Love Gone Mad (22 page)

“Twelve,” Wilson says quickly. He peers out the window, obviously bored.

Grayson can barely believe the mind-blowing speed of Wilson’s calculation. He’s megasmart; his intelligence level is off the charts. He decides he’ll have Jim Morgan give him a battery of neuropsychological tests and then an MMPI.

“You’re right,” Grayson says, nodding.

“Piece of cake … and boring, too.”

“Let’s get back to three nights ago,” Grayson says. “You stashed the pickup in Tommy Parker’s garage. Then took his Hummer and drove to Dr. Douglas’s house, right? What then?”

“There was that cop in his cruiser out front. I snuck up on him, dragged him outta the car, and punched his lights out, roped him like a rodeo calf, and drove the thing to the back. Then I waited for Douglas down the road. You know the rest of the story. And I woke up here. And now you guys’re testing me every hour … neurologists, X-rays, an MRI, and now you … a tall shrink who needs a shave,” Wilson says, glancing at Grayson’s three-day stubble.

“Hey, look at that bitch,” Conrad blurts, his eyes fixed on the TV. A redheaded reporter is speaking on CNN. “She reminds me of that whore Megan Haggarty.”

“Why do you say Megan’s a whore?”

“It’s obvious. She hooked up with this Douglas bastard at Yale six years ago.”

“Six years ago? What makes you say that?”

“I checked the cafeteria out at New Haven and at Eastport General, too. I could smell sex in the air.”

“But they met only a little more than a
month
ago.”

“Bullshit. We break up. She gets a restraining order. I go to Colorado. Then she and Douglas leave Yale—together. And they
both
come here … to Eastport General. That’s no coincidence. It was planned. And the restraining order was part of the deal. I couldn’t get within five hundred feet of the cheating bastards.”

Grayson’s thoughts whirl. Wilson’s opening up, showing some emotion. Not acting like an android or automaton, the way Pat Mulvaney described he’d been at the police interrogation. Though Grayson isn’t sure, he finds himself thinking that maybe someone can reach Conrad Wilson, bring out some humanity.

“Conrad, tell me about your father.”

“I don’t have one …”

“I mean your adoptive father.”

“The bastard beat the shit outta me. He’d take off his belt and strap me across the ass till I couldn’t sit for days.”

“And your mother …?”

“You mean the woman who adopted me?”

“Right.”

“She let that bastard abuse me. She bought a cushion so I could sit after he beat my ass.”

“How did you feel about your father?”

“He wasn’t my father.”

“But how did you feel about him?”

“How the fuck ya think I felt?”

“And your mother?”

“She never stopped that bastard.”

“You think it’s why you’re so angry now?”

Wilson stares out the window.

“Don’t you want to understand your anger … your rage?”

“There’s nothin’ to understand. Except my ex-wife was doin’ another guy and it’s gone on for years … like I was a worthless nobody.”

“Like the way you felt as a kid … worthless? You didn’t know your real parents?”

“Go
fuck
yourself, Doc.”

“But how can you be so sure about Megan and Adrian Douglas?”

“I just am; that’s all.”

“It would be good to have proof, wouldn’t it?”

“What’re you tryin’ to imply, Doc, that I’m paranoid?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m—”

“That’s
exactly
what you’re sayin’. You shrinks gotta label everyone. If a guy can’t get it up, it’s erectile dysfunction. So you prescribe Viagra ’cause you’re hooked into the pharmaceutical industry.”

Grayson smiles and says nothing.

“I know your game, Doc, because I read. I’m smarter than you think.”

“I know that, Conrad. But the past can explain some things.”

“Ah … that’s all crap that can’t be redone.”

“You think it scarred you? Never knowing your real parents and being abused?”

“It killed part of me. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“All that matters is what’s ahead of you. And you know what’s ahead for me? Some Legal Aid lawyer was in here. Guy named Kovac. He talked about coppin’ an insanity plea.”

“Kovac’s a damned good lawyer. You’re lucky, Conrad.”

“So what do I have, a shrink and the public defender? What a team.”

“Maybe … we’ll have you seen by a few psychiatrists.”

“Like I don’t know which end is up?”

“Well, this whole thing about Megan Haggarty … and Adrian Douglas.”

“Is that
crazy
? That I still think about what that whore did? That’s crazy?”

“Well, I …”

“In a way,
love
is crazy. It’s fuckin’ mad, isn’t it? It means that someone … Ah, fuck it!” Wilson turns away and stares out the window once again.

Grayson’s eyes follow his. The air is dazzling on this sunlit autumn morning, so radiantly clear, Grayson thinks he sees across the Sound to Long Island’s North Shore, to Stony Point, where he was a high school point guard before going to Duke on a basketball scholarship.

“And just
who
defines crazy, huh?” Conrad says. “The psychiatrists? The lawyers? The crooked judges? The corporate crooks and the union big shots? White-collar robbers pickpocketing the public? All a bunch of money maggots? Who’re
you
to decide I’m nuts?

“And Megan Haggarty—the bitch kept her maiden name. I’m surprised she didn’t name the
kid
Haggarty, too … or
Douglas
. After all, I didn’t match up to the fancy doctors at the hospital.” Wilson pauses and seems to be thinking. “So now I dream about snappin’ her neck, and in the dream I hear the bones crack. The whore.”

Grayson realizes that for the first time, Conrad Wilson’s eyes seem alive.

“And when I think about Douglas, I just wanna kill ‘em both for what they did.”

“She’s a big part of your life, Conrad.”

“It’s all so goddamned crazy,” Conrad says, gazing out the window.

Grayson notices Conrad Wilson’s huge right hand curl into a white-knuckled fist, and sitting there, he has a strange feeling about Conrad Wilson—an eerie sense that this man is like no other patient he’s ever seen in his entire career.

A
drian enters Bridgeport Superior Court with Jack Farley, the ADA assigned to the case. Farley wears a blue-black suit with barely visible pinstripes, a white shirt, and a navy-colored cloth tie. He looks like a mortician. They’ve already met to discuss Adrian’s testimony.

Farley shows the court officers his attorney’s pass as Adrian goes through the metal detector. “It’s the defendant’s right to a speedy trial,” Farley says at the elevator bank. “But this is a competency hearing to see if Wilson’s fit to stand trial. The whole thing is moving at lightning speed because of Walter Kovac, Wilson’s attorney. He’s a very aggressive guy. In fact, he’s leaving the public defender’s office and joining a criminal defense firm. This is a trophy case for him because Wilson’s pleading an insanity defense.”

“So that’s why there’s a competency hearing?”

“Yes. If he’s claiming insanity, the judge has to be satisfied Wilson understands things and can cooperate with his lawyer.”

“Insanity defense … like he’s just nuts, so he can get away with what he did?”

Farley laughs and says, “People have misconceptions about the insanity defense. It’s used very rarely and hardly ever succeeds. It gets attention because the big-name cases are in the public eye—John Hinckley, the Unabomber, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy. And believe me, Kovac wants publicity.”

Adrian thinks,
Maybe Wilson is nuts … Megan certainly believes so
.

“I’m glad you could come,” Farley says. “I know you’re busy, but I want you to see Kovac in action.” Farley smiles, showing pink gums with squarish teeth. They remind Adrian of a row of Chiclets.

T
he walls, benches, desks—everything in the courtroom—is blond oak. The windowless room is lit by recessed fluorescent lighting.

A woman and two men sit in the gallery’s first row. Farley tells Adrian they’re the psychiatrists who evaluated Conrad Wilson for the competency hearing. Farley and Conrad’s attorney, Walter Kovac, shake hands; each stands behind a lectern facing the bench.

When he sees Conrad Wilson sitting at the defense table, Adrian’s heart begins pounding. The hulking man is manacled and wears an orange jumpsuit nearly bursting from the pressure of his muscular frame. It’s hard to believe Adrian is sitting a few rows behind the man who tracked him so relentlessly that night. It all floods back to him at that moment.

Judge Henry Burke enters from chambers. He’s a portly man with a drooping double chin and dewlaps; the horseshoe-shaped hair on his scalp has been shaved bald. He wears wire-rim glasses that reflect the overhead lights, and his black robes flow freely over his generous belly.

Burke sits at the bench and glances at the court reporter. “Gentlemen, we’re on the record,” he says.

Kovac’s in his late thirties; he has a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a squarish face. His eyes seem distorted behind the thick lenses; they remind Adrian of goldfish in a round bowl. Kovac wears a brown suit that looks like it came off the rack at Kohl’s.

“As you know,” Burke says, “there was a hearing in accordance with Connecticut General Statute 54-47, which allows for a court determination of probable cause. The hearing determined there was sufficient evidence to warrant a trial. Are we all in agreement?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Farley and Kovac pipe up.

“I understand the defendant has made an NGRI plea. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” says Kovac.

“And since he’s pleading not guilty by reason of insanity, we’re holding a competency hearing to decide if the defendant understands what a trial is and if he can cooperate with his attorney.”

The court reporter’s fingers glide over her machine.

“Mr. Kovac, I assume you’ve informed your client about an NGRI defense?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I have.”

“Now,” Burke says, shuffling papers. “I understand the defendant has been examined by two forensic psychiatrists and a neuropsychologist, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Kovac says.

“Are they present in court today?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Kovac says.

“I read their certified reports,” says the judge. “If I were to question the doctors at length, would they testify in accordance with their reports?”

“I think the doctors can speak for themselves, Your Honor,” says Kovac.

“Dr. Grayson,” asks the judge, looking at a tall man seated in the first row, “if you were to testify, would it be in substantial accordance with your very detailed report?”

“It would, Your Honor,” Grayson says. He appears to Adrian to be about forty years old, at least six four, and well built. An athletic-looking guy, for sure. He has short brown hair and sports a three- or four-day growth of facial stubble.

“And Dr. DuPont?”

A willowy, chestnut-haired woman stands. She’s in her midthirties, with large, almond-shaped eyes and a gamin face. Her hair is stylishly short; her lipstick is crimson and her upper lip forms a perfect Cupid’s bow. She wears a smart-looking charcoal-gray suit that accentuates her trim yet curvaceous figure.

“The same question is put to you.”

“I would testify in accordance with my report, Your Honor,” says DuPont.

“And the psychologist, Dr. Morgan?”

A pudgy, rumpled-looking guy wearing a tweed sport jacket and black slacks says, “I would testify in accordance with my report, Your Honor.”

The judge nods. “Okay, then, the reports will be entered into evidence as sworn testimony. Do both attorneys agree that we can dispense with the doctors’ live testimony?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” respond Farley and Kovac together.

“Good,” says the judge. “We’ll save time.” Burke adjusts his glasses and looks at the attorneys. “It’s clear … the mental health professionals agree unanimously that the defendant is competent to stand trial.” Burke looks over at Kovac. “As you surely know, gentlemen, the Constitution guarantees the right of the defendant not to be put on trial unless he has sufficient mental ability to consult with his lawyer and understands the proceedings against him.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” both attorneys say.

“So, Counselor,” Burke says, peering at Kovac, “is it your position that despite his presumed mental illness and the insanity plea, your client can understand the proceedings and can assist in his own defense?”

“It is, Your Honor. It’s also our contention that when he committed these acts, Conrad Wilson was suffering from a severe mental disorder—”

“Mr. Kovac,” Judge Burke cuts in, “you’re getting ahead of yourself. We’re here to determine the defendant’s
competency to stand trial
, nothing more. I’m concerned about his state of mind
now
… as we proceed to trial.”

Adrian is glad Megan chose not to attend the hearing. He imagines her shuddering at the sight of Conrad, and he’s certain the lawyerly arguments about Conrad’s state of mind—either when he attacked them or right now—would throw her into a state of high-voltage panic.

Judge Burke peers at the defense table. “Will the defendant please rise?”

Conrad stands with his manacled hands in front of him. His biceps and forearms bulge from the short sleeves of the jumpsuit. Two beefy court officers stand nearby; they peer warily at him.

Thoughts of the night on Bald Hill flood Adrian.

“Mr. Wilson,” Burke says, “who’s the man standing closest to you?”

“Mr. Kovac, my lawyer.”

“What’s his job here in court?”

“To defend me.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’ll question witnesses and he’ll protect my rights.”

“And, Mr. Wilson, what’s the difference between the truth and a falsehood?”

“The truth tells the reality of things, not something made up. A falsehood is a distortion of the truth or a fabrication such as the—”

“And, sir,” Burke interrupts, “Do you believe Mr. Kovac will do his best to defend you against these charges?”