The Bergamese Sect (10 page)

Just as Walsh had feared, he’d drawn the short straw this time. The drive to Washington would take seven hours.

Chapter 7

David Castro walked purposefully into a hotel lobby on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Outside, the building was stark and angular but inside it was spacious and plush. Brown marble and brass filled the lobby. A jovial concierge trotted between the reception desk and his lectern, apparently at a loss as to his duties.

Castro didn’t hesitate in the lobby but headed straight to the reception desk. A young Hispanic girl greeted him, her hotelier’s smile honed to perfection.

‘
Yes sir,’ she said, ‘can I help?’

‘
Yeah, I’m looking for the welcoming reception for the APA convention.’

The girl leant over the desk and pointed along the broad corridor leading off the lobby. ‘Sure, go down the hall, turn right and it’s in the Horton Suite, on the left, you’ll see the sign.’

Castro thanked her and headed off down the corridor.

The Horton Suite was a throng of intellectuals. Two overweight women sat watching the door, their table piled high with name badges and welcome packs. Inside, smartly dressed women were sipping glasses of white wine and bearded middle-aged men were huddling in groups jostling for attention. The mass of people created a loud but indistinct hum as groomed attendants scurried about with trays of drinks and
hors d’ouvres
.

‘
Yes, can I help?’ said one of the fat women as Castro surveyed the reception room.

He stepped up to the table. ‘Sure, I’m with the press. You won’t have my name.’

‘
Which press agency?’

Castro was scanning the faces across the room, looking for one in particular. He turned back to the woman who was holding a pen expectantly. ‘Er,’ he said, ‘I’m freelance.’

‘
Okay, what’s the name?’

Castro hesitated, remembering his purpose. ‘Er, Johnson,’ he said. ‘David Johnson.’

He took the badge, crammed it in his jacket pocket and wandered off across the crowded room. Grabbing a glass of something brown from a waiter that passed, he meandered through the groups of people. They were psychologists at their annual backslapping meeting. He heard snippets of conversations, discussions about the latest trends in social syndromes or new theories about the mental state of serial killers. None of it interested him; he had a more specific topic in mind.

Then he spotted the man he was looking for – Dr Allan Kennedy. He was leaning nonchalantly against a palm, engrossed in discussion with an attractive young woman whose eyes were searching the room for a more interesting conversation. Castro recognised Kennedy from the jacket of his latest book. He lingered beside the palm until the man took a breath, and then butted in, grabbing the badge from his pocket and flashing it as if it somehow excused his interruption.

‘
Dr Kennedy,’ he said, ‘David Johnson.’

The psychiatrist took his hand, shook it and introduced his associate.

‘
Sorry for interrupting,’ Castro went on. ‘I’m a journalist covering the conference. I was wondering if you might find time to talk with me about your work.’

Kennedy was delighted with the request, clearly enjoying the attention and eager to impress the young woman. The middle-aged psychiatrist was stout and short with a thin greying beard and ruddy complexion. His brown hair was neat, also greying at its surface, and was cut crudely into something resembling a bob. The brow was furrowed but changed rapidly with the man’s enthusiastic expressions.

‘
Sure,’ Kennedy said, ‘how can I help?’ He glanced proudly at the young woman. She seemed unimpressed.

‘
Perhaps we could meet over dinner tomorrow?’ Castro said. ‘I’d like to do a proper interview.’

An expression of disappointment crossed the woman’s face, but only Castro noticed it.

‘
Yeah, that’s fine,’ Kennedy responded. ‘Just leave a time and place at reception and I’ll be there.’

‘
Excellent,’ said Castro. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

He moved away quickly, leaving the woman to endure Kennedy’s self-appreciation, and headed straight out the door.

―
§ ―

The following evening the two men sat staring at each other across a restaurant table. A waiter arrived with drinks, a pen and order book. He didn’t say a word, just raised his eyebrows. Kennedy ordered the soup to start followed by a
Fillet Mignon
. Castro just wanted the pasta and a green salad, with nothing to start. The waiter scooted off again.

Castro was watching Kennedy rearrange the cutlery. The psychiatrist’s movements were precise, like a mantis preparing to attack. The little jerks of his empty hands were those of an academic. Someone for whom neatness and order were paramount.

It was inevitable that Castro would one day sit face to face with this man. Not that he imagined for one minute that Kennedy would ease his trauma. The man was a charlatan. For years he’d flouted with controversy, been called both a pioneer and a quack. A recognised expert in repressed memory, he’d trained on the West Coast during the seventies, done a few brief stints at various mid-west universities before securing a tenured position at Princeton. He was a minor celebrity in intellectual circles, a regular pundit on the lecture circuit and a popular guest on obscure late-night chat shows.

Castro reached into his jacket and pulled out a notepad, eager to emphasise his cover. They chatted for ten minutes about Kennedy’s visit to Vegas. The APA convention was about rare psychological disorders and Kennedy was talking about abductees. He explained most of his colleagues still thought the abduction experience was just a psychotic disorder; a form of schizophrenia treatable with anti-seizure drugs. A wry smile crossed his lips as he spoke the words. Although Kennedy clearly had an intellect of note, Castro detected a definite superiority in his manner. His conviction was almost annoying.

The entrée arrived and Kennedy started straight away on it. Castro pretended to scribble on his notepad, peering over it as the psychiatrist slurped the soup loudly.

‘
Allan, let’s talk a bit about your latest book,’ Castro said. ‘How does this one differ from your previous ones?’

‘
Haven’t you read it?’ retorted Kennedy.

‘
Sure, I just wanted to hear what you have to say about it.’

‘
Well, it’s really just a continuation of my research. I discuss other interesting cases, compare them with my previous work, and try to decipher the pattern of abductions. I also discuss the history of the topic.’

‘
Is there anything new in the book?’

Kennedy swallowed noisily. ‘I don’t come up with a definitive answer, if that’s what you mean. I simply present more evidence and discuss it. I think it’s important enough for the public to know about.’

Castro nodded. ‘You stick by your original claims?’

‘
I’ve found no reason to change my mind.’

Those claims were extraordinary, even to Castro. A colossal research programme, involving hundreds of cases, had led Kennedy to declare that abductions were a physical reality. He was convinced extra-terrestrials were kidnapping his subjects, performing grotesque experiments on them, erasing their memories. Even more astounding, his statistics suggested one in fifty Americans had experienced some form of abduction episode.

The educated found Kennedy’s suggestions preposterous. His own profession treated him with extreme caution. Unfortunately, one in three Americans seemed to believe every word of it. Kennedy himself completely refused to accept any other explanation. And why should he? As they spoke, Kennedy was getting rich on the profits from his third book about abductees.

‘
Allan,’ Castro said with a tone of seriousness in his voice. ‘Let’s be honest for a moment. After reading your work, I think most of your conclusions are simply based on the belief that there’s no other explanation for what your clients experienced.’

‘
Exactly. There’s no other explanation,’ Kennedy said.

‘
But you imply it’s your critics who are deluded, not your clients.’

Kennedy swallowed hurriedly, perhaps sensing an impending attack. ‘Mr Johnson… David. I don’t call these people my ‘clients’,’ he said, ‘they’re my patients. To answer your question, though, I think it’s quite valid to point out the weaknesses of other explanations.’

‘
But exposing those weaknesses doesn’t prove your hypothesis,’ said Castro. ‘The burden of proof is on you, not on those who disagree with you.’

Kennedy didn’t flinch. He took another mouthful of soup. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘but I believe my opinions do have proof, and the lack of alternative explanations seems to confirm that.’

‘
A claim doesn’t become true simply because you can’t prove the opposite.’

Kennedy looked up from the table. For a second he looked like he was going to argue his point further, but he just shrugged. ‘Well, maybe so,’ he said, ‘but the fact remains that many victims report experiences that require explanation. And these experiences all seem to follow the same pattern.’

Castro felt uneasy about revealing the depth of his knowledge. He’d read all the hype; he knew all the fraudulent claims. Abductions were not similar. Sure, they all fit the paradigm, but they always disagreed in detail. Ask ten abductees to describe their abductors and you’d have ten kinds of aliens walking around. Some with large oval eyes, others with small piggy eyes, some tall, others short. Green ones, grey ones, the list was endless. They weren’t so much a species as a genus.

Castro took a sip of wine, trying to conceal a knowing smile. ‘So, you’re saying the similarities between cases, if there are any, are evidence they happened?’

‘
Well, yes, in a sense…,’ replied Kennedy, head down.

‘
Again, I disagree with you, Allan. Finding a connection between two separate events doesn’t prove they’re true. Many hauntings are similar. Does that mean they’re real too?’

Kennedy looked up again, a very faint glimmer of unease on his face. ‘No,’ he said.

Castro again pretended to write. He flicked a sheet over purposefully, if only to hide the blank page. The psychiatrist was finishing his soup hurriedly. He’d spotted the waiter bringing the main courses. A small steak landed in front of him, a steaming bowl of pasta in front of Castro.

Waiting until the waiter had gone, Castro took a mouthful of the hot rigatoni and picked up his pen again.

‘
Moving on to your ‘patients’, as you call them,’ he said. ‘Firstly, you state that none of these people are mentally ill, so their experiences can’t be dismissed as delusions.’

‘
Sure,’ replied Kennedy, now slicing through the tender lump of beef on his plate.

‘
If they’re not ill, why are you treating them?’

The psychiatrist stopped sawing at the steak and looked at Castro. He seemed surprised at the question. ‘As a psychiatrist I offer people counselling; I help them understand and accept what has happened to them. That doesn’t mean there’s something
wrong
with them!’ He paused to make sure Castro had understood then returned to his meat.

‘
Okay,’ Castro continued, ‘so you regard these people as quite normal, psychologically and sociologically?’

‘
Yes, in fact, that also gives me faith in their stories.’

‘
It’s interesting you use the word ‘faith’. Isn’t faith a person’s ability to believe in something that’s untrue, or at least, for which there’s no evidence?’

‘
Now you’re just playing with words.’

‘
Okay,’ replied Castro, wishing he’d used a bit more tact, ‘sorry.’ He took another mouthful of the pasta, chewed it and swallowed it down without looking away from the portly physician. ‘But you insist your patients are reliable witnesses. Why?’

‘
They have nothing to gain from lying.’

‘
Do you think so? I’d have thought they have a great deal to gain, potentially. Many people have got very rich on the back of such claims. Even so, just because they have nothing to gain, doesn’t mean they aren’t mistaken or deluded, or even frauds.’

‘
Sure, but in my experience these people really don’t benefit from their claims. They’re simply trying to understand. Doesn’t that say something about their credibility?’

‘
No, not really. Just because we trust a person’s motives doesn’t mean we should trust their testimony.’

Kennedy didn’t respond, perhaps because he had another mouthful of food.

Castro played with his pasta, took another bite and washed it down with the wine. ‘Let’s talk about specifics,’ he said. ‘Although there’s often great differences in abduction cases, there seems to be a common set of circumstances and events, right?’

‘
That’s right.’

‘
Could you describe your typical abduction?’

‘
It’s a well-known scenario. These people’s memories have been altered or partially erased. But they grow to realise that they’ve been abducted, often more than once. They report waking at night with the feeling that they’re not alone. Often they see figures in the room. It’s common for them to be paralysed and unable to cry out. They recall being within a dark structure occupied by alien beings. In some, but not all cases, they are aware of some kind of experimentation being performed. This usually has sexual connotations; sperm samples taken, probes inserted, sometimes even worse. Afterwards many victims have difficulty sleeping, experience severe headaches, muscular aches and flashbacks. Often they find markings or scars on their bodies that weren’t there before.’

Castro was nodding; it was all so familiar. Yet somehow, Kennedy’s description didn’t connect with him. There was something missing. It was all too circumstantial.