Method of Madness
Page 4
"And then I started to notice stuff with the kids. First of all, Kyle, the oldest, never used to put salt on anything, but then one night at dinner, he took the saltshaker and salted everything on his plate. I was so surprised I didn't know what to say. I looked at Cam but, as always, he never noticed anything. I went to say something to Kyle but decided against it. I didn't want to scare him." She gave Dr. Claric a look as though this was common sense.
"And then it was Sarah. She was only ten, three years younger than her brother, but she often acted much older. I always felt like we had a real connection and I could talk to her. But things started changing. Suddenly, she was a stranger to me. I didn't understand her, how she thought, or anything. I didn't know what to say to her. She was different."
"She was growing up," Dr. Claric offered.
"It was more than that," Catherine replied angrily. "I know my own daughter and something happened so that I couldn't recognize her any- more."
"Okay," he relented.
"And then it was my husband. I came into our bedroom one time and there he was going through my appointment book. When he saw me he dropped it back on the dresser. I was so surprised, I didn't know what to say. I wanted to yell at him, demand to know what he was doing, but I couldn't. I just couldn't." Tears fell suddenly, without any warning, and she couldn't find her tissue fast enough to catch them. It took her a few moments to collect herself.
"Oh yeah," she started again. "There was one other thing that really convinced me. Kyle ran into the kitchen once to get something to drink. He ran in and threw open a cupboard, only it was the wrong cupboard! It was like he didn't remember where we kept the glasses. How could that happen unless he was an imposter?" She looked at Dr. Claric as if she expected an answer.
Dr. Claric shrugged, unwilling to commit one way or the other. It was an unusual scenario but there were other explanations. That's the problem with human perception, he thought, there's always a hundred different ways to interpret the same event. The kid might just have had his head in the clouds and wasn't paying attention.
Catherine sighed heavily. "I was in the grocery store and noticed a guy in a wool overcoat and baseball cap behind me. He wasn't right behind me, and he wasn't following me up and down every aisle, but he was there. I know he was there watching me. I tried to get a look at his face but he kept turning his head. He obviously didn't want me to see him."
"Did you tell anyone about what was going on?" Dr. Claric asked.
She looked at him like he'd said something ridiculous. "What would I say? Who'd believe me? I didn't think there was anything I could do. I didn't think there was anywhere I could go until…" She seemed reluctant to continue.
"Until what?" Dr. Claric urged.
"I searched the Internet," she admitted. "I searched the Internet and found Web site after Web site on electronic weapons. There were research reports, details of the weapons, accounts from people affected by them, everything." She stopped again and waited for a reaction. "You should check. I'm not joking. It's all there."
Dr. Claric nodded.
"When I started checking stuff on the Internet, everything started making sense. I finally knew what was going on. I was being studied. I was a part of some experiment."
"An experiment?" Dr. Claric said, unable to hide his skepticism.
"Yes," she said emphatically. "These weapons aren't perfected. The gov- ernment is still testing them on people and recording the results. Sometimes they go so far as to replace people in your family with imposters who are there to record your reactions and make you go through little tests. It's a really elaborate set-up. You wouldn't believe the things I read about on the Internet."
She watched him for a moment before speaking. "You don't believe me."
"It's not about belief or disbelief. I'm just listening."
"Well that's how this happened, whether you believe it or not."
Dr. Claric nodded, not wanting to discourage her from continuing to vent. "What happened next?"
"Once I realized that I was part of an experiment, I started watching everything I did, everything I said around my own family. I looked for clues that I was right, that Cameron, Kyle and Sarah were no longer the real Cameron, Kyle and Sarah. I didn't have to look too hard. The clues were everywhere. Everything they said, everything they did was suddenly unnat- ural. Nothing made sense anymore. I started to keep my distance from them. I didn't want to give them too much data to report. I didn't want them analyzing me. But this just made them all the more anxious to get inside my head. They started to seek me out, asking, 'What's wrong?' like they didn't know," she laughed derisively. "They knew exactly what was wrong, but they just wanted to drag it out of me." Catherine fell silent.
Dr. Claric waited but it didn't look like she was going to continue. "What happened next, Catherine?"
"One of them let it slip."
He waited for her to elaborate but she didn't. "Let what slip?"
"Kyle cornered me one day, just before the end. He asked what was wrong, and I said nothing. He let it slip that because I wasn't cooperating, my 'real' family would be hurt."
"What did he say?"
"The fake Kyle asked, 'Don't you love me?' meaning that if I didn't go along with everything, they'd kill him."
Dr. Claric briefly contemplated not asking his next question but relented. "Are you sure that's what Kyle meant?"
"The fake Kyle."
"Okay, the fake Kyle."
"I'd know my own son," she said angrily. Then her expression suddenly changed, as if she'd thought of something horrendous. "Oh my God, and then I killed him. I killed all of them." She gasped for air as tears flowed down her face.
Dr. Claric leaned forward and moved the box of tissues closer to her. He looked at her with concern but remained silent.
Catherine's body heaved with each breath. She looked as though she might be having a seizure.
"Catherine," he asked gently, "do you want to take a break now? Start again some other time?"
She sniffed and took another tissue to dab the corner of her eyes. "No. No. It's all right."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not sure. I don't think anything will ever be all right again. How am I supposed to get over what's happened? Someone took my life away from me." And then she started to sob again. "And I haven't even told you the worst part.
"When I finally couldn't take it anymore and went to Cam to get answers about what was going on, he didn't even look like himself."
"What did you see, Catherine?"
She lifted her tear stained face. "The goddamned Devil!" she yelled and started to laugh hysterically.
SIX
Goddamn fuckin'Michael Wenton, Wa thought as he slammed the door of his cramped little apartment at the end of Inglis Street just outside of downtown Halifax. He'd taken the day off work because he
just couldn't concen- trate. He blamed Wenton for the mess his personal life had become. Edward Carter may have been the criminal, but Wa believed that Wenton knew more than he'd told anyone.
The unsuccessful meeting with Gloria the previous week, not to mention the horrendous hallucination, still nagged at him. He hoped he hadn't burned the last bridge to reconciling with his wife. Fuckin' Wenton.
The sight of this hideous little shithole made him cringe. He stood and surveyed the cramped dining room/living room, shaking his head. I should be at home. I should be with my family. This whole thing has taken my life.
He went to the small cabinet against the wall and stooped to rip the doors open. He'd purchased this cheap cabinet at a secondhand store before his kids visited for the first time. He told them the cabinet was off limits. He wanted a place where he could safely, store his liquor, a place the kids wouldn't snoop through. Although the cabinet wasn't a work of art, it did have a lock so it suited his purpose. He realized that he'd have to find something else now. He'd ripped the doors open and cracked the cheap wood around the flimsy metal lock. Another fuckin'problem to add to the list.
Wa looked into the cabinet and found it virtually empty. He wasn't much of a drinker but he'd been developing a taste for liquor ever since he'd separated from Gloria. Right now the cabinet only held a quarter of a bottle of vodka. He pulled the bottle out and stood up, wondering if he had some- thing in the fridge for mix.
This is stupid! I might as well go into the station. I'm no good to anyone locked away in this apartment. If I drink myself into a stupor it just means Edward Carter and Michael Wenton win.
Wa walked towards his small concrete patio and pulled the glass door open. He still held the vodka bottle in one hand as he stepped out onto the cramped platform. If he leaned way out, he could almost see the harbour. Almost.
His apartment was on the sixth floor of a ten-storey building. His particular unit faced out on Inglis Street, directly over the main entrance. He rested against the steel railing and looked out into the street.
Wa twisted the top off the bottle and took a long drink. He made a face as he swallowed-he definitely wasn't a seasoned drinker.
He bent over the railing and watched the light traffic. The slight breeze felt good and he started to calm down. He looked down at his hands, at the bottle. "I don't need this," he said and set the bottle on the concrete patio.
Wa went back inside for a hot shower. He turned the shower tap fully onto hot and then leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
"What's become of you?" he asked his reflection. "What are you doing?"
Steam was rising out of the stall behind him and creeping across the room to settle on the mirror. Wa's image was slowly fading.
"Maybe you should have gone to church more," he chuckled. "Although it didn't do my neighbour much good." It wasn't a very funny joke and he regretted even thinking about the Mercer tragedy.
The fog was spreading down the mirror now, inching past his reflection and filling in every available spot.
He sighed. What's that prayer people are always saying in church? The Lord's Prayer? His image was lost in the mirror now, and he turned around and unbuttoned his shirt. I remember. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy-"
Don't. A voice echoed from behind him.
Wa started and turned back to the mirror.
"What the fuck?" The voice had definitely come from immediately behind him. He stared into the mirror again. He could just barely make out his own outline but it was oddly proportioned now. He leaned forward and wiped away the steam.
Wa looked for his reflection, but instead he saw a disfigured face. The black sunken eyes were framed by a face of torn, disfigured flesh. A large tongue was barely contained by yellowed rotting teeth. It smiled at him.
Wa lurched backwards, barely catching himself against the side of the shower stall so he wouldn't fall into the scalding water. When he focused on the mirror again the image was gone, replaced by an even coating of steam.
SEVEN
Dr. Claric leaned back in his chair. He needed to finish a report on a violence risk assessment but couldn't concentrate.
His office was a small room in Dark Alley, the corridor of the Maximum
Security Psychiatric Centre where the clinical staff offices were housed. It was the only wing without lights in the evening because staff worked nor- mal nine to five hours. Books, papers, pens and pencils, a telephone, com- puter and a small clock filled all the available space on Dr. Claric's desk. Even the bookshelf and the small table in the corner of the room were filled to capacity. There were two other chairs apart from his desk chair. Clinical staff of the MSPC didn't see clients in their offices because of the security risk, so no staff member had much space.
He couldn't get Catherine's story out of his head. She had such conviction. He knew her delusions were strong, as strong as any patient he'd ever worked with. In addition, her case was probably among the saddest he'd ever seen. Despite all of his experience with the mentally ill, it was still hard for him to comprehend the severity of an illness that would cause someone to murder her entire family. Dr. Claric knew that no amount of training or years of experience could fully prepare a psychologist for a patient like Catherine Mercer. Her depth of pain caused him to cross a professional boundary-he felt sorry for her. Even though he didn't have a wife and children he knew there was no greater pain than losing the people you love, especially if you're the one responsible for the loss.
At the core of it, Dr. Claric thought, Catherine's crime is something so horrible, so unbelievable, that you don't want it to be true. You just want to wake up and have everything, everyone, in their right places again-but you know that won't happen.
Nothing will bring back Catherine's dead husband, daughter and son. Nothing can repair the horrible knife wounds that she inflicted or erase the memories of being arrested still soaked in her family's blood.
Dr.. Claric knew people were always desperate to explain a tragedy like this. We need to separate ourselves from this kind of random violence so we can sleep at night. He knew that people would need to blame Catherine. She had a mental illness. It was her fault for not taking care of herself. She was to blame. These explanations provided an illusion of protection. They allowed people to believe Catherine Mercer was defective, damaged, differ- ent. Mental illness happened to other people.
Dr. Claric leaned forward, resting his hands on top of his monitor. It seemed almost too convenient. Catherine Mercer is psychotic and that's why she killed her family. That explains everything. Or does it? His pro- fession taught him not to doubt his clinical judgement. He was aware that de
lusional people can sometimes be very convincing, which is why professionals need to have faith in the collective experience of years of psychiatric and psychological practice. So why is Catherine's story bothering me?
He knew that her case was not completely unusual. Some of it even made good clinical sense: there'd been other cases of psychiatric disorder in her extended family. She'd had an uncle diagnosed as manic-depressive; there was a cousin with schizophrenia; and she'd been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder when she was in her early twenties. Her current psychosis didn't simply appear out of nowhere.
Dr. Claric sat back and reached for his mouse. He quickly brought up his Web browser and clicked on the search button. He typed in "electronic weapons" and waited. A few hits came up on the screen but none seemed to fit the description. He returned to the search engine and typed in "mind control."
As he was waiting for the results, a different dialogue box popped onto the screen. It was his e-mail notification program alerting him to a message from a colleague. He clicked "read" and scanned the message that popped up.
He looked at his watch. It was 2:45 p.m. and there was a meeting starting at three. Dr. Georgia O'Connors, staff psychiatrist and clinical leader, was sending out reminders to the team.
He closed the e-mail and returned to the results of his search. The screen was fall of matches. Some sites claimed to be maintained by scien- tists, experts in the field of non-lethal weaponry, other sites were created by "victims," and some were managed by entire groups devoted to illegal experiments against normal people. He briefly scanned the contents of the Citizens Against Government Experimentation site before he clicked back to his search. Dr. Claric was stunned. He didn't know that these urban myths about secret government experiments and conspiracy had such incredible followings. It was no wonder that psychotic patients felt justified in their delusional beliefs: all the social validation they needed was right at their fingertips.