Things to do on Saturday
change sheets make bed do laundry put away clothes
make brownies (yummy!) vacuum dust room neaten up
buy birthday card for Aunt Rita
Under the notation about Rita’s birthday card was a drawing of her, a recognizable caricature. Christina had exaggerated her features. Her small eyes were rendered as barely visible dots, her thin lips as mere lines, and the small hump of her nose had been blown up way out of proportion. Rita was naked from the waist up. She tried to cover her drooping breasts with wrinkled,
old woman’s hands.
Why are people so afraid of dying? If they believed god was really so great & good like they’re supposed to, you’d think it wouldn’t bother them too much. I think they’re afraid because they know he’s not all-powerful. Maybe they don’t want to but they do anyway. I challenge god, if he’s so powerful, let him strike me dead right now. I DARE HIM!!
Here she’d drawn a hand, quite realistically, with the middle finger extended towards the sky.
Recipe for dark chocolate fudge from paper (looks easy)
1½ cups semisweet choc. chips
½ can sweetened condensed milk
½ cup chopped nuts
¾ tsp. vanilla extract
dash of salt
Melt chips in saucepan with condensed milk & salt over low heat . . .
Tues., more fun & games with Mommy’s insulin. After I’d been diluting it she took more of it than usual, much more than she needed. So she got a real big dose, & WOW! She started staggering around like she’d drunk too much, & she was babbling like an idiot! & then Daddy tried to give her orange juice but she couldn’t keep it down. So he had to call 911. Usually he stays calm but he was really scared for once. I had to keep from laughing when one of the ambulance guys put his arm around me & gave me all this soothing crap ’cause he thought I’d be bent out of shape. If he only knew!! Wonder how it would feel to screw up her insulin so much it would kill her.
3 weeks ‘til Xmas. Have to buy presents & put on same old show. Ideas for gifts
Mommy—scarf
Daddy—new gloves
Grandma Lucy—calendar with pictures of cats
Uncle Tim & Uncle Vince—CDs
Aunt Rita—religious book
Things I’d really like to give them
Mommy—big box of chocolates, do a number on her diabetes
Daddy—bunch of dirty magazines with lots of pictures
Xmas has to be the biggest joke there is!
Here she’d drawn a picture of Santa Clause with a little girl, naked, kneeling in front of him. Both figures were done realistically. Santa sports a huge erection. The girl is reaching out to it.
Project for French class due March 1. Pick a city in France, not Paris, & do report on it. Write to municipal offices, students & school libraries there, get info. Ms. Levesque will help us do this. All letters to be written in French. List of cities to consider:
Besancon Nancy
Carcassonne Nimes
Cherbourg Rennes
Limoges Strasbourg . . .
Aunt Rita came by last night with Mary and Danny and The Brat, to drop off Xmas presents. They are all such idiots, especially Mary and Danny. As we sat around drinking tea and eating fruitcake, I wondered if they ever suspected that I had something to do with the fire. Probably not in a million years. It’s so easy to burn a house down. A candle, a few strips of paper soaked with lighter fluid, and you’re in business. Too bad none of them were killed, tho. Maybe next time.
Gottlieb remembered Rita’s story of the fire, and how Margaret had done everything she could to help the family.
I’ll bet it wouldn’t be all that hard to start a fire in the basement of a small hospital. You couldn’t do it in a big one like Cook County because there’d be too much security. But a smaller one, that might be easy. Better yet, a nursing home!! Think of them trying to bring out all those sick old people . . .
Things to do
change sheets make bed
clean sink scrub bathtub
write thank you notes for Xmas presents . . .
YES!! SUCCESS!! I replaced almost 2/3 of her insulin with tap water. WOW!! Around 9, an hour or so after she gave herself the regular AM injection, she began to have stomachache & feel queasy. 30 min. later, she’s very weak, throwing up now, beginning to have heavy breathing. Gave herself another injection, but she only got about 1/3 of what she thought she was getting. By 10 or 10:30 she’s really sick & Daddy’s at work, not here to help her. At 11, just before she goes into coma, she asks me to call 911. Which I do, at noon, after making myself a tuna salad sandwich & taking walk. By 1:30 or 2 it’s all over. I put on a sad face . . .
Recipe for peanut butter & jelly bars
1½ cups flour ¾ cup grape jelly
½ cup sugar Reese’s peanut butter chips, 10 oz.
¾ tsp. bak powder 1 egg, beaten . . .
CHAPTER XXIII
E ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, AS GOTTLIEB SAT by himself in the GCFI canteen, Norma Caldwell came over to his table. “Mind if I join you?” He signaled for her to sit across from him.
She studied him carefully. “I must say, Hal, you’re terribly subdued today. Off in your own world somewhere.”
He glanced at her, preoccupied. “I had an unnerving experience last night.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. Peter did something to make you crazy again.” She clucked sympathetically.
“No, he’s been fine for a couple of days, knock on wood. A paragon of adolescent virtue. No, this has to do with Shannon.”
“I’ve never seen a case take hold of you like this before.”
“I’ve never had a case like this before.” He tapped a staccato beat across the tabletop. Can you come into my office? I want to show you something.”
“Sure.” They picked up their cups of coffee and sauntered down the corridor. “So, Hal, what’s all the mystery about?” she asked after settling into the chair beside his desk.
“Last night I read Christina Shannon’s notebook. It clarifies a few points, including why her father would want to kill her.”
“Are you serious?”
He nodded. “Take a look.” He slid the spiral notebook across the desk to her.
She skimmed the first few pages quickly. “A list of chores? Notes for a paper on President Andrew Johnson?”
“Keep going.”
He sat back in the desk chair as she read, watching her interest deepen, the pupils of her eyes widen. Every so often, she jerked her head back sharply. When she finished, her hand trembled as she set the notebook back down on his desk. “Jesus Christ.” She seemed eager to get rid of it, as if it were a snake or rat.
She glanced at the notebook and shuddered. “Jesus Christ,” she repeated. “I don’t recall the last time I felt this way at nine in the morning, but I could really use a drink. Why—?”
“Now there’s the real mystery, isn’t it? Her mother was very good to her, by all accounts. She loved her, unlovable as she might have been. She doted on her. They both did. If there was the smallest provocation, we don’t know about it.”
“It almost sounds as if she did it on a whim. Or else out of boredom or curiosity, as a kind of experiment.”
Gottlieb clasped his hands behind his neck, threw back his head back and scrutinized the ceiling. “As far as I’m concerned, the most eerie thing about it is the lack of anger. Christina doesn’t hate her mother, doesn’t even seem to dislike her. She just doesn’t care about her, period. If her mother had gone on living, I don’t think it would have bothered her too much.”
“Why would she leave it there, in a place where he could find it so easily?” Norma shook her head in disbelief. “It’s common knowledge that parents go through their children’s drawers. Say what you will about Christina, she wasn’t stupid, but it was an amazingly stupid thing for her to do. Especially considering the contents.”
“I don’t know. Don�
�t forget, Christina knew the kind of man her father was. She would have known he had a great respect for privacy. He’d never gone through her things before. Why would she think he’d start then, all of a sudden?”
Norma hesitated. “Could she. . . I know, this is crazy . . . could she have wanted him to find it? We know how errant children have a genius for getting caught.”
“Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. She knew how her parents felt about each other. She would have known that even her father had his limits. Besides, no one ever caught Christina
doing anything. At the camp, it was a matter of strictly circumstantial evidence. If they hadn’t found those drawings, she might have finished out the summer there.”
Norma shuddered again. “Speaking of drawings. It takes a lot to shock me, Hal, but she managed it.”
“Those sketches . . . it’s interesting, she obviously had some talent. But her drawings are more than merely dark. There’s a deadness about them. Have you ever seen pictures of Hitler’s drawings?” She shook her head. “He did them in Vienna, before World War I. He was living in poverty there, trying to earn some money making sketches and postcards. His drawings were finely detailed, and they showed a certain talent too, but they had that same kind of darkness. Deadness.”
They fell silent. “So now we know why he did it,” she said finally. “Could make a big difference in how his case plays out. Maybe they’ll give him a gold medal for getting rid of her.”
“Funny you should say that. Kenyon said the same thing, more or less.”
“Who?”
“Malcolm Kenyon. A child psychologist who tried to treat Christina once. I met with him, oh, four or five weeks ago.”
“Not a fan of hers, I gather.”
“I’ve yet to find anyone who was.” He tipped his chair back and rested his feet against the edge of the desk. “About the notebook. Of course it could help him, but that’s not a certainty. It’s so outrageous that a jury might not buy it. Besides, a jury might not take it well if the defense tried to turn the case around and put a murdered girl on trial.”
“So he’s in the same bind. A sane defendant in a capital case, guilty of what looks like a terrible crime.”
“Yes, but I have an idea that could help him. A long shot, but it might be worth a try. That is, if his lawyer buys it.”
“Oh?”
“He’s sane. We all know that. But there’s a big distinction legally between his sanity and his competence. “
“You’re telling me you suddenly doubt his competence?” She sounded skeptical.
“No, as a matter of fact I don’t. But I think the issue might reasonably be raised. And I’m willing to do as much, if it will help him.”
Her skepticism deepened. “Even if it means you’d be taking a few liberties with the truth?”
“Not so much taking liberties with it as shading it. Using some chiaroscuro here and there.”
“Chiaroscuro? What the hell is that?”
“It’s an art term. Means the use of light and shadow in an impressionistic way, not altogether accurately, to create a dramatic effect. Something like that.”
⸎
By Wednesday noon, Gottlieb had finished a seven-page report on James Patrick Shannon, patient number S09921 at the Greater Chicago Forensic Institute. It gave a detailed account of his alleged offense and his behavior at the time of his arrest, as well as his subsequent behavior in the police station, jail, and hospital. It gave a history as reported by the patient himself, supplemented by collateral information from his brother and sister.
The report included these segments:
Ever since his admission to the Greater Chicago Forensic Institute, Mr. Shannon has shown signs and symptoms compatible with a severe depressive disorder. These include pervasive sadness, a sense of helplessness and hopelessness, a loss of the ability to experience, recall or anticipate pleasure (anhedonia), an altered sleep pattern, indifference to his fate and passive death wishes if not frank suicidal ideation. While his depression has no doubt been exacerbated by the real and undeniable difficulties of his present situation, there is reason to believe that it began well before his present incarceration, and before the commission of the crime of which he stands accused. Most likely, it was precipitated by the death of his wife . . .
It should be noted, moreover, that Mr. Shannon has a fixed belief that the alleged victim, his daughter Christina, was responsible for the death of his late wife, an insulin-dependent diabetic. He believes that Christina knowingly and willfully altered Mrs. Shannon’s insulin, thus causing her to go into the irreversible diabetic coma to which she ultimately succumbed. He maintains this belief even though he can give no motive for his daughter’s action, and even though he knows such an action would be virtually unprecedented for a girl of Christina’s age. Such a conviction qualifies as a delusion, defined (according to a standard psychiatric reference work) as “a false belief not shared by others, that is firmly maintained, even though contradicted by social reality.” Another source [The Oxford Companion to the Mind] elaborates further: “Unlike normal beliefs, which are subject to amendment or correction, a delusion is held to despite evidence or arguments brought against it. Delusions are usually taken to indicate serious mental illness.” [emphasis mine] . . .
Delusional thinking may often emerge in the course of severe depression, as one of many signs and symptoms of a full-blown psychotic process. It follows that a delusion such as Mr. Shannon’s would provide ample motivation for commission of a violent crime against an agent he believed responsible for the death of a loved one. This motivation would be strengthened by the concomitant belief that the same agent was capable of committing further heinous acts against others, which appears to be another key part of his delusional system . . .
In conclusion, the undersigned believes that the severity and chronicity of Mr. Shannon’s depression, and its likely, virtually certain, delusional component, render him presently incompetent to stand trial. While competence is based on several determinants, such as an awareness of the charges one faces, and a basic knowledge of the legal system, the most important determinant is the ability of the accused to defend himself in a court of law in a meaningful fashion and to work constructively with counsel. A man who is depressed to the point where he has become completely indifferent to his fate, whose thinking remains delusional, and who often wishes that the State, in fact, would kill him, can scarcely be considered competent . . .
Respectfully submitted,
Harold E. Gottlieb, MD
Senior Consulting Psychiatrist,
Greater Chicago Forensic Institute
⸎
Later that afternoon Gottlieb phoned Brendan O’Connell. “I thought you’d like to know that I’ve finished the competency evaluation of your client,” he began. “Of course it has to go through channels.”
“Of course.”
“It goes first to my immediate superior, Dr. Stanley Celinsky,” went on Gottlieb. “He, in turn, will pass it along to the DA’s office. The mayor’s office wants a copy too, I understand. I’m sure that none of them will like it, but I intend to submit it anyway. In any case, I thought you might be interested in taking a look at it beforehand.”
“Well, uhm, why, yes. I’d appreciate that very much.” The offer seemed to nonplus him.
“I’ll fax it to you this afternoon. Then, when you’ve had a chance to look it over, perhaps we could get together and talk about it.”
“Whenever you want,” he said eagerly. “I assume you want me to come to the Institute?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’d prefer that we meet in my private office. Friday afternoon would be good. Two thirty, say?”
“I’ll be there. O’Connell gave Gottlieb his fax number, and Gottlieb gave O’Connell his address.
“One more thing,” Gottlieb added. “I want to send you some other documents which have a bearing on the case.”
“Sure, fine. Out of curiosity, what are th
ey?”
“Excerpts from Christina Shannon’s notebook.”
⸎
They sat together in Gottlieb’s office, oblivious to the pleasant day outside. It was cool and sunny, with a foreshadowing of autumn in the air. O’Connell, hard-pressed as usual to sit still, tapped a foot vigorously against the floor.
“It’s a good report,” he volunteered. “Very thorough, very clear. I like the way you stay away from jargon.” Gottlieb acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
“It’s a good report,” the lawyer repeated, “but five to one the court won’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the DA’s office will have a fit. They’ll say it would set a terrible precedent in that it would allow anyone accused of a major crime to raise an issue of incompetence because he’s depressed. They’ll say anyone who faces a severe punishment has a right to be depressed, that depression is an appropriate response to what he’s facing. Moreover, most of them would maintain the view that the perpetrator of a heinous crime deserves to be depressed.”
“You might think that anyone accused of a major crime would almost certainly become depressed. Surprisingly, that’s not the case, though,” Gottlieb countered. “Most defendants are angry and frightened when they’re looking at felony charges, but relatively few of them go into a full-fledged depression.”
“Besides,” O’Connell talked through him, “Christina’s mur-
der is a hot potato. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Lots of emotion and publicity. There’ll be tremendous political pressure to bring him to trial. Robin Aveiro, the DA assigned to the case, won’t give an inch. They wouldn’t let her give an inch,
Model Child_a psychological thriller Page 24