The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “What the hell is that?” Matt Payne said, reaching for the bottle of wine.

  “Impressive,” Amy said, nodding appreciatively.

  She smiled at Byrth.

  Holding the bottle by its bottom, Matt poured more of the Chilean Shiraz into Dr. Amanda Law’s glass.

  Amanda silently mouthed the words “Thank you.”’It was somewhat exaggerated, and Matt saw that it caused the tip of her tongue to linger between her lips for a long moment. His pulse raced.

  How do I get a taste of that particular fine vintage?

  After a moment, Payne heard his sister clearing her throat, each time more noisily. When he looked in her direction, he saw that she had her arm stretched out and was impatiently rocking her now-empty glass at him.

  The Black Buddha, holding in his ball mitt of a hand a golden-colored Bushmills martini, chuckled deeply at the sight.

  Matt reached over and refilled his sister’s stem.

  Jim Byrth explained, “In 1801, Phillippe Pinel described his patients as la folie raisonnante.”

  “Okay, and that means . . . ?” Matt said, returning the bottle to the table and picking up his glass of Famous Grouse.

  “ ‘Insane without delirium,’” Byrth explained, looking at him. “Pinel found his patients were not necessarily impaired mentally. Yet they still committed impulsive acts that were harmful to themselves. So he called it ‘insane without delirium.’ ”

  Byrth looked at Amy.

  “We had a serial killer loose in Texas a few years back. He traveled around by hopping trains, killing near tracks all across the state. I did some research on psychopaths during that, and afterward. Fascinating stuff.” He paused. “I know just enough to be dangerous, Doc.”

  He smiled.

  She smiled back.

  Then she asked, “Would you like me to give you my version?”

  “I certainly would,” Detective Anthony Harris said. “But please try to use little words for young Matthew’s sake.”

  Dr. Amanda Law laughed out loud.

  Matt mock-glared at Tony. With the glass resting in his right palm, he held up his drink in a salute—the middle finger and thumb extended—and said, “Et tu, Brute?”

  Harris grinned when he saw that Payne was giving him the bird.

  Payne then took a healthy sip and put down the glass.

  Amanda reached over and squeezed Matt’s left wrist. “I’m sorry. I really wasn’t laughing at you.”

  “Apology accepted,” Matt said, looking in her eyes and smiling.

  And as long as you keep touching me, any and every other of your transgressions shall be immediately forgiven.

  She pulled back her hand.

  Damn!

  Amy said, “I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult, Tony, but I’ll try.”

  She looked at Matt and feigned a sweet smile. Then she made a toasting motion toward him with her glass, and sipped from it.

  Matt felt a vibration in his pants pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and saw that he’d received a text message from Chad Nesbitt.

  It read:

  SOUP KING

  U GET MY TXT?? U DIDNT REPLY

  Not now, Chad!

  What text?

  He replied:

  can it wait till later?

  Then almost immediately after he hit SEND, his phone vibrated again.

  The text message read:

  SOUP KING

  WHENS L8R??

  Then Matt’s phone started to ring. Its screen flashed: SOUP KING—1 CALL TODAY @ 1848.

  Later is not now, dammit.

  Matt pushed and held the 0/1 button.

  Oh, look, Chad—my phone just “died.”

  His phone screen went dark and then the phone turned off.

  “Okay,” Dr. Amelia Payne was saying, “what often is confused with psychopathy is what’s called dissocial personality disorder. In concept, the two share the same criteria. But in reality there are distinct differences, ones that determine who truly is a psychopath.”

  “What are these shared criteria?” Jim Byrth said.

  “Behavior that is delinquent and criminal.”

  “Well, our boy meets that criterion in spades. As my grandfather used to say, he’s meaner than a rattlesnake in a red-hot skillet.”

  The Black Buddha chuckled.

  “Furthermore,” Amy said, “prison studies have found that up to eighty percent of those incarcerated meet the criteria for dissocial personality disorder. But of those, only ten or so percent are in fact true psychopaths.”

  “To borrow Jim’s word, that is fascinating, Amy,” Washington said. “Are there any precursors to the condition?”

  She nodded, then took a drink of her wine.

  “In the early 1960s,” Dr. Payne explained, “J. M. Macdonald came up with three indicators that pinpointed psychopathy in children. Those are bedwet ting, starting fires, and torturing animals.”

  “The Macdonald triad,” Jim Byrth said.

  “Exactly,” Amy Payne said, her face showing she was again impressed.

  Byrth then said, “Well, I can’t speak to whether or not El Gato wets his bed. But he clearly has a history of torching and torturing.”

  Everyone was quiet for a moment.

  “Perhaps worse,” Amy then added, “it’s been found that a psychopath is untreatable.”

  Byrth nodded. “The best you can do is incarcerate them—in solitary confinement, away from the general population, unless you want more deaths—and throw away the key.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Matt said, and did.

  The Black Buddha sipped thoughtfully at his Bushmills martini, then said, “Amy, it’s been some time—I won’t date myself—since I sat in a Psychology 101 class. Would you mind going over what causes such a sickness? What makes them different than any of us?”

  Matt looked at Tony Harris. “Don’t even think of saying what you’re thinking, Tony.”

  Harris grinned, then downed his Bushmills on the rocks and reached for the bottle for a refill.

  Amy looked at Matt and shook her head.

  She then said, “Of course, Jason. It’s fairly familiar ground for all of us. It goes back to what Freud said. He wrote of das Es, das Ich, and das Über-Ich.”

  She took a sip of her wine, then said, “As you’ll recall, that translates, respectively, as the It, the I, and the Over-I—or the Id, the Ego, and the Superego.

  “The Id is the part of our personality that acts on pleasure, on immediate gratification. It is absolutely unashamedly amoral.”

  Byrth saw Payne and Harris exchange glances. The three of them then grinned at the thought of what the other might be thinking.

  It was not lost on Amy.

  “The classic example,” she said pointedly, looking at Matt, “is that of an infant. A baby has been described as an alimentary tract exhibiting no sense of responsibility at either end.” She paused, sipped her wine, then added, “So, not surprisingly, the Id is all about our basic drives, from food to sex.”

  “And I’ll damn sure drink to that,” Matt said.

  That earned him a glare from Amy.

  She snapped, “Jesus, little brother. How about reining in your Id! This sophomoric behavior is ridiculous!”

  Matt looked at her, about to bark back. Then he realized that he’d heard some genuine disgust in her tone.

  Shit. Maybe she’s right.

  Hope I didn’t just embarrass myself in front of Amanda.

  And I don’t know if it’s because I’m exhausted or what, but I’m starting to feel this booze.

  It has been an absolutely incredible day . . . in every way.

  Payne looked at Amanda.

  Especially now that I think I’ve found the perfect woman.

  He felt a warm sensation, and was not convinced it was not from the scotch.

  Crank up the violins.

  Looks like it’s time to think about winding up living happily-ever-after in that vine-covered cottage by t
he side of the road.

  Amanda felt his attention.

  When she looked at him, he quickly averted his eyes.

  Then he looked back.

  She was still looking at him.

  Am I hoping beyond hope?

  She made a slight smile, and turned her attention to Amy.

  I devoutly hope not. . . .

  Amy was saying, “The Ego, Freud said, represents reason and common sense. It’s our reality for the long term. And being in the middle, it tries to balance the extremities of the Id and Superego. The Superego being the opposite of the Id. It’s our conscience. It understands what’s wrong and right—and wants perfection. It triggers our guilt.”

  Byrth grunted. “And it’s what the psychopath is missing.”

  “In a broad stroke,” Amy said, “yes, it is. Would you care to hear details on defining a psychopath? Or am I boring everyone to tears?”

  “No, please do, Amy,” the Black Buddha said.

  “Yes, continue,” Tony Harris put in.

  Amanda Law and Jim Byrth were nodding their assent. Matt made a grand motion with his hand that said, Carry on.

  Amy looked at him, then at her wine stem. She held it out toward Matt, who refilled it with the Sharaz.

  “Okay,” she began, “a psychopath is defined as one with chronic immoral and antisocial behavior. Someone whose gratification is found in criminal and sexual and aggressive impulses. And they are not able to learn from past mistakes.

  “There is a standard instrument used by researchers and clinicians worldwide that’s called the Hare Psychopathy Checklist-Revised. The PCL-R has proven to be reliable. And very much valid. It was named for Dr. Robert D. Hare, a well-known researcher in the field of criminal psychology.

  “The PCL-R separates behavior into two categories: aggressive narcissism and socially deviant lifestyle.”

  She paused to look between Matt and Tony. But there was no more of their sophomoric humor. They were paying rapt attention.

  She went on: “Within these two categories, Hare lists separate character traits that the patient may or may not have. For each, he assigns a grade between zero and two. The higher the sum, the more severe the patient’s pathology.”

  She paused and looked around the table.

  “Everyone still with me?”

  There were nods. Matt grunted an “Uh-huh.”

  “All right,” she continued, “under aggressive narcissism are: superficial charm, a grand sense of self-worth, pathological lying, being cunning and manipulative, no remorse or guilt, shallowness, a cold lack of empathy, and inability to take responsibility for his own actions.”

  Matt Payne perked up. “Well, hell, that pretty much paints the perfect picture of most bad guys.”

  Amy nodded. “Right. But there’s also Hare’s other component. Under socially deviant lifestyle are these traits: a need to be stimulated; can’t handle being bored; a lifestyle that’s parasitic; can’t control own behavior; promiscuity; no long-term goals, at least ones that are realistic; being impulsive; irresponsibility; juvenile delinquency; childhood behavior problems. And one or two others I can’t recall just now.”

  She paused and drained her glass.

  “And that ends my speech,” she said. “You add all those up, and you have your psychopath.”

  Byrth grunted. “I do indeed wish we did have our psychopath. He needs to be off the streets.”

  Matt Payne looked at Amanda Law and said, “While we’re on topics that are uncomfortable, Amanda, am I allowed to ask about Becca?”

  She looked at Matt and could see his concern was genuine.

  “There’s more than professional curiosity, isn’t there? You do care about her, don’t you?”

  Amy said to Amanda, “At Episcopal Academy, Matt used to have a crush on her.” Amy looked at him. “Didn’t you, Matt?”

  “A crush?” Amanda repeated. “How sweet!”

  Payne shot his sister a glare.

  “You’re Episcopalian?” Byrth said.

  Payne nodded. “Not exactly a practicing one, but I’ve kept the faith, so to speak.”

  “So am I. Remarkable. But then, in this crowd, I guess not.” He paused. “And I understand your disappointment with the church and its politics these days. Me, I’m with whoever said that going to church no more makes you holy than standing in a Porsche showroom makes you a sports car.”

  Everyone at the table laughed.

  Matt said, “Let’s not get started on religion tonight, too.”

  “Sorry,” Byrth said, shrugging.

  “Amanda,” Matt said, first looking at Amy then turning to Amanda, “for the record, Becca and I never had a relationship. But, yeah, we were kind of close growing up. And I cared about her. Enough to be disgusted with her getting involved with that goddamn Skipper Olde.”

  “Matthew,” Jason Washington said solemnly, “I know your mother taught you not to speak ill of the departed.”

  “There’s exceptions to every rule, Jason. And I’m still pissed off at Skipper—RIP, ol’ buddy—for putting Becca in this situation.”

  Dr. Law smiled warmly at his explanation.

  “Your concern is sweet,” she said with sincerity. “But, I’m sorry, I just can’t discuss a patient. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

  Matt could tell from the way she said it that she truly was sorry.

  “She’s worse, Matt,” Amy blurted. “That intracranial hypertension has not subsided. It’s looking more and more like Amanda will have to induce the coma.”

  Dr. Law looked at Dr. Payne and said, “Amy!”

  “For the record, Matt,” Dr. Amy Payne said, “that information I got directly from Mrs. Benjamin. She shared with me what Becca’s attending physician”—she glanced at Amanda Law, who now looked less horrified—“had told to Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin.”

  Matt made a face, then drained his drink.

  He looked at Dr. Law and was again amazed by her air of complete confidence.

  She oozes it.

  What a woman. . . .

  He said, “Amanda, can you describe in broad terms—just hypothetically, nothing patient-specific—what inducing a coma involves?”

  Dr. Amanda Law considered that a moment.

  Then she nodded and said, “Sure. With a brain injury, fluids collect in the brain and cause it to swell. The skull, however, does not expand to allow for the fluids, so that basically causes the brain to be compacted, and blood, and the oxygen in it, is prevented from reaching all of its parts. That can cause brain damage, even death.”

  Matt shook his head.

  She took a sip of her wine, then went on: “When conventional therapy fails, and we are unable to surgically open the skull to drain the fluids, we carefully consider the barbiturate-induced coma. The coma reduces brain activity, but that has to be balanced against the side effects of the drug.”

  “What side effects?” Matt said.

  “It could stress the cardiovascular system to the point where it causes more harm. And there can be complications—from infections, deep blood clots—leading to death.”

  “Jesus!” Matt said, sighed, and refilled his glass with more Famous Grouse.

  “The positive part,” Dr. Law went on, “is that the barbiturates act to reverse all that. They reduce the brain tissue’s metabolic rate and the flow of cerebral blood, causing the brain’s blood vessels to narrow, which decreases the swelling.”

  “But even if all that works,” Dr. Amy Payne added, “there’s still a long recovery period. Becca’s not out of the woods by a long shot.”

  Matt looked at Amanda. She nodded her agreement with Amy. “Hypothetically, of course.”

  She checked her wristwatch, then pushed back her chair.

  “I hate to be rude and run,” she said, “but I’m going to have to be rude and run right after I visit the little girls’ room.”

  She stood, and Matt popped to his feet to help with her chair.

  She smiled her thanks, then added, �
�Tomorrow is going to come too quickly. And I don’t usually get out like this. It’s been delightful.”

  Jason Washington checked his watch.

  “I concur,” he said. “No rest for the weary. Matthew, what about the tab?”

  “It’s taken care of,” Jim Byrth said. “The great state of Texas appreciates those who help her Texas Rangers.”

  Washington grinned. “And yet another reason to like the legendary lawmen of the West.”

  As Matt watched Amanda walk toward the ladies’ room, he felt an elbow in his right side.

  He turned to see Byrth handing him a napkin.

  “What’s this for?” Matt said.

  “Traditionally, for wiping food from one’s lips. You, however, might want to try your chin. You’re drooling.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Byrth shook his head. But he was grinning.

  “More like disgusting,” Amy Payne put in.

  As they were leaving, Sergeant Matt Payne intercepted Dr. Amanda Law.

  “I, uh, I wanted to say thank you for this,” Payne said, waving the tongue depressor.

  She grinned, but her eyes showed she didn’t believe one damn word of that.

  “And,” he said, “I wanted to ask if maybe we could do this again, but without all those annoying people at our table and the depressing talk.”

  Matt saw her face turn sad. Then she made a weak attempt at a smile. He saw that there now was pain in her eyes.

  “Matt, that’s very sweet of you to offer—”

  “Please don’t let there be a ‘but’ . . .”

  She made a thin-lipped smile.

  He thought her pain was practically touchable.

  “But,” she said, “can I think about it? I’m a slave to my work, as you may have noticed. I haven’t seen anyone in, well, quite some time. And I’m not sure there’s time for . . . for any relationship.”

  There’s something more to the “but” than work.

  She’s been hurt!

  And deeply!

  What sonofabitch would do that to such a goddess?

  He nodded slowly . . . numbly.

  She could tell he was disappointed, and said, “I am flattered that you asked.”

  Not knowing what to say, he just looked at her. Then he mumbled, “‘Be sides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?’ ”