Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  After they we­re se­ated in Dr. Cla­ric's of­fi­ce, he im­me­di­ately ope­ned the hos­pi­tal chart sit­ting on his desk. Nor­mal­ly, he wo­uld ha­ve spent mo­re ti­me with small talk, get­ting to know Nor­ma, int­ro­du­cing him­self bet­ter, but he didn't ha­ve the sto­mach for it. He co­uld ba­rely con­cent­ra­te on things as it was. He knew that if he drop­ped his gu­ard, even for a se­cond, he might cry aga­in.

  "Barry Bo­se­man," Dr. Cla­ric an­no­un­ced flatly, "arri­ved he­re less than a we­ek ago af­ter the si­ege with po­li­ce. He's be­en qu­i­et on the unit and co­op- era­ti­ve with most of the ef­forts of the te­am. We're cur­rently as­ses­sing him for cri­mi­nal res­pon­si­bi­lity." He tur­ned to 'Nor­ma. "Are you fa­mi­li­ar with what go­es on in an as­ses­sment he­re?" The qu­es­ti­on se­emed al­most chal­len­ging.

  Nor­ma nod­ded. Surp­ri­sed by his to­ne.

  Wen­ton eyed Dr. Cla­ric. From the to­ne of the­ir pho­ne con­ver­sa­ti­on the day be­fo­re, Wen­ton co­uld tell that so­met­hing was bug­ging Dr. Cla­ric, but he didn't want to get in­vol­ved. Ever­yo­ne has is­su­es but I'm not the­ir fuc­kin' the­ra­pist.

  "Go­od., I've be­en as­ked to do a per­so­na­lity, risk and di­ag­nos­tic as­ses­sment. You two will be sit­ting in on the cli­ni­cal in­ter­vi­ew. I'll ba­si­cal­ly do a bit of a his­tory and fo­cus on psychi­at­ric symptoms. Might go in­to the in­dex of­fen­se a bit. Re­ady?"

  "You don't ha­ve any ad­di­ti­onal his­tory on this guy we co­uld go over?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "Li­ke what?"

  "You fe­elin' all right, Bri­an?"

  "Fi­ne."

  "You se­em a lit­tle short."

  Dr. Cla­ric to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, con­temp­la­ting whet­her the qu­es­ti­on de­ser­ved an ans­wer. "We had a pa­ti­ent su­ici­de on us."

  Nor­ma gas­ped and held her hands to her mo­uth.

  "It hap­pens," Dr. Cla­ric shrug­ged, wan­ting to show them that he wasn't af­fec­ted by the de­ath.

  "We­re you wor­king with her?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "I was sup­po­sed to do a su­ici­de risk as­ses­sment."

  "I'm so sorry," Nor­ma of­fe­red.

  Wen­ton frow­ned at her. He fo­und Nor­ma's emo­ti­onal si­de we­ak, and he des­pi­sed we­ak­ness.

  "Li­ke I sa­id, it hap­pens. Sho­uld we get go­ing with Bo­se­man?"

  "You wan­na put this off? Do it anot­her day?" Wen­ton as­ked. I don't want this to be a big was­te of ti­me.

  "Let's just go."

  ***

  "So Dr. Wen­ton and Ms. Mac­Do­nald will sit in with us to­day. Is that okay with you, Mr. Bo­se­man?"

  Dr. Cla­ric had just exp­la­ined the pur­po­se of the­ir me­eting and the pres- en­ce of the two gu­ests. Barry Bo­se­man had wil­lingly co­me to the in­ter­vi­ew ro­om but hadn't ma­de eye con­tact with an­yo­ne yet. His eyes dar­ted from one cor­ner of the ro­om to the ot­her but he re­fu­sed to ack­now­led­ge any of them. He res­pon­ded to the­ir qu­es­ti­ons with shrugs, nods and va­gue grunts.

  "Mr. Bo­se­man," Dr. Cla­ric scol­ded, "this is sup­po­sed to be an in­ter­vi­ew whe­re I ask so­me qu­es­ti­ons and you gi­ve the ans­wers. For that to work pro­perly you'll ha­ve to spe­ak up. Is that go­ing to be a prob­lem?"

  Wen­ton smi­led. He wasn't used to se­e­ing this short-tem­pe­red si­de to Dr. Cla­ric. It was li­ke watc­hing him­self work.

  "No that's not a prob­lem" Barry sa­id with a hint of sar­casm.

  "Go­od." Dr. Cla­ric ig­no­red his to­ne. "Now, do you want to tell us why you're he­re?"

  Barry snor­ted at the qu­es­ti­on and his eyes dar­ted to so­met­hing on the tab­le. His who­le body ten­sed as he fo­cu­sed on the spot and then he re­la­xed.

  "Why am I he­re?" Barry as­ked. "You want the long ver­si­on or the short?"

  "You de­ci­de."

  "Well, my mot­her al­ways had po­or tas­te in men. She li­ved by the law of ave­ra­ges, she tho­ught that if she fuc­ked eno­ugh guys she'd even­tu­al­ly co­me out even. Turns out she was wrong. She even­tu­al­ly ca­me out with me."

  The ans­we­red surp­ri­sed Dr. Cla­ric. "What?"

  "You wan­ted to know whe­re I ca­me from. It was from a drun­ken one- night stand my mot­her had."

  "I as­ked why you we­re he­re."

  "Sa­me thing."

  Dr. Cla­ric sta­red at Barry. "Fi­ne. Tell me abo­ut the night of the in­dex of­fen­se, the stan­doff with po­li­ce. What hap­pe­ned?"

  Barry's eyes shot to his arm and he qu­ickly brus­hed at his skin with his hand. "That night was all abo­ut a fuc­kin' stu­pid piz­za guy. That's all."

  "That's the guy you shot de­ad, right?"

  Wen­ton smi­led aga­in. The words Dr. Cla­ric cho­se to ask the qu­es­ti­on we­re in­ten­ti­onal­ly ag­gres­si­ve, he was lo­oking for a re­ac­ti­on. Go get 'em, Bri.

  Barry nod­ded. "Wrong pla­ce at the wrong ti­me sort of thing."

  "What we­re you do­ing with the rif­le?"

  Barry sho­ok his he­ad and sud­denly tur­ned aro­und in his cha­ir. Dr. Cla­ric and Nor­ma sat back, start­led. Wen­ton didn't mo­ve.

  Barry pe­ered over the back of his cha­ir. He stu­di­ed the cha­ir and then shif­ted his at­ten­ti­on to the flo­or.

  "Wli­at's the prob­lem, Barry?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked.

  "Just a se­cond."

  "Are you lo­oking for so­met­hing?"

  "Just a se­cond," he sa­id a lit­tle mo­re lo­udly.

  "Is the­re 'di­se­ase' in he­re?"

  Barry spun aro­und to fa­ce the psycho­lo­gist. "Don't fuc­kin' talk to me abo­ut that. Got it?"

  "Is that the re­ason you're he­re?"

  "Fuck you."

  Wen­ton smi­led aga­in. He ne­ver ex­pec­ted such an in­te­res­ting ses­si­on, and he ne­ver ex­pec­ted Bo­se­man to be so an­ta­go­nis­tic. Wen­ton knew that the typi­cal fo­ren­sic pa­ti­ent was pas­si­ve and overly comp­li­ant sin­ce they knew they we­re un­der the mic­ros­co­pe for an as­ses­sment. He co­uldn't wa­it to see what was go­ing to hap­pen. He glan­ced at Nor­ma and his smi­le fa­ded away. Her fa­ce was whi­te. She was ob­vi­o­usly frigh­te­ned by the who­le exc­han­ge. She had no pers­pec­ti­ve on any of this. Dumb bitch.

  "Do­es that me­an the in­ter­vi­ew's over?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked co­ol­ly.

  "If you're do­ne, it's over."

  "I ha­ven't even star­ted."

  "Then ke­ep go­ing."

  "You we­re lo­oking for so­met­hing in yo­ur ho­use the night of the in­ci­dent."

  Wen­ton no­ti­ced that Dr. Cla­ric in­ten­ti­onal­ly chan­ged his lan­gu­age to avo­id set­ting Barry off, re­fer­ring to the sho­oting and stan­doff as an "inci- dent."

  "Ye­ah."

  "Tell me abo­ut that."

  "Abo­ut fo­ur months ago my wi­fe and son left me. I don't even know whe­re they are. They just left." He stop­ped as te­ars fil­led his eyes. Dr. Cla­ric le­aned for­ward and pus­hed a box of tis­sue to­wards him.

  "Thanks," Barry sa­id, ta­king one. "Sa­mant­ha bla­med me for everyt­hing.

  She tho­ught I was scum. She to­ok off and sto­le my son." He stop­ped and co­ve­red his fa­ce aga­in.

  Dr. Cla­ric wa­ited for a mo­ment. "Aren't you for­get­ting so­met­hing?"

  Barry didn't res­pond.

  "You sort of left out an im­por­tant pi­ece of the story, didn't you?" Dr. Cla­ric promp­ted.

  Barry nod­ded.

  "You che­ated on Sa­mant­ha and got a se­xu­al­ly trans­mit­ted di­se­ase. You bro­ught it ho­me and ga­ve it to her, didn't you?"

  Barry be­gan crying mo­re lo­udly.

  "Did you fe­el gu­ilty abo­ut gi­ving yo­ur wi­fe her­pes?" Dr. Cla­ric chal­len­ged.

  B
arry co­uldn't ans­wer.

  "Do you think that's why you star­ted se­e­ing di­se­ase everyw­he­re?" Dr. Cla­ric pus­hed.

  "Le­ave me alo­ne," Barry mo­aned.

  "Is it her­pes? Is that what you see everyw­he­re? Di­se­ase?"

  "LE­AVE ME ALO­NE!" Barry scre­amed.

  Wen­ton al­most la­ug­hed. He re­al­ly enj­oyed watc­hing Dr. Cla­ric work. It was ref­res­hing. He glan­ced at Nor­ma. Her ash whi­te fa­ce was twis­ted in hor­ror and re­vul­si­on. He ho­ped she didn't pu­ke. Pussy.

  "What hap­pe­ned af­ter Sa­mant­ha left?" Dr. Cla­ric con­ti­nu­ed.

  Barry was si­lent.

  "Barry. I can't help you if you don't help me un­ders­tand."

  Barry fi­nal­ly ope­ned his eyes and sta­red back at Dr. Cla­ric.

  "Everyt­hing hap­pe­ned af­ter that, okay? When I lost my wi­fe, I lost my son, and I lost my job. I lost everyt­hing."

  "Why'd you lo­se yo­ur job?"

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, Barry sud­denly sto­od up and Nor­ma's surp­ri­se ne­ar- ly knoc­ked her over back­wards. Barry sta­red at the back wall then le­aned for­ward on the tab­le to lo­ok at the flo­or. Af­ter a mo­ment, his body re­la­xed and he sat back down.

  Barry clo­sed his eyes and held a hand aga­inst his fo­re­he­ad. "You don't un­ders­tand. It's not me. It's not my son. It's ECOR. They did this."

  "What's ECOR?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked.

  "ECOR Phar­ma­ce­uti­cals, that's whe­re I wor­ked. They're one of the big­gest com­pa­ni­es in the grand world of psychi­at­ric me­di­ci­ne. The­ir he­ad of­fi­ce is down­town, right next to the ca­si­no on the har­bo­ur. It's the big, pre­ten­ti­o­us bu­il­ding that blocks the vi­ew of all the bu­il­dings furt­her in­land."

  He la­ug­hed and lo­oked ac­ross at Dr. Cla­ric. "You guys ha­ve pro­bably do­led out every drug they ma­ke."

  "We're psycho­lo­gists, we don't presc­ri­be me­di­ca­ti­ons," Dr. Cla­ric cor­rec­ted.

  "Wha­te­ver, you don't ar­gue aga­inst it eit­her. You eat the free me­als when they host the­ir lit­tle lunch­ti­me edu­ca­ti­on ses­si­ons."

  Dr. Cla­ric wan­ted to get Barry back on track. "So what hap­pe­ned at work?"

  "I was a juni­or che­mist with them but they we­re do­ing so­me sec­ret re­se­arch. I got wind of it and they had to get rid of me. They did this to me."

  Dr.. Cla­ric frow­ned. "What do you me­an?"

  "I me­an ECOR is fuc­kin' with pe­op­le's he­ads. Ma­king them crazy. That's what I me­an."

  "I'm not fol­lo­wing you," Dr. Cla­ric sa­id. He was star­ting to get ner­vo­us abo­ut whe­re this was he­ading. He kept se­e­ing Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer in his mind.

  "ECOR did so­met­hing to me so I'd start se­e­ing things. I still do. They ma­de me see di­se­ase everyw­he­re: on me; on the wall, on pe­op­le I saw aro­und me. Everyw­he­re. I co­uld smell pus, tas­te it, fe­el it. It ta­in­ted everyt­hing. I co­uldn't sle­ep, or work, or eat, or anyt­hing!" Barry pa­used as if he'd just re­mem­be­red so­met­hing. "Fuck! The­re it is now," he sa­id po­in­ting at the cor­ner of the tab­le. He clo­sed his eyes aga­in and rub­bed them with his fin­gers.

  "What's this got to do with ECOR?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked.

  "It's the re­se­arch," he cri­ed. "I know I was just a wor­ker-mon­key to them, but I he­ard things that I pro­bably sho­uldn't ha­ve. I know what re­al­ly go­es on in the big com­pa­ni­es."

  Dr. Cla­ric rub­bed a palm over his fa­ce. It was sud­denly hot in the ro­om, too hot. He glan­ced at Wen­ton and Nor­ma, and tri­ed to smi­le. He lo­oked back to Barry. "How'd they…I me­an, how do you think they ma­de you,

  'crazy'?"

  "I don't want to talk abo­ut this," Barry an­no­un­ced.

  "HOW'D THEY MA­KE YOU CRAZY?" Dr. Cla­ric sho­uted. He co­uldn't get Cat­he­ri­ne's tor­tu­red fa­ce out of his mind. He knew so­me­one had do­ne that to her.

  "I don't know. I'm pretty su­re they we­re tes­ting so­me elect­ro­nic we­apon or so­met­hing."

  "Oh my God," Dr. Cla­ric whis­pe­red. "It's all true."

  Wen­ton sta­red at Dr. Cla­ric., What the fuck are you do­ing?

  "What's true?" Barry as­ked.

  Dr. Cla­ric tri­ed to slow his bre­at­hing, but co­uldn't. "The we­apons."

  Nor­ma co­uldn't de­ci­de who to lo­ok at. Her he­ad tur­ned from Dr. Cla­ric to Barry to Wen­ton.

  Wen­ton ig­no­red her.

  "Did they ha­ve whi­te vans?" Dr. Cla­ric bre­at­hed.

  Barry sho­ok his he­ad "No. The com­pany van was blue."

  Dr. Cla­ric sig­hed.

  "But the vans they fol­lo­wed me in we­re whi­te. They used spe­ci­al vans for the re­se­arch stuff."

  "Oh my God," Dr. Cla­ric sa­id.

  And then the ro­om was qu­i­et.

  Wen­ton wa­ited for Dr. Cla­ric to con­ti­nue but the man was ob­vi­o­usly lost in a po­ol of dist­ress.

  "I'm go­ing," Barry an­no­un­ced and star­ted to stand.

  "Sit down," Wen­ton his­sed.

  The to­ne of his vo­ice to­ok Barry by surp­ri­se and he pa­used, even tho­ugh he had only par­ti­al­ly sto­od up. He lo­oked ac­ross the tab­le at Wen­ton's fa­ce, which was fro­zen in an­ger.

  "Sit the fuck down," he snar­led aga­in. "I've had eno­ugh of this fa­iry­ta­le shit."

  Barry sat and sta­red back at Wen­ton, sud­denly no­ti­cing how big the psy- cho­lo­gist ac­tu­al­ly was. His vo­ice was shaky as he sa­id, "I…I want go­ing to my…my ro­om."

  Wen­ton smi­led at him.

  Barry didn't know how to in­terp­ret the smi­le but it so­me­how an­ge­red him. Is this as­sho­le ma­king a joke out of me? His co­ura­ge be­gan to re­turn even tho­ugh his vo­ice re­ma­ined soft and un­su­re. "Fuck you. I'm go­ing to re­port you."

  Wen­ton's eyes bur­ned de­ep in­to Barry, his dark smi­le unc­han­ged.

  "Fuck you," Barry sa­id aga­in and star­ted to stand.

  Wen­ton's hand was only a blur as it snap­ped ac­ross the tab­le and slam­med down in front of Barry. Ever­yo­ne jum­ped at the lo­ud slap. "I don't want to play any mo­re fuc­kin' ga­mes with you. Is that cle­ar?"

  "What the fuck…are…you…do­ing?" Barry gas­ped and cho­ked as he tri­ed to cont­rol his own bre­at­hing.

  "Do we un­ders­tand things bet­ter now?"

  "I'll…re­port…you…"

  "You're go­ing to ans­wer a few qu­es­ti­ons or I'll gi­ve you so­met­hing bet- ter to re­port. Do you un­ders­tand?"

  "Yes…yes." Barry was star­ting to fe­el we­ak and dizzy.

  "Fi­ne," Wen­ton sa­id sit­ting back in his se­at. "Now whe­re we­re we?" Wen­ton be­gan as tho­ugh they'd be­en in­ter­rup­ted by not­hing mo­re than a pho­ne call. "Oh yes, ECOR."

  It to­ok a mo­ment for Barry to re­ga­in his com­po­su­re but he de­ci­ded to co­ope­ra­te af­ter that.

  ***

  "I ne­ver mat­te­red to an­yo­ne at ECOR, not un­til I be­ca­me a nu­isan­ce, I sup­po­se. The ot­her emp­lo­ye­es, es­pe­ci­al­ly the exe­cu­ti­ves, wo­uld just walk right by me. They didn't ca­re abo­ut pe­op­le li­ke me. I was just a lowly juni­or re­se­arc­her do­ing wha­te­ver crap they wan­ted do­ne.

  "Anyway, when my wi­fe and I star­ted ha­ving prob­lems I gu­ess my per­for­man­ce at ECOR suf­fe­red. I tri­ed to talk to them. I tri­ed to tell them I just ne­eded so­me ti­me to sort things out, but they fi­red me, just li­ke that." Barry snap­ped his fin­gers.

  Wen­ton frow­ned. "They let you go on the spot? No no­ti­ce or war­nings or anyt­hing?"

  "What'd I tell you? They're bas­tards. They sa­id I was still on pro­ba­ti­on be­ca­use I hadn't be­en the­re long eno­ugh, but I wasn't go­ing to let them get away with it. I kept sho­wing up fo
r work any­way. I told them they co­uldn't fi­re me. They even had se­cu­rity throw me out of the­ir pre­ci­o­us bu­il­ding a few ti­mes." Barry chuck­led at the me­mory.

  "And then I star­ted to go crazy. At first I just felt physi­cal­ly sick, I was dizzy and felt na­use­o­us, and then I star­ted se­e­ing shit everyw­he­re. Sam and my boy we­re al­re­ady go­ne, and I'm glad be­ca­use I wo­uldn't ha­ve wan­ted them to see what a mess I had be­co­me. I co­uld ba­rely get out of bed be­ca­use of the stuff I saw on the flo­or, on the ce­ilings, everyw­he­re! ECOR was dri­ving me in­sa­ne."

  "What ma­kes you think ECOR had anyt­hing to do with that?"

  "I know they had me un­der sur­ve­il­lan­ce. They we­re watc­hing my ho­use."

  "You ac­tu­al­ly saw so­me­one?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "The­re we­re vans. Not all the ti­me but fre­qu­ently I saw the­se vans out­si­de my pla­ce. So one day I run out at the van, right? I te­ar over to it and the guy ta­kes off, but I catch a glimp­se of him and I'm su­re it was one of the se­cu­rity gu­ards at ECOR. I knew right away what was go­ing on. It was ECOR." Barry nod­ded li­ke he'd sol­ved a gre­at mystery. "It was ECOR trying to get rid of me. I knew that be­ca­use I re­mem­be­red a con­ver­sa­ti­on I'd over- he­ard bet­we­en the pre­si­dent and one of the re­se­arch guys."

  "What con­ver­sa­ti­on was that?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "Actu­al­ly it was a few dif­fe­rent con­ver­sa­ti­ons but it was al­ways the sa­me two guys, Tra­vis Met­tin­co­urt and so­me ot­her guy who was the he­ad of a re­se­arch te­am or so­met­hing."

  "Met­tin­co­urt's the pre­si­dent of ECOR?" Wen­ton cla­ri­fi­ed.

  "Yep."

  "And what did you over­he­ar?"

  "This was the who­le con­ver­sa­ti­on. I can re­mem­ber it li­ke it was yes­ter­day:

  Other Per­son: 'Pro­j­ect's at three months now.'

  Met­tin­co­urt: 'And what are we se­e­ing?'

  Other Per­son: 'Lo­oks go­od. We're get­ting a lot of go­od hits. We sho­uld see an inc­re­ase in our num­bers pretty so­on but it's early to say for su­re.'

  Met­tin­co­urt: 'Pretty slick. The­re's wac­kos out the­re any­way so why not gi­ve them the lit­tle push they ne­ed.'