s a nice place, isn’t it, Glenn?” Kristen asked.

  Glenn put his head in his hands.

  “We’ve got to get you to a hospital, Kris,” Perrault said.

  “Come on, Kristen. Let’s go. You need help,” Glenn added.

  But she ran out the door.

  So they followed.

  Outside, in the parking lot, Kristen began kicking the driver’s side door of Glenn’s car. She was mad, she said, because Perrault had interfered and gotten Glenn involved.

  The Easthampton Police arrived a few minutes later and gave Kristen two options: She could either get professional help or spend the afternoon in jail.

  Kristen opted for admittance into the psychiatric ward of Holyoke Hospital.

  Perrault stayed home. When Glenn arrived, Kristen was being processed in Admissions. She was “angry and uncooperative,” yelling, and making a spectacle of herself. At one point, Glenn later recalled, she ran from the Admissions area and tried to “remove a doorstop from the floor to use against [him].”

  “I did not ‘intentionally’ overdose,” she kept telling the doctors. “As a nurse, I think I know the amount of pills I took would not be lethal!”

  CHAPTER 42

  Perrault visited Gilbert at the hospital on July 10. Not only did he want some answers, but he was concerned about her well being.

  To his surprise, when he showed up, Gilbert was fine.

  “She was happy; she was talking. Normal conversations,” Perrault later said. “She didn’t appear to be distraught or upset at all.”

  Hours later, while Glenn Gilbert was at home, Kristen called him.

  “I want you to contact the investigators,” Kristen said to Glenn. She was hyperventilating, crying, sobbing. “Hysterical,” Glenn later remembered.

  “What, Kristen? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Shut up and listen! I want to save the taxpayers of this state a lot of money. Call the IG, Glenn . . . I did it!”

  “I don’t want to hear this, Kris. I don’t want to hear a confession. I don’t want to be responsible for having that information . . . stop it now. Just stop it.”

  With that, Kristen changed her tune. She stopped crying and, with a direct, wry inflection, said, “Just kidding. Good-bye!” And hung up.

  Glenn had started taking notes of the conversation when he realized what she was saying. He knew he would be called in front of the grand jury sooner or later, so he wanted to get it right.

  After he finished writing down the conversation, Glenn made a mental note: Go down to the court tomorrow and apply for a restraining order.

  Not shortly after Kristen phoned Glenn, she called Perrault.

  Perrault, at this point, had been stewing about the events of the past day. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. What had she meant by “I didn’t do anything”? After discussing their breakup and the stress she felt because the investigation had been focused exclusively on her, Perrault laid it on the line.

  “Do you have anything to hide, Kris? Are you involved in this in any way?”

  “No. Of course not!”

  “I know you’re under a lot of stress, but you seem [to be acting] more irrational than a person should be.”

  Gilbert began crying. Then, “I’m pregnant with your child.”

  “That’s impossible. We haven’t had sex in months, Kris.” Perrault wanted to laugh. “Why would you say that?”

  There was a pause. He could hear her whimpering.

  A moment later, she snapped out of it and, just like that, said, “I did it. I did it. You wanted to know. I injected those guys with a certain drug.”

  And then she hung up.

  A half hour later, she called back, crying, begging Perrault to believe that she didn’t mean what she had said.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “I lied. I just wanted to make you mad. I wanted to get a reaction out of you, Jim.”

  “A reaction? You said that to get a reaction?”

  “Can you tell the grand jury about the stress I’m under? Please don’t tell them what I just said. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry; it was stupid of me.”

  “Of course I’m going to tell them, Kris.”

  With that, Gilbert became upset again.

  “Think of my emotional state, Jim,” she pleaded. “Tell them. Tell them the stress I’m under.”

  Doctors at Holyoke Hospital diagnosed Gilbert with Borderline Personality Disorder. It was even possible, they insisted, that she suffered from Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Anti-Social Personality Disorder.

  Yet she refused any type of treatment.

  In many respects, all three disorders, left untreated, render a person incapable of anticipating her own mental and social demise—like, for example, an exaggerated form of denial.

  Dr. Sam Vaknin, author of Malignant Self Love: Narcissism Revisited, said that “narcissism cannot be treated.” But the “side-effects and by-products” of it, however, “such as depressive episodes or obsessive-compulsive behaviors,” both of which Gilbert suffered from, can.

  “Pathological narcissism pervades every facet of the personality, every behavior, every cognition, and every emotion. Add to this the narcissist’s unthinking and deeply-ingrained resistance to authority figures, such as therapists—and healing, or even mere behavior modification, are rendered unattainable. Pathological narcissism is often co-morbid with mood disorders, compulsive rituals, substance abuse, paraphilias, or reckless behavior patterns.”

  These are many of the same patterns of behavior Gilbert had displayed over the past year or more.

  “Many narcissists,” Vaknin went on to explain, “are also anti-social. Lacking empathy and convinced of their own magnificence, they feel that they are above social conventions and the law. The narcissist is both victimizer and victim. The essence of the narcissistic disorder is a breakdown of internal communication. The narcissist invents and nurtures a false self intended to elicit attention—positive or negative—from others and thus to fill [her] innermost void. [She] is so engrossed in securing narcissistic supply from [her] sources by putting on an energy-sapping show—that [she] fails to materialize [her] potential to have mature, adult relationships, to feel, and, in general, to enjoy life. To the narcissist, other people are never more than potential sources of supply with a useful ‘shelf life.’ The narcissist invariably ends up cruelly devaluing and discarding them, like dysfunctional objects. Little wonder that the narcissist—haughty, abrasive, exploitive, manipulative, untruthful—is universally held in contempt, derided, hated, persecuted, and cast out. But we should never forget that [
she] pays a dear price for something which, essentially, is beyond [her] full control—i.e., for [her] illness.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The phone call James Perrault received from Gilbert troubled him deeply. It had been the first time he’d heard her speak directly about the murder charges regarding being a prime suspect.

  Doctors who treated Gilbert advised her not to leave the hospital; she needed help and wasn’t able to control her own behavior. They could give her that help, of course—but only if she wanted it.

  Late in the day on July 11, however, Gilbert signed herself out. As if falling into the hands of her diagnosis, later that night, she broke into Perrault’s Parsons Street apartment, and he promptly had her arrested.

  When she got out of jail the following morning, under the urging of Perrault, Gilbert was committed to the psychiatric ward of Arbour Hospital in Boston.

  “I’ll come up and see you, don’t worry,” Perrault told her.

  Confused and perhaps even terrified now of what she was capable of, on July 12 Perrault obtained a ten-day restraining order against his former girlfriend. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. She’d say one thing, then say she didn’t mean it. She’d act bizarre, then later say she had no idea what she had done.

  Feeling sorry for her, later that afternoon, Perrault kept his promise and made the two-hour trip to Arbour Hospital.

  Gilbert apologized for saying “I did it.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Jim. I’m really, really sorry I said that.”

  “I’m going to have to tell the grand jury what you said, Kris. I thought you should know that.”

  Gilbert became upset.

  “This is why you came up here to see me? I didn’t do it,” she said. “I didn’t do it, Jimmy. Can you at least think about the position I was in when I said it?”

  Before Perrault left, he said there was no way around it: He was obligated to tell the grand jury about the confession.

  By July 15, Gilbert had convinced her doctors that there was nothing wrong with her.

  “The patient,” wrote one doctor, “does not have any symptoms of depression, self-destructive thoughts, no psychotic disorder, no delusions, and there [is] no need for the patient to be hospitalized.”

  Shortly before she was released, Gilbert phoned Perrault and begged him to give her a ride back to Easthampton.

  Perrault lied. He said he had to work. There was no way he could do it.

  The reality of the situation was that Perrault just didn’t want to deal with Gilbert anymore. So he told her that Samantha Harris, her friend and neighbor, had mentioned to him earlier that day she would pick Gilbert up if she needed a ride home. Perrault said he’d go over and ask Samantha as soon they were finished talking.

  Samantha Harris, her husband, Phillip, and their young son moved into 182 Northampton Street during the winter of 1995. They lived three doors down from Gilbert. But since the cold winter weather can sometimes keep people secluded in their homes, Harris and Gilbert never spoke at any length during the winter of 1995–96. They had passed each other in the parking lot once in a while, but hadn’t really gotten to know each other until the spring of 1996. And since it hadn’t been made public yet, Harris had no idea there was an investigation going on up at the VAMC.

  At the time they met, Harris had one boy, Ethan, who was about the same age as Gilbert’s oldest, Brian. As the children grew closer, Gilbert and Harris began to spend more time together.

  They got along great at first, swapping stories of their children, their families, and lost loves. But as time moved on, Kristen came clean about Glenn, Perrault and how her affair had broken up her seven-year marriage. She was in love with a man she had met at work, Gilbert confessed to Harris. Although Harris couldn’t ever see herself in that same position, she knew there were things in life that were sometimes out of a person’s control, and sympathized with Gilbert’s predicament. Marriages often became complacent. People went through the motions, forgot to love each other, and one day it was over. She assumed that Gilbert’s marriage fell into the same category.

  When Perrault finished telling Gilbert about his idea of Harris picking her up, she said, “I don’t want her asking all sorts of questions. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her.”

  Perrault then drove over to Harris’s, knocked on her door and explained as best he could about what had gone on the past few days.

  Harris invited him in.

  She was stunned right away by Perrault’s appearance. He was pale. Gaunt. Withdrawn. He had even developed stress-related sores on his face and picked at them nervously while he talked.

  Over the course of about a half hour, not once, though, did Perrault mention there was a murder investigation going on. It was more of a discussion about his unpredictable relationship with Gilbert and how he felt bad about breaking up the relationship and her trying to kill herself. But what could he do?

  “She’s been acting crazy,” Perrault said.

  At the time, Harris had little sympathy for Perrault. She liked Gilbert and felt sorry for her, viewing her as a struggling single mother, with two beautiful kids, whom the system had been beating up on. She had no idea Gilbert was being investigated for murder. Gilbert had been telling Harris that the VA was fighting her workman’s comp claim and making stuff up about how to win that case.

  Gilbert was slated to get out of Arbour Hospital that afternoon. Knowing that Perrault had refused to pick her up and that she didn’t have a ride home, Harris had no trouble offering a ride.

  After Perrault explained that Gilbert had been a bit hostile the last time he spoke to her regarding Harris’s picking her up, and that she didn’t want to talk about anything during the ride home, Harris said, “She can sleep in the backseat of the car for all I care. I don’t need to know why she’s in the hospital. I just want to make sure she gets home in one piece.”

  “All right,” Perrault said. “Let me call her and ask.”

  When Perrault got Gilbert on the phone and told her that Harris had offered her a ride, Gilbert became incensed.

  “I don’t want a ride from anybody else. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to explain everything,”

  Perrault held his hand over the receiver and explained to Harris what Gilbert had said.

  Harris motioned for Perrault to remove his hand from the receiver.

  “She doesn’t need a babysitter, or to be counseled by me. She just needs a damn ride,” Harris said loud enough so Gilbert could hear.

  Harris couldn’t understand what the big deal was. It was just a ride home from a friend who cared about her.

  After a bit more discussion, Gilbert agreed to let Harris go get her.

  Hours later, as soon as Gilbert sat down in Harris’s car, she started to go on and on about all the things she was so adamantly against talking about just a few hours ago.

  “Do you know why I was in the hospital?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Harris said. “I spoke to Jim, and he explained he had broken up with you and—”

  Gilbert stopped her. “No. No. No,” she said, shaking her head. “If Jim ever tried to break up with me, I’d just stalk him.”

  Harris looked at her and wondered what she was talking about. She had never heard Gilbert speak with such a resentful tone before.

  “Stalk him, Kristen?”

  “Now,” Gilbert continued, “the real reason why I was in the hospital is because there’s an investigation going on up at the VA. A lot of people have died.”

  “What?”

  “More people than normally should die,” Gilbert added.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Seventy-eight percent of the time they were on my shift,” Gilbert said.

  Harris was having trouble keeping track of what she was saying.

  “You mean those people who died?”

  “Yup.”

  “These people,” Gilbert went on, “were kil
led with epi—do you know what epi is, Sami?”

  “No. I mean, I might have heard the term on ER, but—” Gilbert cut her off again.

  “When you give epi to somebody who is having a heart attack, it jump-starts their heart. But if you give it to somebody with a healthy heart, it’ll send them into cardiac arrest.”

  Harris couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The picture she had of Gilbert up until that point was of this young blonde who lived next door and had a good-looking boyfriend and struggled with the same mundane family issues that crop up in everyone else’s life.

  But epi, murder, when did that ever become part of the equation?

  “What are you talking about, Kristen?”

  “Well, they would never find it [epi] if they”—meaning medical examiners—“suspected foul play,” Gilbert said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, if the person was dying . . . if . . . I mean”—Gilbert began stumbling a bit now with her words, choosing them carefully—“. . . once a person has a heart attack, you’re going to give them epi, anyway.”

  “Could it be someone else in the hospital?” Harris asked. “Could someone you know be killing those patients?”

  “No,” Gilbert said. “I wouldn’t suspect anybody.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Grand jury day, Tuesday, July 16, 1996, was a beautiful New England summer afternoon. With the girls from Smith College gone until September, and the streets of Northampton filled with tourists, vendors and farmers’ markets, the town takes on a wistful charm not comparable to any other part of New England.

  For Kristen Gilbert, it was a day she had been dreading ever since she first heard about it from Perrault weeks ago.

  Perrault’s grand jury testimony was grueling. He was grilled by prosecutors about the codes he had responded to at the VAMC that Gilbert had participated in; about his romantic relationship with her; how she had been the one nurse to be present during most of the codes on her shift; and how, when Perrault asked her why there had been so many codes on her shift, she said that it was just a “coincidence,” that most of the patients were “older and sicker” and there were always more codes during the winter months, anyway.