Twisted

by Andrew E. Kaufman

  I study him for a few seconds longer, then move closer. Donny Ray reacts instantly, shooting his terrified gaze directly at me, and now I’m the one who’s startled. But not by his reaction—it’s his eyes, blue, bright, but nearly colorless, perhaps the palest I’ve ever seen.

  Wait a minute.

  Because . . .

  I know those eyes.

  Or do I? I’m not sure. For the life of me, I can’t place them. I examine his other features, but . . . I’ve got nothing, and now I’m more unsettled because this isn’t a face I’d soon forget.

  And right now, that’s not important.

  So I try to banish my speculations; but my suspicions may not be unfounded because now Donny Ray Smith is also searching my eyes in a manner that suggests recognition mixed with curious confusion. I study his other features.

  A former patient, maybe?

  “I’m Dr. Kellan,” I move on, still scrutinizing his face as I motion Adam forward, “and this is Dr. Wiley. We’ll be working together. I’m a psychologist and he’s a neurol—”

  “You have to take me out of here!” Donny Ray blurts, those eyes now ablaze and begging.

  “I need you to try and calm down,” I say. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

  A slow nod. A vulnerable expression.

  Adam’s phone rings, and Donny Ray immediately jerks back. I raise a hand of assurance.

  He settles.

  “Sorry,” Adam says. He checks the screen, silences his phone, then with a nod, encourages me to continue.

  Still mindful of my new patient’s overall appearance, I say, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Donny Ray is compliant but fearful.

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “We’re at Loveland.”

  “Do you understand why you’re here?”

  “Please!” he shouts. “Help me!”

  “We’re going to find the truth. Whether that helps you or not remains to be seen. Are you able to tell me your name?”

  “But you already know all this! What does it have to do with—?”

  “I need your name,” I say, this time as a firm mandate.

  “Yeah . . .” he surrenders. “Okay. It’s Donny Ray Smith.”

  “What’s your date of birth?”

  “December fourteenth, nineteen ninety-two.”

  “Can you tell me where you were born?”

  “Real, Texas. Why are you doing this to me?”

  I circle back to the question he failed to answer. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

  Donny Ray looks down at his bound hands, looks up, and his expression is markedly changed—something like nervous confusion diluted by distress. “I think . . . I mean . . . I just don’t know anymore. They said . . .” His voice falters. “They say I killed that little girl.”

  Careful to keep my manner nonreactive, I ask, “And did you?”

  “They told me they found evidence, you know? Things you can’t fake. Like DNA and all that stuff, but as many times as I’ve turned things around in my head, I can’t make sense of them. And then I keep forgetting things, and everything around me doesn’t fit, and that just makes it worse . . .”

  “Forgetting things,” I repeat, because what he describes could hint at some kind of dissociative disorder.

  Donny Ray closes his eyes for a moment, opens them. “Like I don’t know where I’ve been for a while.”

  Tears start as he shakes his head. “Sir, I swear to you—on the Holy Bible—on my own life, even—I never saw that girl before. I mean . . . how do you kill someone you’ve never met? How can that happen?”

  I offer no answer, because I’ve got none, and because I’m intrigued. Everything I’ve seen and heard so far rings genuine: his facial expressions, his response times, his vocal intonations and speech pattern. No cues of duplicity. Even his pupils, a clear and clinically proven indicator of tension and concentration, remain dilated.

  But a psychopath can achieve all of this, so as a rechecking strategy, I relax my stance, then wait to see whether his presentation changes.

  It does not. No loosening of muscles to indicate relief, no altered breathing pattern, no verifiable sign whatsoever of malingering.

  There’s only about a fifty percent accuracy rate in the study of micro-expressions and body language as indicators of deception, and if I’m indeed dealing with a pathological liar, that would reduce the reliability quotient to zero. It appears as though authorities have compelling enough evidence to prove that Donny Ray killed the girl. If they are right, the only question remaining is whether he remembers doing it. At least one person from Miller seems to think he does. As for me, I’m not yet sure. I can usually reach some level of intuitive deduction after meeting a patient for the first time, but this one has my needle stuck at the midway point. I’m not necessarily convinced he’s being truthful—I’m not able to say he isn’t, either.

  But I don’t need definitive answers right now. This is only a preliminary data mining effort, and there will be more opportunities to dig deeper.

  Adam’s cell vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the screen again, then says to me, “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to take this one. Go ahead and finish here. We’ll catch up later?”

  I nod, and he exits the room.

  I turn back to Donny Ray. He looks at me with a begging expression, and I still can’t shake the feeling we’ve met somewhere.

  But for now, my work here is done, so I tell him, “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.”

  He’s still staring at me. It feels awkward and strange.

  Halfway to the door, I hear, “Christopher?”

  I reel around, lock onto those eyes.

  Where the hell have I seen those eyes?

  “Do you think you can help me?” he asks.

  “We’re going to find the truth,” I remind him.

  “Maybe we can both find it.”

  I linger, appraising him from head to toe, and then, “I’m just curious. When I introduced myself earlier, I only gave my last name. How do you know my first?”

  “I heard Dr. Wiley call you that.”

  I nod, then leave.

  But as I move down the corridor, a sudden and jarring realization pulls me to a halt, a chill spiking up my spine.

  I can’t recall Adam saying my first name. We’re best friends and colleagues, but he would never address me that way in front of a patient.

  And he never calls me Christopher.

  This patient knows me.

  3

  Something definitely isn’t right.

  While Donny Ray seemed to recognize me, it appeared as though his confusion matched mine; however, since he claims to have memory issues, I wonder if that could be the reason for his uncertainty.

  But he said my first name.

  And I still can’t remember Adam addressing me that way.

  I step outside the hospital’s heavy entrance doors, and a warm gale of arid air hits my face—another disparity because the weatherman has called for a storm tonight. God knows we could use it after months of drought, but for now it appears any relief has been put on hold. High above the chain-link and spiraling razor wire, I find more confirmation that this evening will be another dry one: stars sparkle like tiny diamonds against a dark and velvety backdrop, not a cloud to be found.

  After gaining some distance from Loveland, my mind chatter finally dies down, the day’s tension dissipating, thoughts of home easing me down the road. The trip away from work always seems so much longer than the one coming in, almost as if the directional pull can slow time or speed it up. I know it’s only my mind bending minutes as I drive, that in reality, the discrepancy is more about what lies at the end of two opposite poles. Going to Loveland is like being snatched up by a rogue wave and
tossed into angry waters; coming home is like struggling to escape the current’s powerful draw. Each day I move between two different worlds, one occupied by sanity and order, the other completely devoid of either. I do my best to keep them from overlapping, but it never becomes any easier.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my work. Except for the parts I definitely don’t. I’ve always been a strong advocate of helping the mentally ill rather than simply warehousing them, and it bothers me that psychiatric hospitals have become a dumping ground for polluted minds. Stowing them away like rat poison for the safety of the community isn’t the answer. Furthering their psychological torment isn’t the answer, either. Some of my patients have committed unconscionable crimes and destroyed lives in the most aberrant ways imaginable. But spend a few minutes with any of them, and you’ll realize their actions were driven by circumstances far beyond their control, that they’re already being held prisoners by their own minds. That’s not just a professional observation—it’s a personal one. Spend another few minutes enduring the hell that I went through as a kid with my father, and you’ll understand my reasoning.

  Yes, I do want to change the world.

  I always have, and I’m driven by a gut-level need to understand the pathology of psychiatric disorders. I know, go ahead and say it: Doctor, heal thyself. To which I respond that altruism by any other name is still altruism, fueled by many different motivations.

  As a general rule, it takes me a good ten minutes to recalibrate while swimming toward the distant shore I call home, even longer to once again feel comfortable in my own skin. It’s not that I have difficulty working in a violent and pathological environment. Rather, it’s the challenge of having to put on and take off the armor. In order to survive within Loveland’s walls, I must remain on high alert at all times. Not keeping sharp-minded can be dangerous, at times even deadly.

  And sometimes, that threat can travel beyond the hospital. A few years back, one of my most violent patients managed to escape from the facility—a patient who didn’t much like me at all. He made it all the way to the sidewalk in front of my house. Fortunately, the police did, too, and they apprehended him before any harm was done. On his person, they found a butcher’s knife, which he’d apparently stolen on his way toward my home. That night was a wake-up call. Soon after, I bought a gun. Neither Jenna nor I particularly love the idea of having a weapon in the house, especially with Devon around, but when it comes to my family’s safety, there is no room left for discussion.

  So, you can see why once I physically get out of Loveland, I have to mentally get out. Therein lies the struggle, because often there are thoughts that refuse to leave me. Right now, Donny Ray is still doing one hell of a job at spinning my cognitive gears.

  Ten kids.

  I hadn’t allowed my mind to absorb that while meeting with him, purely for the sake of professional detachment, but as I gain physical and emotional distance from Loveland, man, are the feelings coming on strong. I witness so many horrible things at work, but there will always be one that I can never get past and never will: how anyone could intentionally harm a child. I’ve worked with a mother who drowned her two-month-old twins in a bathtub full of bleach, a father who threw his six-year-old son to his death from atop an amusement park Ferris wheel. In each of those situations, I managed to stay clinical, be objective, even though a part of me wanted to rip out their lungs.

  That’s not the psychologist in me speaking—it’s the father.

  Hearing that Donny Ray’s last victim was Devon’s age is something I can’t get out of my head. Reading his case files is going to be a challenge.

  Your ten minutes are up, Chris. Home approaching, six miles ahead. Release pressure, prepare for a soft landing.

  I take my inner voice’s advice and force my mind into some semblance of calm, thankful that the drive affords me this opportunity.

  Even more thankful that there’s a place of refuge waiting at the end of this road.

  4

  I arrive back to my settled little home world.

  Well, sort of settled.

  Somewhere upstairs, it sounds like Devon is running in fast circles, or doing a rain dance, or God only knows what. The ceiling is thumping. Dishes rattle inside the cabinets. And my wife is clearly forcing tolerance, intent on not allowing the commotion to interrupt her phone conversation.

  The banging stops—for about five seconds—then resumes.

  I grin and take Jenna in, relishing the normalcy, the seemingly mundane, because it’s so much more than that. Because beneath the layers, life is all about contrasts and perspectives. After spending time in one of the darkest corners this world has to offer, a walk through our door never fails to restore the balance and order I so desperately need. I credit my wife for drawing those distinctive lines. She knows where I come from, what I lived through as a child. She knows all my demons and offers the security I need to beat them down.

  “Yes, I understand,” she says, splitting her attention between the caller, Devon’s antics, and dinner preparations. Amidst all that, she still manages to brighten at the sight of me.

  “Why don’t we wait on that one until I look it over tonight?” A few moments later, Jenna finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone.

  I walk toward her, kiss the back of her neck. She turns to me, flashing that adorable smile, and it happens once more. I’m overwhelmed. I fall madly and hopelessly in love with my wife all over again. Pulling Jenna toward me, I breathe her in, but even skin to skin doesn’t seem close enough. Nothing seems close enough.

  We stay this way for several seconds, and I can feel her draw the tension out of me, my muscles loosening, my mind finding its center. She moves back a few inches, doesn’t say anything, but I can tell this has been a challenging day for us both.

  “Business stuff?” I offer, allowing my hand to slide down toward her waist.

  “Business stuff, plus a few hundred other things.” She squeezes my hand and tries to smile, then walks toward the stove. Pulling open the oven door, she checks on dinner. “But yes, business at this particular moment.”

  “The phone call,” I confirm.

  She nods. “One of the administrators over at Eisenhower. This consulting business is turning out to be so much more work than even I’d expected.” She closes the door, lets out a weary sigh. “It’s times like this that make me wish I could just go back to being a principal again.”

  “You’re not regretting the decision, are you?”

  “Not always. Just sometimes.” Jenna pauses for a moment, as if giving the question further consideration. “Then I think about the reason I got out in the first place, how much being here for Devon means to us both, and everything seems okay again. The problem is . . .”

  “Starting a business isn’t easy,” I say.

  “Not at all.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. You can handle this.”

  Before the discussion can continue, Devon’s pounding intensifies.

  I glance toward the ceiling. “What on earth is he doing up there?”

  “Being a six-year-old?”

  “Dumb question.” I laugh. “But he does seem a bit more active than usual.”

  She frowns.

  I answer back with our unspoken language: Uh-oh. What now?

  Jenna mouths—but doesn’t say—trouble at school.

  And I feel my eyes start to roll.

  “We’ll just table that one for later,” she says. “Okay?”

  “Agreed. Indigestion before dinner—bad idea.”

  Just then, our little devil comes racing into the room with his best buddy Jake, The Lovable Chocolate Lab, trailing closely behind.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Devon cries out as he barrels toward me, face lit up like a thousand Christmas trees. He bestows me with an arms-around-the-legs greeting,
and despite what my wife has just told me, I can’t fight my grin. The pure joy on his face at the sight of me handily trumps all. Because of that, and because of thousands of other reasons, I love the hell out of my son to lengths I often feel are humanly unfathomable. The moment I leave this house each morning is the exact moment I begin missing him, and as the day wears on, I just miss him more. After encountering Donny Ray today, that sentiment is magnified times ten, so I drop to my knees and go in for the hug. He starts to take off, but I tug my son back and give him another, this time clinging to his little body longer. As soon as I release him, he speeds into the dining room, yelling, “Mommy let me set the table! Wanna see?”

  I look at my wife and realize she’s been watching me.

  “What was that all about?” she asks, head tilting, smile half curious, half concerned.

  I try shrugging it off. “Just a rough day.”

  “What happened?”

  “Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”

  After so many years together, Jenna is well aware of what that means, knows there are some things better left at the office. She squeezes her mouth to one side in a way that doesn’t push the issue but lets me know the door is open for discussion.

  I struggle for a moment, trying to temper my statement before it comes out. “I guess I just realized how precious he is.”

  Jenna’s expression softens. Her nod reflects intimate understanding.

  “And I don’t know what I’d do, if anything . . .”

  “Ever happened to him,” she says, finishing the sentence that I can’t bring myself to complete.

  “Daddy! Come on!” Devon yells from the dining room before Jenna can respond. Jake chimes in, barking anticipatory excitement.

  I wink at my wife: I’ll be right back.

  She nods and grins: Your boy needs you.

  I enter and immediately spot the table.

  “Um . . . kiddo?”

  Devon looks at me with a brightening expression.

  “Who’s coming to dinner?” My question is actually a rhetorical one.