The Frozen Dead (7 page)

‘Please understand, I am a psychiatrist. And – how to put it? – I cannot see what purpose you might serve for our establishment … No offence intended…'

‘I … I am here in order to perfect my knowledge and training, Dr Xavier. Dr Wargnier must have explained this to you. Moreover, before he left, your predecessor hired me as his assistant and gave his approval to my absence – sorry, my presence here. He made a commitment to the University of Geneva on behalf of this establishment. If you were against my coming, you might have let us know before—'

‘In order to
perfect your knowledge and training?
' Xavier pinched his lips slightly. ‘Where do you think you are? Some university department? The murderers who are waiting for you at the end of these corridors,' he said, pointing to the door of his office, ‘are even more horrific than the worst creatures ever to haunt your nightmares, Mademoiselle Berg. They are our nemesis. Our punishment for having killed God, for having created societies where evil has become the norm.'

This last sentence seemed a touch grandiloquent to her. As did everything else about Dr Xavier. But the way in which he had said it – with a curious mixture of fear and delight – made her shudder. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
He's afraid of them. They come to haunt him at night when he's asleep, or perhaps he can hear them screaming from his room.

She stared at the unnatural colour of his hair and was reminded of the character Gustav von Aschenbach in
Death in Venice,
who dyes his hair, eyebrows and moustache for the sake of a beautiful young man he has seen on a beach and to delude himself about the approach of death. And never realises how desperate and pathetic his efforts really are.

‘I am an experienced forensic psychologist. I have seen over a hundred sex offenders in three years.'

‘And how many murderers?'

‘One.'

He flashed her a mean little smile, then looked again at her file.

‘
Degree
in psychology, master of advanced studies in clinical psychology from the University of Geneva,' he recited, his red glasses sliding down his nose.

‘I worked for four years for a private psychotherapy and forensic psychology practice. I was entrusted with civil and criminal evaluations for the judicial authorities. It's there on my CV.'

‘Any internships in penal institutions?'

‘An internship with the medical services at Champ-Dollon Prison, as a joint expert for forensic examinations, and the supervision of sex offenders.'

‘International Academy of Law and Mental Health, Geneva Association of Psychologists-Psychotherapists, Swiss Society of Forensic Psychology … Good, good, good…'

He let his gaze settle upon her again. She had the unpleasant impression she was facing a jury.

‘There is just one thing … You absolutely do not have the experience required for this type of patient: you are young; you still have a great deal to learn; you could – completely unintentionally, of course, through your inexperience –
ruin
everything we have been trying to accomplish. Which could turn out to be an additional source of distress for our clientele.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I am sorry, but I must ask you to refrain from any contact with our seven most dangerous residents, the ones in Unit A. And I do not need an assistant; I already have the head nurse to assist me.'

She was silent for so long that he eventually raised an eyebrow. When she spoke, her voice was calm but firm.

‘Dr Xavier, the reason I am here is those men in Unit A. Dr Wargnier must have told you that. You must have our correspondence in your files. The terms of our agreement are perfectly clear: not only did Dr Wargnier authorise me to see the seven inmates in Unit A, he also asked me to compile a report once my interviews were completed, particularly in the case of Julian Hirtmann.'

She could see him bristle. His smile vanished.

‘Mademoiselle Berg, Dr Wargnier is no longer in charge of this establishment. I am.'

‘In that case, I have no business here. I will have to refer the matter to your regulatory authority, and to the University of Geneva. And Dr Spitzner. I have come a long way, Doctor. You might have spared me this useless journey.'

She stood up.

‘Mademoiselle Berg, now, please!' said Xavier, sitting up and spreading his hands. ‘Don't get carried away! Sit down, sit down, please! You are welcome here. Do not misunderstand me: I have nothing against you. I am sure you will do your best. And who knows? Perhaps … perhaps another point of view, a – shall we say – “interdisciplinary” approach could contribute to our understanding of these
monsters.
Yes, yes – why not? All that I ask of you is not to have any more contact than is absolutely necessary, and to adhere strictly to the internal regulations. The tranquillity of our institute depends upon a fragile equilibrium. The security measures here may be ten times more stringent than in any other psychiatric institution, but any breach of protocol could have incalculable consequences.'

Francis Xavier got up and walked round the desk.

He was even shorter than she had thought. Diane was five foot five and Xavier was clearly the same height – allowing for his heel-pieces. The immaculate white lab coat floated on him.

‘Come with me. I will show you around.'

He opened a cupboard. Lab coats hanging all in a row. He took one and handed it to Diane. She caught a whiff of washing powder, and something musty.

He brushed against her. He laid his hand on Diane's arm; his nails were, she saw, very well groomed, perhaps too well groomed.

‘They are truly terrifying individuals,' he said smoothly, looking her in the eyes. ‘Forget what they are, forget what they have done. Concentrate on your work.'

She remembered Wargnier's words on the telephone: he had said virtually the same thing.

‘I've already dealt with sociopaths,' she objected, but her voice lacked confidence, for once.

A strange look flashed briefly through his red glasses.

‘None like these ones, mademoiselle.
None like these ones.
'

*   *   *

White walls, white floor, white neon lights … Like most people in the West, Diane associated the colour with innocence, candour and virginity. And yet there were vile murderers living in the midst of all this whiteness.

‘Originally, white was the colour of death and mourning,' said Xavier, as if reading her thoughts. ‘This is still the case in the East. White is also a limit value – like black. Finally, it is the colour which is associated with rites of passage. This is a rite of passage for you at this moment, wouldn't you say? But I am not the one who chose the décor – I've only been here for a few months.'

Steel gates slid open and closed as they passed through; electronic locks clunked in the thickness of the walls. Xavier's short figure strode ahead.

‘Where are we?' she asked, counting the closed-circuit cameras, the doors, the emergency exits.

‘We are leaving the administration offices to enter the actual psychiatric unit. This is the first security barrier.'

Diane watched as he inserted a magnetic card into a box fitted on the wall, which read the card and spat it back out. The metal gate opened. On the far side was a glass cubicle, where two guards in orange boiler suits sat under the electronic surveillance screens.

‘At present we have eighty-eight patients who are considered dangerous, capable of committing acts of violence. Our clientele have been sent here from penal institutions and other psychiatric establishments in France, but also from Germany, Switzerland, Spain … These individuals have mental health issues, compounded with delinquency, violence and criminality. Patients who turned out to be too violent to stay in the hospitals that had initially taken them in, detainees whose psychosis is too severe to be treated in prison, or murderers who have been ruled irresponsible by the courts. Our clientele requires a highly qualified staff, and an infrastructure that will guarantee both their security and that of the staff and visitors. We are in Ward C at the moment. There are three levels of security: low, medium and high. This is a low-level area.'

Diane raised an eyebrow every time Xavier talked about the clientele.

‘The Wargnier Institute has shown itself to be uniquely competent in the treatment of aggressive, dangerous, violent patients. Our practice is founded on the highest, most modern standards. In the initial stages we carry out a psychiatric and criminological evaluation, which includes, in particular, fantasy analysis and plethysmography.'

She started. Plethysmography consisted of measuring a patient's reactions to audio and video stimuli showing a variety of scenarios and partners, such as the sight of a naked woman or child.

‘You are using aversion therapy with subjects who are shown to have deviant profiles when they are subjected to the plethysmographic test?'

‘Precisely.'

‘It's not as if aversive plethysmography has received unanimous approval,' she said.

‘Here it works,' answered Xavier firmly.

She felt him stiffen. Whenever anyone spoke of aversion therapy, Diane thought of
A Clockwork Orange.
Aversion therapy meant associating a recording of a deviant fantasy – visions of rape, naked children and so on – with very unpleasant or even painful sensations: electric shock or inhaling ammonia, for example, instead of the pleasant sensations the patient usually associated with the fantasy. Systematic repetition of the experience was supposed to produce a lasting change in the subject's behaviour. A sort of Pavlovian conditioning, in other words, as tested on sex abusers and paedophiles in certain countries, like Canada.

Xavier was playing with the button of the pen sticking out of his chest pocket.

‘I know that many practitioners in this country are sceptical about the behaviour therapy approach. It is a practice that has its roots in the Anglo-Saxon countries and the Pinel Insitute in Montreal, which is where I came from. We have obtained remarkable results. But obviously your French colleagues find it difficult to acknowledge such an empirical method, particularly one from the other side of the Atlantic. They fault it for overlooking such fundamental notions as the unconscious, the superego and the implementation of impulses in repression strategies…'

Behind his glasses his eyes were gazing at Diane with an exasperating indulgence.

‘Many people in this country still favour an approach that takes the findings of psychoanalysis into greater consideration, which involves reshaping the deepest layers of a personality. In so doing they overlook the fact that the total absence of guilt or emotion displayed by major psychopathic perverts will always cause their efforts to fail. With this type of patient, only one thing works: reconditioning.' His voice flowed over the word like a stream of icy water. ‘One must make the subject responsible for his treatment, thanks to an entire range of rewards and punishments, and thus create conditioned behaviour. We also conduct risk assessments at the request of the judicial or medical authorities,' he continued, stopping outside yet another door made of Securit glass.

‘Haven't the majority of studies shown that most of these assessments do not serve much purpose?' asked Diane. ‘Some of them maintain that, half the time, psychiatric risk assessments are wrong.'

‘So they say,' conceded Xavier. ‘But more often than not it turns out the risk has been overevaluated. If there is any doubt, in our evaluation report we systematically advise continuing detention or prolonging hospitalisation. And then,' he added, with a smile of absolute fatuousness, ‘these evaluations correspond to a deeply rooted need in our societies, Mademoiselle Berg. The courts ask us to resolve a moral dilemma in their place, a dilemma which in all truth
no one is capable of resolving
: how can one be sure that the measures taken with regard to a particular dangerous individual will meet the needs required for the protection of society, and yet not infringe upon the basic rights of that individual? No one has an answer to this question. Therefore the courts pretend to believe that psychiatric evaluations are reliable. No one is fooled, of course. But it allows the judicial machine, which is constantly threatened with obstruction, to go on turning, while maintaining the illusion that judges are wise people and that they make informed decisions – something which, I might add in passing, is the greatest lie of all the lies on which our democratic societies are founded.'

A new black box was fitted into the wall, much more sophisticated than the previous one. It contained a little screen and sixteen buttons for typing a code, as well as a large red sensor where Xavier now placed his right index finger.

‘Obviously, we don't have this type of problem with our residents. They have given ample proof of their dangerousness. This is the second security barrier.'

There was a little glassed-in office on the right. Once again Diane saw two figures behind the glass; she was sorry to see Xavier walk right by them without stopping. She would have liked him to introduce her to the rest of the staff. But she was already convinced he would do nothing of the sort. The two men watched through the glass as she went by. Diane suddenly wondered what sort of welcome she would have. Had Xavier spoken about her to anyone? Was he insidiously planning to make life difficult for her?

For a fraction of a second she indulged in a nostalgic memory of her student room, her friends at the university, her office in the department … Then she thought of someone. She felt a flush come to her cheeks, and hastened to consign the image of Pierre Spitzner to the deepest recesses of her mind.

*   *   *

Servaz looked at himself in the mirror in the flickering glow of the neon light. He was wan. He leaned with both hands on the chipped edge of the sink and tried to breathe calmly. Then he bent down and splattered cold water onto his face.