by Brenda Novak
“Who used an ice pick to cut into his victims’ brains?” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s sick! Who would even think of such a thing?”
“He probably learned of it in college. I did.” She’d also reacquainted herself with the information once she learned of Bishop, so what she’d read was fresh in her mind. “Believe it or not, there were people who once paid doctors to perform ice-pick lobotomies—back in the fifties and sixties.”
Margaret’s breath misted on the cold air, softening the many lines in her brown, leathery face. “Why would anyone pay to become a vegetable?”
Evelyn hugged herself for warmth. “Not everyone became a vegetable. Some lobotomies seemed to be successful. Anyway, there wasn’t a lot of help for the mentally ill at that time, none of the medications we have today, so—”
“So they thought cutting into someone’s brain might be a good idea?”
“Sounds far-fetched, I know. They believed ‘craziness’ came from an excess of emotion and cutting certain nerve connections would relieve that emotion.” She raised a hand to block the wind from her face. “In their defense, they were sort of desperate for some answer. The asylums of the day were overcrowded and people were desperate for ways to help their loved ones. That’s how we got the lobotomy. The neurologist who invented it in 1930-something was awarded the Nobel Prize.”
Margaret’s jaw sagged, revealing the gold caps on her teeth. “You don’t say!”
“It’s true. But it was another guy, an American neurologist, who performed the first transorbital lobotomy.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“It’s just another name for the ice-pick lobotomy, one that sounds a bit more sophisticated. Drilling through the skull was a long and laborious process, so they decided to go in through the eye socket where the bone is so thin you can see light through it. A Dr. Freeman could do the procedure in ten minutes, and he did thousands over the course of his career. He even performed them in front of crowds.”
Margaret rubbed her arms. She was wearing a sweater, but she’d come out without a coat or other outer layer. “So Bishop was copying him? Could he have been experimenting to see if there was a better way to do it than before?”
“I’m guessing he was curious what various jabs and cuts would do. But I doubt he had any illusions that he was helping anyone, not like Dr. Freeman and those who performed lobotomies back in the day.”
Margaret blew on her hands. “Wow. As if it’s not cold enough out here. That just gave me chills. Good luck with that one, Doc. He sounds like a doozy.”
“He’s not the only doozy.” Not all of her subjects were known serial killers. Only 46 out of 320 inmates, since they’d added another wing last summer, had been classified that way. The rest were repeat offenders who exhibited strong psychopathic traits and were in for lesser crimes. Those men would one day be released, which was almost more frightening, since statistics indicated that psychopaths were highly likely to reoffend.
“I guess not,” Margaret said. “I don’t know how you stand being around them, to be honest.”
Sometimes even Evelyn didn’t know how she stood it. What compelled her to do battle with what so many people preferred to ignore?
She’d been attacked and tortured herself, for one. She’d felt the terrible helplessness, which was worse than the pain. And Jasper had gotten away, escaped justice. Such gross unfairness was too galling for anyone to suffer. But still. Why couldn’t she put the past behind her and try to forget, like her parents hoped and prayed she would? Forge ahead without the daily reminders she faced in her current life?
She couldn’t say for sure. She just felt … compelled. Compelled beyond her ability to resist. Maybe it was her residual anger against Jasper. Maybe rage created her relentless drive. But she was going to do all she could to protect the unsuspecting.
“I’m hoping to make a difference,” she said simply.
Margaret smiled at her. “You’re one brave lady.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Amarok would probably call me foolish, if he came right out and said what he thinks.”
“No. Not Amarok. Anyone can see how much he admires you. And it takes someone special to impress him.”
Evelyn reached out to squeeze her arm. “Thank you. Now go inside. You’re freezing.”
“You’re here to talk to Jennifer again?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found out where Bishop put her sister’s body?”
“Not yet, but I’m still trying.” Evelyn slid her keys, which she’d been holding, into her purse before waving good-bye and approaching Jennifer’s room.
Jennifer answered almost immediately. “I thought I heard voices. Come in.”
Evelyn stepped into an overheated room with the television playing. She set her purse on a small corner table and sat in the only chair while Jennifer perched on the edge of the closest bed.
“So? What do you think?” she asked. “Have you made any progress since we talked last? Is there any chance of finding out where my sister is?”
Evelyn clung to that moment in the very beginning when Bishop had seemed a trifle glib—when she’d decided, for herself, that he was a psychopath regardless of any indication to the contrary. It’d seemed so clear to her then, as if he’d been exposed. There was also how he’d behaved when they first met, how he’d talked about her appearance. That could’ve been as innocent as he’d pretended, a few simple compliments from someone who wasn’t remotely savvy in a social sense, but she’d run into that heightened awareness before with the men she studied.
Bishop had seemed to get more “in character” and do better with his “persecuted innocent charade” from there, however. “I’ve made it clear that his life will be much easier if he provides the information we want.”
“And?”
“So far, he hasn’t taken the bait. I’d like to say something encouraging to you here, but I’m all out of hope. I’m afraid he’s too smart to ever reveal that information.”
“What does ‘smart’ have to do with anything?” she demanded.
“If he tells you where he … where he put Jan, he’ll be admitting to her murder. We’ve talked about that.”
“He’s been convicted! He’s in prison for life without the possibility of parole.”
“That’s true. But he’s appealing. And I suspect he’s playing a game. That he’s trying to make me believe he didn’t do it. He’s hoping to enlist my sympathy so that I’ll put in a good word for him if it ever comes to that, so he can eventually get out.”
“You won’t fall for that, will you?” Jennifer gasped.
Evelyn could feel her own pulse at her temples. “No, I won’t fall for that—not without significant proof that he’s innocent.”
“There will be no proof.” Her lip curled in disgust. “They found Jan’s panties at his house.”
“I know.” Evelyn was glad for that, glad the evidence made it so obvious, because everything else seemed sort of murky. That was the nature of studying human behavior—what seemed clear one minute could be hopelessly clouded the next.
“So what do we do now?” Jennifer asked.
Evelyn hauled in a deep breath. This was her opportunity to get Jennifer to do the right thing for her baby. They’d been going back and forth for seven days, but Evelyn needed to draw a line. “You should go home. Why have your child in this cold, foreign place where you have no family to support you? Won’t your mother want to be there for the birth?”
Jennifer glanced away. “She and I don’t talk about the baby. She didn’t like that I ever took up with Kevin. He wasn’t a good person, and she knew it. But I wouldn’t listen to her. Being with him, living that kind of fast and easy lifestyle, somehow made it possible for me to cope with losing Jan. He was like a … a drug that deadened the pain. Watching me ruin my life was hard on my mother, who was already grieving over Jan. Now I feel guilty about making things worse for her. Bu
t I couldn’t face reality at the time. You can understand that, can’t you?”
The pain and regret in Jennifer’s voice hung heavy in the air. Leaving her purse on the table, Evelyn stood and wrapped her arms around the younger woman. She was crossing boundaries she probably had no business crossing. It was possible Jennifer wouldn’t welcome the comfort she was trying to offer. But she couldn’t resist trying to share the younger woman’s pain.
At first, Jennifer froze as if she didn’t know how to react—or whether she should react—to this unaccustomed familiarity with someone she’d known such a short time. Evelyn told herself to let go and move away before the situation could become any more awkward. But just before she could, Jennifer melted into her and clung tightly as she began to sob.
The television droned in the background while Evelyn stroked Jennifer’s back and murmured, “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”
After several minutes, Jennifer straightened and Evelyn backed up. “You have every right to be hurt and angry,” she said. “I wish I could change what happened, make it better. But there’s no going back. You have to make the future better. Do you understand?”
“How?”
“Go home. Spend what time you can with your mother. I promise I’ll continue to do everything possible to help on this end.”
Jennifer sniffed but said nothing.
“Will you go? So I don’t have to worry about something happening here and you not being able to make it to the hospital? With the storms we get this time of year, the roads can become impassable. You’ve seen the weather this week. You could wind up having that baby alone. Right in this motel room. You don’t want that, do you?”
A tear dripped off her chin before she could catch it. “No.”
“So you’ll listen to me? Go before we get another storm?”
“I will, but first … I want to talk to Bishop myself. I can’t leave without doing everything in my power to find Jan.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” What if he surprised them both and began to regale Jennifer with the bloodcurdling details of her sister’s last minutes on earth? That could throw her into labor. Many of the psychopaths Evelyn worked with would jump at the chance to toy with her in that way.
Question was … would Bishop?
“I have no idea what he might say,” Evelyn warned.
“I don’t care what he says. I want the chance to confront him. To plead for my sister.”
Evelyn considered the possible ramifications.
“Please?” Jennifer begged. “Then I’ll go home and make a better future. I promise.”
“Regardless of the outcome?”
“Regardless of the outcome.”
If Bishop had any way of harming her physically, Evelyn would’ve said no. But she trusted the security of the facility, trusted her staff after a year of getting to know them. She also felt reasonably assured Bishop wouldn’t do anything to destroy the meek image he’d been trying to create. “Okay. As long as I can be present.”
“That’s fine.”
“Then we have a deal. Arrange for a flight out late tomorrow evening, if possible. And come to the prison first thing in the morning.”
Jennifer nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”
7
When Evelyn stopped at the Moosehead after leaving the motel, she was looking forward to an hour or two when she could talk and laugh, maybe have a drink or play a game of darts. She didn’t want to think about Bishop or her work anymore tonight. As determined as she was to continue pushing forward with her research, the responsibility, the pressure and the frustration she dealt with on a daily basis could, at times, become too much.
She parked in one of the only spaces available, at the far edge of the lot, and trudged through the snow to the entrance. The second she could hear the beat of the music permeating the walls, she knew she’d come to the right place. A year ago, a visit to the Moosehead wouldn’t have been such a positive experience. She’d been too much of a “cheechako” then, would’ve felt out of place. But the local pub was slowly becoming as much a part of her life as it was everyone else’s. She often joined Amarok there at the end of a long day. That little bit of socializing, more than anything else, had helped mitigate the animosity she’d sensed when she first arrived in town.
Amarok smiled the moment he spotted her weaving through the crowd. “There you are,” he said when she reached him after responding to the greetings of several others.
He’d left her a message at the prison to stop by if she got off work in time. But she would’ve looked for him there, regardless. He had to spend a fair portion of his time at the pub if he hoped to maintain law and order. Drunken fights broke out there all the time. Brawling seemed to be a favorite local pastime, even when no one was angry. Shorty, the owner of the Moosehead, occasionally arranged boxing matches on weekends, which, of course, invited some gambling, too. There’d been one yesterday. As long as it didn’t get out of hand, Amarok turned a blind eye. It was all harmless fun, for the most part. As the extent of the area’s police force, he stopped by the tavern for networking purposes as much as anything. Doing so helped him bond with the community.
“How’d it go with Jennifer?” he asked as he helped remove Evelyn’s coat.
She climbed onto the stool next to him. “Good. I think. She’s going home tomorrow.”
“You got her to agree to that? Don’t tell me Bishop coughed up the location of her sister’s body.”
“No. And I doubt he ever will. I’ve met with him several times. He’s too determined to convince me that he’s not the killer everyone thinks he is.”
“So you talked some sense into her—for the sake of the baby.”
“We made a deal, yes.” She didn’t have time to explain the deal before Shorty, who tended his own bar most nights, came to get her order.
“I’ll have a glass of chardonnay.”
“Course you will, Doc. I know what you like,” he said with a wink, and went to make the pour.
As soon as she removed her gloves, Amarok took her hands and rubbed the cold from them. “You look tired. Maybe we should head home early tonight.”
“I’m okay,” she insisted. “I’m just … facing something I haven’t seen before, something that reminds me a lot of Jasper.”
“With Bishop?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought Jasper was handsome, popular, charming. I don’t get the impression Bishop fits that description.”
“He doesn’t. He’s the opposite. Plain. Average. Nondescript. But he also comes off as smarter, more capable—essentially more ‘normal’—than most psychopaths.”
“Harder to detect.”
“Exactly. Like Jasper.”
He took a swig of the beer sitting in front of him. “You know how I feel about statements like that. There is no one-size-fits-all diagnosis. People are too different.”
“I agree. But I’ve seen certain similarities among the men I’ve studied, and they’ve remained consistent throughout my work. So there are some commonalities.”
“There’ll always be exceptions, Evelyn.”
Was that what Bishop was? An exception? If so, how would she ever be able to point to one personality type and say, Stay away from this kind of person? And, short of accomplishing that, would she ever be able to save anyone?
Molly Granger, Shorty’s stout older sister, who helped out at the bar, delivered Evelyn’s wine because Shorty had become engaged in an animated conversation down the bar.
“I’m going to image his brain. Put him in the empathy study. I can’t wait to see how he compares, not only to the control group, but to the other psychopaths.”
“It’ll be interesting to learn the results.”
Phil Robbins, who’d been dancing with a single mother named Heidi Perth when Evelyn came in, grabbed Amarok’s shoulder, interrupting their conversation. “Hey, man. I’m heading home. If you need to be at the airport by seven, we’
d better leave first thing in the morning. The weather’s so changeable. You never know what we might encounter on the road.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Should I pick you up at home then?”
“Might as well. Then I won’t have to leave my truck at the trooper post.”
“Okay. I’ll be at your place at five.”
“I’ll be ready,” Amarok said.
“Doc.” Phil acknowledged Evelyn with a nod before heading for the door, where Heidi was not so discreetly waiting for him.
“What was that all about?” Evelyn asked when Phil and Heidi were gone.
Amarok wiped the condensation from his mug. “I’m flying to California tomorrow.”
Evelyn blinked in surprise. This was the first she’d heard of any trip. “Since when?”
“Today.”
“But … you’ve never been outside of Alaska. Never been on a commercial airliner. Why are you going now?”
“Jasper’s parents live in San Diego.”
Evelyn was fully aware of that—she just hadn’t made the connection. She still had a private detective on retainer. He checked in with the Moores every couple of years on the off chance they’d decide to cooperate and reveal some snippet of information that might lead to Jasper’s arrest. But they’d stonewalled for so long, Evelyn had given up any hope of enlisting their help. “You’re not going to see them!”
He clinked his beer against her glass. “I am.”
“Why? If they won’t talk to my PI—any of the PIs I’ve sent over the years—they won’t talk to you.”
“Never know. It’s worth a shot. Maybe I’ll make a better case, prove more persuasive.”
“You’d have to hold a gun to their heads,” she grumbled. “They’re so delusional where their son is concerned. I can’t imagine what excuse he conjured for three murders and a fourth attack, but they seem to believe what happened wasn’t entirely his fault. That it was a onetime ‘mistake.’”