Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  The cons­tab­le's vo­ice be­ca­me se­ri­o­us, in­di­ca­ting he was re­ady to get down to bu­si­ness. "We ha­ve an in­di­vi­du­al he­re who cla­ims to know you. His na­me is Bri­an Cla­ric?" The of­fi­cer wa­ited for a sign that Wen­ton knew the man. The­re was only si­len­ce so he con­ti­nu­ed. "Anyway, he was ar­res­ted ear­li­er to­day and char­ged with ca­using a dis­tur­ban­ce. He as­ked to spe­ak with you."

  "Why?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Why do­es he want to talk to me?"

  "Um, I don't know exactly. He just re­qu­es­ted to talk to-"

  "Has he pho­ned his law­yer?"

  "I don't think that-"

  "For­get it," Wen­ton sa­id, dis­gus­ted by the ig­no­ran­ce of the of­fi­cer. "Put Cla­ric on."

  Wen­ton he­ard the pho­ne chan­ge hands and a he­avy bre­at­hing no­ise burst ac­ross the li­ne.

  "WEN­TON! It's all true. I went the­re and one of the gu­ards ba­si­cal­ly ad­mit­ted what's be­en go­ing on and then they spra­yed me with so­met­hing.

  Knoc­ked me out. I don't know how much ti­me I ha­ve. You're the only one who-"

  "Shut up," Wen­ton bar­ked. "You went to EGOR? What's the mat­ter with you?"

  "But it's all true. They are ex­pe­ri­men­ting on pe­op­le. And they spra­yed me with so­met­hing. I blac­ked out. I was out for ho­urs. I think it's so­met­hing that's go­ing to ma­ke things wor­se. I don't know how much ti­me I ha­ve be­fo­re I lo­se it al­to­get­her." He was spe­aking so qu­ickly each sen­ten­ce, each word, was blen­ding in­to the pre­vi­o­us one.

  "Be­fo­re you lo­se it?" Wen­ton sa­id sar­cas­ti­cal­ly. "Lis­ten, it was pro­bably pep­per spray or so­met­hing. You went in the­re li­ke a lu­na­tic and they ma­ced you. That's it."

  "Ple­ase co­me down he­re. Tell them what's go­ing on. Help me."

  "This isn't my prob­lem."

  "Ple­ase. You're the only one who knows. I can't call an­yo­ne el­se for help. The­re's too much to exp­la­in. You know al­re­ady. You know it's true. You saw the whi­te van, for Pe­te's sa­ke."

  Wen­ton sa­id not­hing. The­re we­re a few unans­we­red qu­es­ti­ons but he didn't want to get tang­led with a psycho­lo­gist who was lo­sing his mind. If he went down to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on, then he'd be in­vol­ved. He didn't think he was the right per­son to get in­vol­ved. He wasn't fe­eling right and he co­uldn't sha­ke the dis­tur­bing dre­am. Fuck it! he tho­ught.

  "Fi­ne! I'll co­me down to the sta­ti­on." And he slam­med the pho­ne back on the crad­le.

  The last thing Wen­ton wan­ted to do was go to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on on any- thing ot­her than of­fi­ci­al bu­si­ness. He'd ne­ver set fo­ot in the bu­il­ding un­less he was char­ging them for every se­cond of his ti­me. He'd even sent them bills for what he was told was an in­for­mal me­eting with in­ves­ti­ga­ting te­ams. Wen­ton was, af­ter all, an ex­pert on mat­ters of vi­olent of­fen­ders and de­ser­ved to be pa­id for his ser­vi­ces.

  Wen­ton pus­hed out thro­ugh the glass do­ors of his bu­il­ding and wal­ked on­to the stre­et. He de­ci­ded not to bot­her dri­ving sin­ce the po­li­ce sta­ti­on wasn't that far. He'd just step­ped down on­to the si­de­walk when he he­ard a fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice.

  "Whe­re are you off to in such a hurry?"

  Wen­ton tur­ned to see Mitc­hell Wa stop­ped on the ro­ad in front of the bu­il­ding, his pas­sen­ger win­dow down so he co­uld spe­ak.

  "You fol­lo­wing me?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "Sho­uld I be?"

  Wen­ton al­most smi­led. "I ne­ed to go. I'm go­ing to yo­ur of­fi­ce."

  "The sta­ti­on?" Wa as­ked. "You're not con­sul­ting for an­yo­ne down the­re, are you?"

  "Not exactly. I ne­ed to see so­me­one on pri­va­te bu­si­ness. Bri­an Cla­ric."

  "Well try not to fuck up any­body's li­fe whi­le you're down the­re." Wa snap­ped and then tur­ned away, pus­hing on the ac­ce­le­ra­tor.

  "Hey," Wen­ton cal­led. He didn't know why but he felt an odd ne­ed to say so­met­hing el­se to Wa.

  Wa bra­ked and wa­ited. Wen­ton step­ped up to the pas­sen­ger si­de of the Sa­turn.

  "What?" Wa sta­red out at him, his eyes cold and sus­pi­ci­o­us.

  Wen­ton didn't know what. He had not­hing to say.

  "You want so­met­hing? I'm le­aving," Wa sa­id im­pa­ti­ently.

  Wen­ton co­uld still fe­el the ten oun­ces of rye co­ur­sing thro­ugh his ve­ins.

  "You got a mi­nu­te?"

  Wa tho­ught abo­ut it for a se­cond and then ma­de up his mind. "Get in. I'll drop you at the sta­ti­on."

  Wen­ton clim­bed in and Wa pul­led away aga­in.

  "What's go­ing on?" sa­id Wa.

  "So­me bul­lshit. Bri­an Cla­ric, a psycho­lo­gist from MSPC, got ar­res­ted ma­king an ass out of him­self in the lobby of ECOR Phar­ma­ce­uti­cals. He sa­id it was you that ga­ve him my ho­me num­ber."

  "Not from me," Wa sa­id. "Ne­ver he­ard of the guy."

  Wen­ton shrug­ged. "Do­esn't mat­ter. I'm just he­re to see what's go­ing on."

  Wa was con­fu­sed. "You're he­re to help him? Not yo­ur style. He must be pa­ying you so­me big bucks."

  Wen­ton knew Wa was right, he'd ne­ver do­ne anyt­hing go­od for an­yo­ne be­fo­re. "I don't want to talk abo­ut that. I wan­ted to ask you so­met­hing el­se."

  "Ask."

  Wen­ton was he­si­tant to ask what he was thin­king. "How are the wi­fe and kids?" He va­gu­ely re­mem­be­red that Wa was mar­ri­ed and had child­ren.

  "Sin­ce when do you do chit chat?" Wa sa­id ang­rily. "Glo­ria kic­ked me out. I ba­rely see the fuc­kin' kids any­mo­re. Okay? And to top it off I just got sus­pen­ded from the po­li­ce for ta­king a few shots at a sus­pect. Now ask me yo­ur fuc­kin' qu­es­ti­on."

  "You're sus­pen­ded?" Wen­ton sa­id.

  "Don't fuck with me. I'm not in the mo­od."

  "I'm not fuc­king with you."

  Wa lo­oked away from the ro­ad for a mo­ment to lo­ok Wen­ton over. "You don't lo­ok go­od. Ha­ve you be­en drin­king?"

  "Ye­ah."

  "That ma­kes sen­se."

  "So why are you sus­pen­ded?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  Wa shif­ted un­com­for­tably in his se­at, ob­vi­o­usly ti­red of the way the con­ver­sa­ti­on was go­ing. "You're not my fri­end. You're not my shrink. I'm not pa­ying for the ple­asu­re of yo­ur gre­at co­un­sel­ling."

  The car slo­wed and they we­re pul­ling up on Got­tin­gen Stre­et in front of the po­li­ce he­ad­qu­ar­ters.

  "So get out," Wa bar­ked.

  Wen­ton re­ac­hed for the do­or and then tur­ned back. "Was it Ed­ward Car­ter?"

  Wa didn't flinch.

  Wen­ton con­ti­nu­ed to press. "You got too de­eply in­vol­ved in that ca­se. I war­ned you but you did it any­way. I think it got to you. I think you're pro­bably a dif­fe­rent per­son."

  "Fuck you, Get out of my car."

  "The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut Car­ter that got in­si­de pe­op­le," Wen­ton sa­id. "I war­ned you that he co­uld get in­si­de, fuck you up. Most of the peo- ple he got to are still on the psych units, bab­bling in­co­he­rently."

  "That's got not­hing to do with me. The guy's de­ad. You fo­und him de­ad in that ho­use."

  "I don't know. The­re's de­fi­ni­tely so­me ot­her shit go­ing on."

  Wa frow­ned but was still lis­te­ning.

  Wen­ton con­ti­nu­ed. "I told you that Car­ter had the po­wer to conf­ront pe­op­le with the­ir own sec­rets, the­ir own lit­tle bits of evil, but I'm not con­vin­ced abo­ut that the­ory any lon­ger."

  Wa sig­hed he­avily. "Am I sup­po­sed to gi­ve a shit abo­ut this?"

  "Fuck you then," Wen­ton spat. It was a mis­ta­ke t
o try and talk to this as­sho­le.

  Wen­ton got out of the car and he­aded in­to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on wit­ho­ut anot­her word.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  "I told you this mor­ning on the pho­ne," Wen­ton sa­id im­pa­ti­ently fa­cing Dr. Clark. "The char­ges are mi­nor. As long as you don't start bab­bling abo­ut cons­pi­racy, the char­ges will pro­bably be drop­ped."

  "I don't know how I can ever thank you for co­ming down he­re and vo­uc­hing for me."

  "They might ha­ve re­le­ased you on yo­ur own re­cog­ni­zan­ce any­way."

  "No, I know you hel­ped. I owe you."

  "Then re­pay me by shut­ting up and sta­ying ho­me. Don't go to work. Don't lo­ok out the win­dow. Don't do anyt­hing."

  "What if the van is out­si­de?"

  Wen­ton sig­hed he­avily. "Then you've lo­oked out­si­de. Don't do that. The­re aren't any vans. The­re aren't any mystery we­apons be­ing tes­ting by ECOR. Just shut the fuck up abo­ut that shit."

  "Mic­ha­el," Dr. Cla­ric ple­aded, "The­re are! One of ECOR's se­cu­rity gu­ards told me. He ba­si­cal­ly ad­mit­ted to it."

  "Fuck. I know. I know. You told me all this shit al­re­ady."

  Dr. Cla­ric ig­no­red Wen­ton and kept tal­king. "The guy told me they we­re af­ter me. He po­in­ted to his he­ad and pre­ten­ded to sho­ot. It was a war­ning abo­ut be­ing at ECOR."

  "Just re­lax. You've got cri­mi­nal char­ges to worry abo­ut. Worry abo­ut ECOR la­ter."

  "And I just re­mem­be­red that se­cu­rity gu­ard's na­me! I knew it was fa­mil- iar. It was li­ke that crazy ra­pist we had last ye­ar. Do you re­mem­ber him?"

  Wen­ton's at­ten­ti­on was pi­qu­ed. "What?"

  "The ra­pist who ma­de pe­op­le crazy. When Andy lost it and sho­ved a pen­cil thro­ugh my hand."

  "What abo­ut him?" Wen­ton as­ked ur­gently.

  "What was his na­me?"

  "Edward Car­ter."

  "That was the na­me of the se­cu­rity gu­ard who first conf­ron­ted me at ECOR. Well, that's what was on his na­me tag."

  "What's that got to do with Ed­ward Car­ter?"

  "The se­cu­rity gu­ard was a thin, cre­epy lo­oking guy just li­ke Car­ter. Even tho­ugh I ne­ver wor­ked di­rectly with him, I saw him on the unit. The se­cu­ri- ty gu­ard lo­oked just li­ke him."

  "And this was the gu­ard in the lobby who di­sap­pe­ared when you star­ted scre­aming?"

  "I don't know if he di­sap­pe­ared," he sa­id in an exas­pe­ra­ted vo­ice. "Mic­ha­el, I'm not crazy. The­re re­al­ly was a we­ird lo­oking gu­ard na­med Ed­ward."

  "Don't call me Mic­ha­el," Wen­ton war­ned, his words short and pre­ci­se.

  "Sorry."

  "And don't talk to an­yo­ne or le­ave yo­ur ho­use."

  Wen­ton didn't un­ders­tand why Dr. Cla­ric wo­uld bring Ed­ward Car­ter up out of the blue li­ke that. It bot­he­red him. He didn't want to think abo­ut Car­ter. It was bad eno­ugh tal­king abo­ut it with Wa. Wen­ton knew that Dr. Cla­ric ne­ver even had con­tact with Ed­ward Car­ter when he was at the MSPC. Dr. Cla­ric had be­en inj­ured and out of the fa­ci­lity when all the tro­ub­le with Ca­ter had re­al­ly star­ted.

  Fuck it, he tho­ught. It was al­re­ady 4 p.m. and he'd was­ted his who­le day on Dr. Cla­ric.

  TWENTY SIX

  That's it, Wen­ton tho­ught as he wal­ked ho­me. That's all the bul­lshit I can ta­ke. Bri­an's on his own now.

  The­re we­ren't any firm ans­wers to what was go­ing on. Wen­ton still did- n't re­al­ly be­li­eve the­re was a cons­pi­racy in­vol­ving a drug com­pany con­duct- ing ex­pe­ri­ments on un­wit­ting pe­op­le. It was too fic­ti­onal. But he didn't li­ke the ext­ra de­ta­ils he'd co­me ac­ross sur­fing the Web the night be­fo­re. He didn't li­ke the whi­te van he'd se­en in front of Dr. Cla­ric's and he es­pe­ci­al­ly didn't li­ke the van ta­king off and al­most hit­ting him. But what am I won­de­ring abo­ut? Bra­in zap­ping? He la­ug­hed, re­ali­zing that the who­le thing was ab­surd. He was ac­tu­al­ly con­cer­ned abo­ut the de­ta­ils of a de­lu­si­onal pa­ti­ent's ramb­lings. Fuck.

  "I've got to get my he­ad away from this shit be­fo­re I get pa­ra­no­id li­ke Cla­ric," he sa­id out lo­ud and to­ok his cell pho­ne from his poc­ket

  He watc­hed the disp­lay as he flip­ped thro­ugh his pho­ne di­rec­tory. He pa­used on a num­ber la­bel­led "Piz­za." It was ac­tu­al­ly the num­ber for a disc­re­et es­cort agency. He frow­ned and kept flip­ping un­til he stop­ped on "Nor­ma-Ho­me."

  "Hel­lo," sa­id a wo­man's vo­ice on the ot­her end of the li­ne.

  "Nor­ma?"

  "Dr. Wen­ton?"

  "Right. You busy?"

  "I'm… Why?"

  "I tho­ught we co­uld dis­cuss that re­se­arch pro­j­ect. I've had a few ide­as."

  The surp­ri­se was evi­dent in Nor­ma's vo­ice. "Now? Ye­ah… I…su­re that so­unds gre­at."

  "Why don't you co­me over to my apart­ment?"

  "To yo­ur apart­ment?" Her vo­ice so­un­ded con­cer­ned. "Are you su­re?"

  "I fi­gu­red as much," Wen­ton sa­id.

  "Fi­gu­red what?"

  "That you we­ren't in­te­res­ted in the re­se­arch. You aren't pre­pa­red. For­get abo­ut it."

  "No," she sa­id qu­ickly. "I'm very in­te­res­ted. Let's me­et."

  What an idi­ot Wen­ton ga­ve her the di­rec­ti­ons, smi­ling.

  ***

  As Wen­ton wal­ked down Col­le­ge Stre­et to his bu­il­ding, he saw a lar­ge whi­te ve­hic­le exi­ting the ga­ra­ge. The van's win­dows we­re tin­ted black and the­re we­ren't any mar­kings down the si­de.

  He stop­ped right at the top of the ga­ra­ge ramp to get a bet­ter lo­ok at the ve­hic­le. As it pul­led up the ramp, Wen­ton saw that the dri­ver was a slight, sickly lo­oking man with dark ha­ir. He co­uldn't be su­re but the per­son lo­oked slightly fa­mi­li­ar. So­me­one he'd se­en be­fo­re.

  The ans­wer has so­ught you from be­yond Qum­ran, a vo­ice ec­ho­ed from be­hind him.

  "What the fuck?" Wen­ton blur­ted.

  HONK!

  "Co­me on buddy," so­me­one sho­uted from be­hind him.

  He lo­oked be­hind him and saw anot­her car. He no­ti­ced the fe­ma­le pas- sen­ger fran­ti­cal­ly tal­king to the dri­ver and grab­bing his arm. Wen­ton fi­gu­red she was scol­ding him abo­ut hon­king. He ca­su­al­ly step­ped out of the car's way and he­aded in­to his bu­il­ding.

  ***

  Wen­ton hadn't be­en in­si­de the con­do for mo­re than twenty mi­nu­tes when the pho­ne rang, in three short bursts, in­di­ca­ting that the­re was a vi­si­tor at the front ent­ran­ce. He pic­ked up the pho­ne and pres­sed the num­ber se­ven, held it for a few se­conds and then hung up. He knew it wo­uld be Nor­ma.

  Wen­ton lis­te­ned for her fo­ots­teps down the hall and held the do­or open.

  "Go­od to see you." He mo­ti­oned her in with a swe­eping ges­tu­re.

  "Thanks." She held her co­at shut with her hands and step­ped in­to the apart­ment.

  "Go right on thro­ugh to the li­ving ro­om."

  She nod­ded and kept mo­ving. "Can't stay too long," she ad­ded in a stil­ted way.

  Wen­ton smi­led; he re­ali­zed it was sup­po­sed to so­und li­ke an un­for­tu- na­te do­ub­le bo­oking. "That's too bad."

  His po­li­te man­ner was so­mew­hat unex­pec­ted. Nor­ma smi­led back.

  May­be he's not such a hard ass.

  "Ha­ve a se­at."

  She'd stop­ped in the mid­dle of the li­ving ro­om. Wen­ton was in­ten­ti­on- ally bloc­king the only cha­ir in the ro­om. That left the so­fa. She wal­ked over to it and sat in the mid­dle.

  Wen­ton sat in the cha­ir. "You li­ke mo­vi­es?"

  "Mo­vi­
es? Su­re."

  "What do you watch?"

  "I don't know, everyt­hing."

  He smi­led. "I know this se­ems off-to­pic but it re­al­ly isn't. I ha­ve a re­se­arch idea that in­vol­ves mo­vi­es."

  She nod­ded, wa­iting for him to ma­ke his po­int.

  Wen­ton con­ti­nu­ed. "Ha­ve you ever se­en Ka­li­for­nia? It has Brad Pitt and

  Da­vid Duc­hovny in it."

  She tho­ught for a mo­ment. "No."

  "Brad Pitt's cha­rac­ter is na­med Early Gray­ce. He's a low­li­fe psycho­path. It's the best port­ra­yal of a psycho­path I've ever se­en in a film."

  Nor­ma nod­ded as she tri­ed to fol­low Wen­ton's tra­in of tho­ught.

  "Anyway, he was da­ting this girl in the film-pla­yed by Juli­et­te Le­wis who was a re­al pat­he­tic kind of cha­rac­ter. Re­al­ly trus­ting and vul­ne­rab­le.

  Per­fect for Early."

  "Okay."

  "You won­der what this has to do with yo­ur doc­to­ra­te, right?"

  "I gu­ess."

  "Well, one to­pic that hasn't be­en stu­di­ed is the in­ter­per­so­nal, in­ti­ma­te re­la­ti­ons­hips of psycho­paths. We spend a lot of ti­me trying to get in­si­de a psycho­path's he­ad, may­be it wo­uld be in­te­res­ting to see what kind of pe­op­le the psycho­path is drawn to and what kind of pe­op­le en­ga­ge in re­la­ti­ons­hips with psycho­paths-if you see what I me­an."

  "Yes," Nor­ma sa­id ex­ci­tedly. "A re­se­arch pro­j­ect lo­oking at the lo­ved ones of psycho­paths."

  "It wo­uld be very pub­lis­hab­le and I can't ima­gi­ne an­yo­ne mo­re qu­ali­fi­ed to ta­ke on this pro­j­ect than you." A stro­ke at just the right mo­ment.

  Now Nor­ma smi­led. "That's re­al­ly ni­ce. Thanks. I think this pro­j­ect so­unds gre­at."

  "I knew you wo­uld. I co­uld tell right off that you we­re the type of stu­dent who had a bet­ter ap­pre­ci­ati­on for un­ders­tan­ding ide­as on dif­fe­rent le­vels.

  You aren't just a by the num­bers aca­de­mic li­ke Pa­ul from Win­ni­peg."

  Nor­ma lo­oked away from him, em­bar­ras­sed. She felt li­ke she was fi­nal­ly be­co­ming one of the in­si­ders in the psycho­logy de­part­ment. She co­uldn't ima­gi­ne Dr. Wen­ton tal­king so ca­su­al­ly to any ot­her stu­dent.