Twisted (2 page)

2

Evan McKinley peers through the window and into the room, then flashes what might be a mild smirk . . . or maybe I’m just imagining it. He takes a key ring from his uniform belt, unlocks the door, and motions for us to enter.

The moment we step inside, my focus locks onto Donny Ray Smith, but I’m still not quite sure what I’m seeing. I was expecting a monster; instead, this guy looks like he was sent here by Central Casting rather than by another psychiatric hospital. It would appear he wandered onto the wrong set, though, because our new patient in no way fits the role of a serial killer. Striking is the word of the day, and he owns it. With his well-defined physique, jet-black hair, and sculpted jawline, Donny Ray Smith could have leaped from the page of an Abercrombie ad.

A child killer? He’s nothing more than a kid himself.

Barely into his twenties, is my guess.

Lying in bed, Donny Ray blinks a few times, then looks down at himself to examine the Posey Net that covers his entire body. Arms, neck, and legs pulled through the openings. Ankles and wrists secured with loop straps. He’s sweating, trembling with fear.

Refusing to look at us.

Adam says nothing, but I instantly sense he isn’t buying into Donny Ray’s fright—not that I am, either. Experience has taught me that psychopaths are quick-change artists who can conform to any shape imaginable. I don’t yet know if that’s what we’re dealing with here, but I’m mindful of the possibility.

Adam and I step forward, and Donny Ray lurches back against the bed, hands clenching the guardrails, biceps flexing, breaths speeding. His restraints clatter; perspiration slides from sodden bangs down the bridge of his nose.

“Why am I being restrained?” he shouts through pallid lips, and I hear his thick southern drawl.

“You’ve been deemed a danger to yourself and others,” I explain.

Donny Ray releases an angry howl and tries to jerk himself free; the bed rattles, squeaks, and shimmies. Recognizing his efforts as futile, he lets out a tiny, helpless moan.

“You’re the behavioral guy,” Adam mutters to me. “Have at it.”

“It’s okay,” I tell Donny Ray Smith, keeping my body still and my voice level. “Nobody’s here to cause you any harm.”

A low and inarticulate plea escapes through chattering teeth.

I wait in silence and watch him, my passivity allowing an opportunity for trust. A few moments later, his breath slows and his jaw relaxes, but he still refuses to look at us.

I study him for a few seconds longer, then move closer. Donny Ray reacts instantly, shooting his terrified gaze directly at me, and now I’m the one who’s startled. But not by his reaction—it’s his eyes, blue, bright, but nearly colorless, perhaps the palest I’ve ever seen.

Wait a minute.

Because . . .

I know those eyes.

Or do I? I’m not sure. For the life of me, I can’t place them. I examine his other features, but . . . I’ve got nothing, and now I’m more unsettled because this isn’t a face I’d soon forget.

And right now, that’s not important.

So I try to banish my speculations; but my suspicions may not be unfounded because now Donny Ray Smith is also searching my eyes in a manner that suggests recognition mixed with curious confusion. I study his other features.

A former patient, maybe?

“I’m Dr. Kellan,” I move on, still scrutinizing his face as I motion Adam forward, “and this is Dr. Wiley. We’ll be working together. I’m a psychologist and he’s a neurol—”

“You have to take me out of here!” Donny Ray blurts, those eyes now ablaze and begging.

“I need you to try and calm down,” I say. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

A slow nod. A vulnerable expression.

Adam’s phone rings, and Donny Ray immediately jerks back. I raise a hand of assurance.

He settles.

“Sorry,” Adam says. He checks the screen, silences his phone, then with a nod, encourages me to continue.

Still mindful of my new patient’s overall appearance, I say, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Donny Ray is compliant but fearful.

“Do you know where we are?”

“We’re at Loveland.”

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

“Please!” he shouts. “Help me!”

“We’re going to find the truth. Whether that helps you or not remains to be seen. Are you able to tell me your name?”

“But you already know all this! What does it have to do with—?”

“I need your name,” I say, this time as a firm mandate.

“Yeah . . .” he surrenders. “Okay. It’s Donny Ray Smith.”

“What’s your date of birth?”

“December fourteenth, nineteen ninety-two.”

“Can you tell me where you were born?”

“Real, Texas. Why are you doing this to me?”

I circle back to the question he failed to answer. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

Donny Ray looks down at his bound hands, looks up, and his expression is markedly changed—something like nervous confusion diluted by distress. “I think . . . I mean . . . I just don’t know anymore. They said . . .” His voice falters. “They say I killed that little girl.”

Careful to keep my manner nonreactive, I ask, “And did you?”

“They told me they found evidence, you know? Things you can’t fake. Like DNA and all that stuff, but as many times as I’ve turned things around in my head, I can’t make sense of them. And then I keep forgetting things, and everything around me doesn’t fit, and that just makes it worse . . .”

“Forgetting things,”
I repeat, because what he describes could hint at some kind of dissociative disorder.

Donny Ray closes his eyes for a moment, opens them. “Like I don’t know where I’ve been for a while.”

Tears start as he shakes his head. “Sir, I swear to you—on the Holy Bible—on my own life, even—I never saw that girl before. I mean . . . how do you kill someone you’ve never met? How can that happen?”

I offer no answer, because I’ve got none, and because I’m intrigued. Everything I’ve seen and heard so far rings genuine: his facial expressions, his response times, his vocal intonations and speech pattern. No cues of duplicity. Even his pupils, a clear and clinically proven indicator of tension and concentration, remain dilated.

But a psychopath can achieve all of this, so as a rechecking strategy, I relax my stance, then wait to see whether his presentation changes.

It does not. No loosening of muscles to indicate relief, no altered breathing pattern, no verifiable sign whatsoever of malingering.

There’s only about a fifty percent accuracy rate in the study of micro-expressions and body language as indicators of deception, and if I’m indeed dealing with a pathological liar, that would reduce the reliability quotient to zero. It appears as though authorities have compelling enough evidence to prove that Donny Ray killed the girl. If they are right, the only question remaining is whether he remembers doing it. At least one person from Miller seems to think he does. As for me, I’m not yet sure. I can usually reach some level of intuitive deduction after meeting a patient for the first time, but this one has my needle stuck at the midway point. I’m not necessarily convinced he’s being truthful—I’m not able to say he isn’t, either.

But I don’t need definitive answers right now. This is only a preliminary data mining effort, and there will be more opportunities to dig deeper.

Adam’s cell vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the screen again, then says to me, “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to take this one. Go ahead and finish here. We’ll catch up later?”

I nod, and he exits the room.

I turn back to Donny Ray. He looks at me with a begging expression, and I still can’t shake the feeling we’ve met somewhere.

But for now, my work here is done, so I tell him, “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.”

He’s still staring at me. It feels awkward and strange.

Halfway to the door, I hear, “Christopher?”

I reel around, lock onto those eyes.

Where the hell have I seen those eyes?

“Do you think you can help me?” he asks.

“We’re going to find the truth,” I remind him.

“Maybe we can both find it.”

I linger, appraising him from head to toe, and then, “I’m just curious. When I introduced myself earlier, I only gave my last name. How do you know my first?”

“I heard Dr. Wiley call you that.”

I nod, then leave.

But as I move down the corridor, a sudden and jarring realization pulls me to a halt, a chill spiking up my spine.

I can’t recall Adam saying my first name. We’re best friends and colleagues, but he would never address me that way in front of a patient.

And he never calls me Christopher.

This patient knows me.

3

Something definitely isn’t right.

While Donny Ray seemed to recognize me, it appeared as though his confusion matched mine; however, since he claims to have memory issues, I wonder if that could be the reason for his uncertainty.

But he said my first name.

And I still can’t remember Adam addressing me that way.

I step outside the hospital’s heavy entrance doors, and a warm gale of arid air hits my face—another disparity because the weatherman has called for a storm tonight. God knows we could use it after months of drought, but for now it appears any relief has been put on hold. High above the chain-link and spiraling razor wire, I find more confirmation that this evening will be another dry one: stars sparkle like tiny diamonds against a dark and velvety backdrop, not a cloud to be found.

After gaining some distance from Loveland, my mind chatter finally dies down, the day’s tension dissipating, thoughts of home easing me down the road. The trip away from work always seems so much longer than the one coming in, almost as if the directional pull can slow time or speed it up. I know it’s only my mind bending minutes as I drive, that in reality, the discrepancy is more about what lies at the end of two opposite poles. Going to Loveland is like being snatched up by a rogue wave and tossed into angry waters; coming home is like struggling to escape the current’s powerful draw. Each day I move between two different worlds, one occupied by sanity and order, the other completely devoid of either. I do my best to keep them from overlapping, but it never becomes any easier.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my work. Except for the parts I definitely don’t. I’ve always been a strong advocate of helping the mentally ill rather than simply warehousing them, and it bothers me that psychiatric hospitals have become a dumping ground for polluted minds. Stowing them away like rat poison for the safety of the community isn’t the answer. Furthering their psychological torment isn’t the answer, either. Some of my patients have committed unconscionable crimes and destroyed lives in the most aberrant ways imaginable. But spend a few minutes with any of them, and you’ll realize their actions were driven by circumstances far beyond their control, that they’re already being held prisoners by their own minds. That’s not just a professional observation—it’s a personal one. Spend another few minutes enduring the hell that I went through as a kid with my father, and you’ll understand my reasoning.

Yes, I do want to change the world.

I always have, and I’m driven by a gut-level need to understand the pathology of psychiatric disorders. I know, go ahead and say it:
Doctor, heal thyself. To which I respond that altruism by any other name is still altruism, fueled by many different motivations.

As a general rule, it takes me a good ten minutes to recalibrate while swimming toward the distant shore I call home, even longer to once again feel comfortable in my own skin. It’s not that I have difficulty working in a violent and pathological environment. Rather, it’s the challenge of having to put on and take off the armor. In order to survive within Loveland’s walls, I must remain on high alert at all times. Not keeping sharp-minded can be dangerous, at times even deadly.

And sometimes, that threat can travel beyond the hospital. A few years back, one of my most violent patients managed to escape from the facility—a patient who didn’t much like me at all. He made it all the way to the sidewalk in front of my house. Fortunately, the police did, too, and they apprehended him before any harm was done. On his person, they found a butcher’s knife, which he’d apparently stolen on his way toward my home. That night was a wake-up call. Soon after, I bought a gun. Neither Jenna nor I particularly love the idea of having a weapon in the house, especially with Devon around, but when it comes to my family’s safety, there is no room left for discussion.

So, you can see why once I physically get out of Loveland, I have to mentally get out. Therein lies the struggle, because often there are thoughts that refuse to leave me. Right now, Donny Ray is still doing one hell of a job at spinning my cognitive gears.

Ten kids.

I hadn’t allowed my mind to absorb that while meeting with him, purely for the sake of professional detachment, but as I gain physical and emotional distance from Loveland, man, are the feelings coming on strong. I witness so many horrible things at work, but there will always be one that I can never get past and never will: how anyone could intentionally harm a child. I’ve worked with a mother who drowned her two-month-old twins in a bathtub full of bleach, a father who threw his six-year-old son to his death from atop an amusement park Ferris wheel. In each of those situations, I managed to stay clinical, be objective, even though a part of me wanted to rip out their lungs.

That’s not the psychologist in me speaking—it’s the father.

Hearing that Donny Ray’s last victim was Devon’s age is something I can’t get out of my head. Reading his case files is going to be a challenge.

Your ten minutes are up, Chris. Home approaching, six miles ahead. Release pressure, prepare for a soft landing.

I take my inner voice’s advice and force my mind into some semblance of calm, thankful that the drive affords me this opportunity.

Even more thankful that there’s a place of refuge waiting at the end of this road.