Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  Other Per­son Qa­ug­hing): 'Exactly.'

  And then they got off the ele­va­tor."

  "What the fuck do­es that me­an?" Wen­ton as­ked, frust­ra­ted. "They co­uld ha­ve be­en tal­king abo­ut anyt­hing. Why'd it me­an they we­re af­ter you?"

  "The pro­j­ect!" Barry ple­aded. "Don't you see? They we­re tal­king abo­ut a pro­j­ect whe­re they we­re do­ing stuff to pe­op­le. Drum­ming up bu­si­ness. And that wasn't the only con­ver­sa­ti­on I over­he­ad. I over­he­ard tho­se sa­me two guys la­ug­hing abo­ut the sa­me stuff at ot­her ti­mes. They we­re al­ways tal­king abo­ut the 'effects"'

  "But why wo­uld they be af­ter you?" Wen­ton as­ked. "They'd al­re­ady fi­red you."

  "They wan­ted to dri­ve me crazy," Barry sa­id in exas­pe­ra­ti­on. "They tho­ught I was a nu­isan­ce and they wan­ted to get rid of me on­ce and for all."

  "And ma­king you crazy wo­uld get rid of you how?"

  "Well the­re's not much I can do if I'm loc­ked away in a nut­ho­use for the rest of my li­fe, is the­re? And no one is go­ing to ta­ke a men­tal pa­ti­ent se­ri­o­usly if he starts sa­ying shit abo­ut what go­es on at ECOR, are they?"

  Wen­ton shrug­ged wit­ho­ut com­mit­ment.

  "And lo­ok whe­re I am," Barry al­most scre­amed. "It lo­oks li­ke ECOR won. Tho­se sons of bitc­hes ha­ve me right whe­re they want me, in a nut ho­use. Cong­ra­tu­la­ti­ons, Met­tin­co­urt."

  Wen­ton sho­ok his he­ad now. Barry Bo­se­man was ran­ting and be­co­ming in­co­he­rent. He al­so knew that Nor­ma was vir­tu­al­ly in shock from everyt­hing she'd se­en. He'd ha­ve to so­me­how calm her down.

  Dr. Cla­ric, who'd be­en si­lent the en­ti­re ti­me, lo­oked fran­ti­cal­ly from

  Barry to Wen­ton. He knew that Wen­ton was go­ing to end the in­ter­vi­ew so­on and the­re was so­met­hing he wan­ted to know.

  "We­re they ever in yo­ur ho­use?" Dr. Cla­ric blur­ted.

  Barry tur­ned to him.

  Dr. Cla­ric con­ti­nu­ed. "Do you know if the guys in the van ever ca­me in­to yo­ur ho­use?"

  "Ye­ah. I know they did. I fo­und stuff mo­ved aro­und all the ti­me."

  Wen­ton de­ci­ded it was best just to end the ses­si­on. He didn't think the­re was anyt­hing left to le­arn right then any­way.

  "That's it. We're do­ne he­re." He sto­od, con­fir­ming that the in­ter­vi­ew was over.

  Nor­ma jum­ped up, start­led and sha­ken.

  Barry ref­le­xi­vely sto­od with him but con­ti­nu­ed to lo­ok at the dis­tur­bed Dr. Cla­ric who re­ma­ined se­ated with his fa­ce drop­ped in­to his hands.

  "Is he okay?"

  "Too much cof­fee," Wen­ton grun­ted and put a hand on Barry to ste­er him out of the ro­om.

  With Barry go­ne, Wen­ton tur­ned back to Dr. Cla­ric.

  "What the hell is the mat­ter with you, Bri­an?"

  Dr. Cla­ric lo­oked up at him, te­ars fil­ling his eyes.

  "I…uh…not­hing. I gu­ess I'm just stres­sed from the su­ici­de. Over­wor­ked."

  "Ye­ah, well, you bet­ter watch it. Don't get too in­vol­ved with the­se nut­ca­ses."

  "No, re­al­ly, I'm just over­wor­ked."

  "Wha­te­ver. We sho­uld get go­ing. And you sho­uld ta­ke so­me ti­me off. You lo­ok li­ke shit, too."

  Wen­ton grab­bed Nor­ma's arm and yan­ked her out the do­or.

  Dr. Cla­ric slum­ped down in a se­at. They're af­ter me, too.

  SEVENTEEN

  "What was all that abo­ut?" Nor­ma as­ked on­ce they we­re se­ated in Wen­ton's Du­ran­go, he­ading back to the uni­ver­sity.

  "I don't know."

  "He re­al­ly lost it in the­re."

  "Did he?" Wen­ton moc­ked her.

  "You me­an you don't think he was ac­ting we­ird?"

  "He's not my pa­ti­ent. I don't ca­re."

  "Co­uld Dr. Cla­ric be get­ting sick?"

  Wen­ton tur­ned to her. "You we­re sup­po­sed to fo­cus on Barry Bo­se­man, not Bri­an Cla­ric. Don't you ha­ve any qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut the cli­ent?"

  She was si­lent for a mo­ment as tho­ugh her fe­elings we­re hurt. Wen­ton dro­ve and didn't ack­now­led­ge her. Af­ter a few mi­nu­tes she fi­nal­ly tho­ught of a qu­es­ti­on and spo­ke aga­in. "What abo­ut all that ECON stuff? Do you think the drug com­pany is re­al­ly do­ing ex­pe­ri­ments on pe­op­le?"

  Wen­ton sho­ok his he­ad. He didn't know if he co­uld find eno­ugh pa­ti­en­ce to con­ti­nue wor­king with Nor­ma. "It's ECOR, not ECON. ECON is the su­bj­ect you might ne­ed to switch to if psycho­logy do­esn't work out."

  Wen­ton slo­wed as he ap­pro­ac­hed the Mac­Kay brid­ge toll. His "Mac Pass," af­fi­xed to the winds­hi­eld, al­lo­wed him to dart right past the bo­oth as it elect­ro­ni­cal­ly log­ged his fee.

  "Sorry. ECOR. But do you think they're do­ing stuff li­ke that?"

  "Li­ke what?"

  "I don't know. Zap­ping pe­op­le, I gu­ess."

  "Whe­re'd you he­ar that?"

  She lo­oked surp­ri­sed "What do you me­an? That's what Mr. Bo­se­man sa­id."

  "And who's he?" Wen­ton sa­id with what ap­pe­ared to be ge­nu­ine ig­no­ran­ce.

  She still lo­oked puz­zled. "He's the guy from the in­ter­vi­ew. He's the one we went to the MSPC to see."

  "What's the guy do­ing in that pla­ce?"

  "Are you okay?"

  Wen­ton dro­ve in si­len­ce.

  "Do you ho­nestly want me to tell you who Barry Bo­se­man is?"

  "Yes. Pre­tend I'm the one who do­esn't know anyt­hing."

  She ig­no­red the in­sult. "Barry Bo­se­man lost it and kil­led a piz­za de­li­very guy. He se­es di­se­ase everyw­he­re. He's crazy."

  "He's what?"

  "Crazy, I gu­ess."

  "And he's the one that told you abo­ut ECOR's in­vol­ve­ment in sec­ret ex­pe­ri­ments de­sig­ned to zap un­sus­pec­ting pe­op­le and ma­ke them in­sa­ne?"

  "Okay, I see."

  "Do you?" Wen­ton as­ked, moc­kingly.

  "I sho­uldn't be­li­eve what he says be­ca­use he's crazy."

  Wen­ton sho­ok his he­ad aga­in. "That's not it at all. The po­int is that if a crazy per­son tells you a crazy story, then you can be fa­irly con­fi­dent the story isn't one hund­red per­cent fact."

  "Oh."

  "For examp­le, is it pos­sib­le that the her­pes vi­rus is flo­ating thro­ugh the air, in­fec­ting pe­op­le at ran­dom?"

  "I su­re ho­pe not," she ans­we­red emp­ha­ti­cal­ly.

  "But is it a crazy story?"

  "I gu­ess."

  "Yes. And why do­es he ma­ke up a story li­ke that?"

  Nor­ma des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted to ha­ve an ans­wer, so­met­hing that sho­wed she un­ders­to­od. She sho­ok her he­ad. "I don't know."

  Wen­ton frow­ned. "I tho­ught it was ob­vi­o­us. If you did so­met­hing that you we­re as­ha­med of so­met­hing so bad that it ru­ined yo­ur li­fe, you'd want to be­li­eve al­most anyt­hing to ma­ke it go away. Yo­ur mind works aga­inst it­self trying to find an al­ter­na­ti­ve re­ality that isn't as pa­in­ful."

  "So he ma­de up the story abo­ut ECOR?"

  "He didn't ma­ke it up. He's in­sa­ne. His mind can't co­pe with re­cent events, and the only story he al­lows him­self to be­li­eve is that it isn't his fa­ult. He ne­eds to be­li­eve in a cons­pi­racy. It gi­ves him a vil­la­in to ha­te rat­her than ha­ting him­self. It pro­tects his ego. Clas­sic de­lu­si­onal stuff."

  "So Barry Bo­se­man went crazy and bla­med it on the drug com­pany?"

  "Ba­si­cal­ly, but he al­so had a grud­ge aga­inst them for fi­ring him. That ma­de it that much easi­er for his mind to con­vin­ce him of the cons­pi­racy."

  Wen­ton lo­oked over at Nor­
ma, snor­ted and tur­ned away from her. What a fuc­kin' was­te of my ti­me.

  EIGHTEEN

  Why is the She­ra­ton Ca­si­no al­ways so damn busy? Wa won­de­red as he wal­ked thro­ugh one of the ent­ran­ces off the Ha­li­fax bo­ard­walk. Do­esn't mat­ter what ti­me of day, the­re's al­ways wall-to-wall pe­op­le thro­wing the­ir mo­ney away.

  Wa's sus­pen­si­on from the po­li­ce was only a few days old and he was al­re­ady fe­eling lost. He'd co­me down to the wa­terf­ront ho­ping that he co­uld so­me­how dist­ract him­self from the shit his li­fe had be­co­me. The­re was no bet­ter pla­ce to be dist­rac­ted than the ca­si­no. All aro­und him we­re flas­hing lights, no­ise and lo­ud pe­op­le. He be­gan pus­hing thro­ugh the rows of slots.

  Instinc­ti­vely, he re­ac­hed in­to a poc­ket to check for lo­ose chan­ge. It's hard to walk past a mac­hi­ne wit­ho­ut drop­ping a co­in or two-just in ca­se. His poc­kets we­re empty. Fi­gu­res.

  "Drink sir?" A wa­it­ress had ap­pe­ared from now­he­re.

  Wa lo­oked at her tho­ught­ful­ly. "I think I just might," he sa­id. "Clancy's."

  She pro­du­ced the be­er from her cart. Wa pa­id and then to­ok a sip from his bot­tle as he kept mo­ving.

  Thro­ugh the crowds Wa spot­ted Cons­tab­le Ri­ley O'Ne­il in pla­in clot­hes. Shit, he tho­ught. I re­al­ly don't want to see an­yo­ne from work, es­pe­ci­al­ly him.

  O'Ne­il was an eager cop who'd ma­na­ged to get him­self in li­ne to mo­ve up to Ma­j­or Cri­mes. Ru­mo­ur had it that O'Ne­il wo­uld start in Sex Cri­mes and li­kely get part­ne­red with Wa. It wasn't a ru­mo­ur that Wa li­ked. O'Ne­il was too eager, too fri­endly, too in-yo­ur-fa­ce per­so­nal for Wa to ca­re for him.

  Wa tur­ned aro­und qu­ickly and star­ted back out of the ca­si­no. No do­ubt O'Ne­il knows I po­un­ded on a su­bj­ect and got sus­pen­ded. I don't want to ha­ve to exp­la­in everyt­hing to him. Lord knows, he'll ask.

  He ris­ked a glan­ce over his sho­ul­der. O'Re­ily was still back the­re, sta­ring at an empty spot at the blac­kj­ack tab­le. Go­od, Wa tho­ught. I mis­sed him.

  Wa kept mo­ving. He re­ali­zed that be­ing in crow­ded pub­lic pla­ces wasn't the right thing for him. He re­al­ly didn't want to see an­yo­ne he knew. Not right now. He set his ne­arly full be­er down next to a slot mac­hi­ne and he­aded thro­ugh the exit and out on­to the bo­ard­walk. It was a re­aso­nably warm eve­ning and he was im­me­di­ately hit by the scent of raw se­wa­ge from the pol­lu­ted har­bo­ur. Wa was al­most used to it.

  He plan­ned on stop­ping at Perks, a fancy lit­tle cof­fee shop that was al­most al­ways open and ra­rely crow­ded, at le­ast not with pe­op­le he knew.

  Help me.

  Wa fro­ze, stra­ining to he­ar. It so­un­ded li­ke the vo­ice was co­ming from the wa­iter.

  Ple­ase.

  It was de­fi­ni­tely so­me­one in the har­bo­ur. He to­ok a qu­ick lo­ok up and down the bo­ard­walk for ot­her pe­op­le, but no one was aro­und. He wo­uld've li­ked to send so­me­one to call the po­li­ce. Damn. He qu­ickly mo­ved to the ed­ge, put­ting a fo­ot up on the he­avy wo­oden buf­fer and lo­oking in­to the dark wa­ter be­low. All he co­uld see was the wa­ter slo­wing ri­sing and drop- ping, lap­ping aga­inst the wo­od sup­ports. The thick co­ve­ring of se­awe­ed didn't se­em dis­tur­bed in any way as it might if a body we­re figh­ting thro­ugh it.

  "Hel­lo," Wa cal­led, sta­ring down in­to fo­ul stench. "Is so­me­one the­re?"

  Si­len­ce.

  "Hel­lo," he cal­led aga­in.

  Help me, a vo­ice fa­intly ans­we­red.

  It was de­fi­ni­tely co­ming from di­rectly be­low. Wa drop­ped to his chest and le­aned to get a bet­ter lo­ok over the ed­ge. "Hel­lo. This is Ser­ge­ant Wa of the Ha­li­fax Re­gi­onal Po­li­ce. I'm he­re to help you." It oc­cur­red to him af­ter he'd spo­ken that he wasn't re­al­ly a po­li­ce of­fi­cer right now as he was sus­pen­ded.

  Ple­ase help me.

  He stra­ined to fol­low the vo­ice. He co­uldn't see anyt­hing. "I'll help you but I don't know whe­re you are. Can you wa­ve yo­ur arm out of the wa­ter?"

  Ple­ase help me.

  Wa le­aned furt­her out, his eyes ra­pidly scan­ning the sur­fa­ce of the wa­ter, watc­hing for mo­ti­on.

  The­re was a small cle­aring in the se­awe­ed. Wa pe­ered at it mo­re clo­sely and saw a fa­ce be­ne­ath him. He was li­ke a mag­ni­fi­ed ref­lec­ti­on ex­cept that it was a gro­tes­que imi­ta­ti­on of a hu­man fa­ce, dis­tor­ted and full of pa­in. The shock of se­e­ing the fa­ce hit Wa li­ke a punch in the gut. It was the sa­me fa­ce he'd be­en se­e­ing, at Glo­ria's in, his bath­ro­om mir­ror, in the in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on ro­om. He suc­ked in a bre­ath and held it. "What the hell?"

  Help me, the vo­ice sa­id aga­in only this ti­me la­ug­hing as it spo­ke. Help me fi­nish what's be­en star­ted.

  Wa le­apt back to his fe­et, the no­xi­o­us smell of the har­bo­ur sud­denly in­ten­sif­ying. "Is this a joke? Who the fuck is down the­re?"

  Wa lo­oked down at the wa­ter aga­in, but the fa­ce was go­ne.

  NINETEEN

  Wen­ton felt mo­re frust­ra­ted than ever. The day was ba­si­cal­ly was­ted. Af­ter re­tur­ning to the uni­ver­sity, his me­eting with Nor­ma con­ti­nu­ed for anot­her ho­ur. Im­me­di­ately af­ter lunch he was for­ced to at­tend a fa­culty me­eting to dis­cuss the gra­du­ate prog­ram. This was the fo­urth me­eting in the last six months. Wen­ton hadn't at­ten­ded the first three but had fi­nal­ly ag­re­ed to at­tend this one. It was­ted anot­her ho­ur and a half.

  When he fi­nal­ly re­tur­ned to his of­fi­ce he lac­ked any mo­ti­va­ti­on to re­turn to the jo­ur­nal ar­tic­le he was wor­king on. He even­tu­al­ly left and went ho­me.

  Wen­ton li­ved in a con­do ne­ar the uni­ver­sity on Spring Gar­den Ro­ad. His su­ite had ext­ra high ce­ilings and a vi­ew of down­town from the bal­cony. On the way ho­me he'd stop­ped at a piz­za pla­ce and pic­ked up a jala­pe­no, ham and black oli­ve piz­za-the only kind he ever ate.

  He'd thrown a DVD in be­fo­re sit­ting on the co­uch. To­night was a Na­tu­ral Born Kil­lers kind of night. Of all his mo­vi­es, he iden­ti­fi­ed best with the an­ger and hat­red of Oli­ver Sto­ne's mo­vie. He es­pe­ci­al­ly li­ked the sce­ne he was watc­hing now: the ope­ning sce­ne whe­re Mic­key and Mal­lory kill low li­fe red­necks in a ca­fe on the high­way.

  When his pho­ne rang the­re was a kni­fe hurt­ling thro­ugh the air in slow mo­ti­on to­wards one of the fle­e­ing red­necks. He watc­hed the kni­fe stick in­to the man's back be­fo­re he pa­used the DVD and sto­od.

  It was unu­su­al for so­me­one to pho­ne his un­lis­ted num­ber, and if any- one did call, it cer­ta­inly wasn't to in­ter­rupt him in the eve­nings.

  "What?"

  "Dr. Wen­ton? This is Bri­an Cla­ric."

  Wen­ton snor­ted. He was slightly amu­sed.

  "What can I do for you, Dr. Cla­ric?" he as­ked in a syrupy vo­ice.

  "I ne­ed to talk to you. I tri­ed cal­ling you at the uni­ver­sity all af­ter­no­on but the­re was no ans­wer. I gu­ess you don't ha­ve an ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne or vo­icer­na­il."

  "I don't li­ke to be bot­he­red."

  "I don't me­an to bot­her you. I just-"

  "How'd you get my ho­me num­ber?" Wen­ton as­ked bluntly.

  "I'm re­al­ly sorry abo­ut bot­he­ring you at ho­me but I didn't know whe­re-"

  "Who ga­ve you my ho­me num­ber?"

  "I…I didn't know how to get it exactly. You aren't lis­ted."

  "So who ga­ve it to you?"

  "Well, ac­tu­al­ly, I went to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on first. I'd gi­ven up on tal­king to you, but on­ce I got to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on, I had a c
han­ge of he­art. I knew if I told them what I was thin­king that they'd pro­bably just drop me off at the No­va Sco­tia Hos­pi­tal. That's when I tho­ught abo­ut you aga­in. I knew you wor­ked with the po­li­ce and I as­ked if they had a dif­fe­rent num­ber for you."

  "They wo­uldn't just hand out my ho­me num­ber at the front desk," Wen­ton sa­id.

  "Oh, they didn't. When I as­ked the com­mis­si­ona­ire he sa­id he co­uldn't help me but he ga­ve me Mitc­hell Wa's num­ber."

  Wen­ton la­ug­hed. "How's he do­ing?"

  "Oh, I gu­ess he's okay. It was kind of awk­ward. When I cal­led him at ho­me this af­ter­no­on and as­ked if he knew how I co­uld get a hold of you, he told me to'fuck off."'

  Wen­ton la­ug­hed aga­in.

  "I exp­la­ined who I was and told him that I knew it was inap­prop­ri­ate but I ne­eded to call you right away."

  "And when Wa he­ard you we­re go­ing to call me at ho­me and bot­her me he was mo­re than happy to gi­ve out my ho­me num­ber. Right?"

  "Ye­ah, ba­si­cal­ly." Dr. Cla­ric was ha­ving a hard ti­me re­mem­be­ring the exact con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  The smi­le di­sap­pe­ared from Wen­ton's fa­ce as he re­tur­ned to bu­si­ness.

  "What do you want, Dr. Cla­ric?"

  "I want to see you. I ne­ed to talk to you and exp­la­in what's go­ing on."

  "Why me? If you're in tro­ub­le go to the po­li­ce. I can't help you." I'm not a fuc­kin'the­ra­pist.

  "I think you're the only I can talk to wit­ho­ut…! don't know…wit­ho­ut the shit hit­ting the fan, so to spe­ak. The po­li­ce wo­uld ne­ver be­li­eve me and I can't talk to an­yo­ne el­se."

  "Why?"

  "Don't get me wrong but you're…well, you're sort of im­per­so­nal and obj­ec­ti­ve. I ne­ed so­me of that right now. I ne­ed so­me­one who knows what's go­ing on in the world, so­me­one who can he­ar what I ha­ve to say wit­ho­ut fe­eling ob­li­ga­ted to do anyt­hing el­se."

  "Did you fuck a cli­ent?" Wen­ton smir­ked.