Twisted (4 page)

7

IT’S JUST A SHADOW, DARLING

My mother was the classic example of magical thinking in motion. A woman who believed she could manipulate reality simply by ignoring it. A woman who preferred to avoid the complexities of life rather than live in the messy parts.

Southern raised, born and bred beautiful, Virginia Lucille Chambers was a stunning redhead, the kind most men could only dream of. And while she was indeed a sight to behold, everything on the inside seemed to contradict what the outside was doing. There was something so broken about her, so incomplete. The short version: my mother was like window dressing draped over a cracked cinder block wall.

From the start—and at their best—my parents never had the high-functioning or strong-loving marriage that I think was my father’s dream. Mom was skilled at projecting a facade of buoyant optimism, which along with her beauty made her an easy sell to men. But beneath the surface, she was a jumble of complexity. Unfortunately, by the time my father figured that out, it was too late.

Whenever anything went wrong—she forgot to pay the gas bill three months running; she gave away my father’s heirloom casserole dish as a gift for a neighbor—Mom flashed a little charm, poured a nice glass of sweet tea, and pretended whatever it was had never happened. That would be my father’s cue to come swooping in and turn her fantasy into reality. He’d clean up the mess, make it go away, and then,
presto change-o
, that was that. This crazy, backward dance became our family blueprint, our baseline for normalcy, while our foundation progressively crumbled.

The evidence of my mother’s pathology was both illustrative and endless. One day, while driving me home from school, she decided that applying lipstick was more important than watching the road. Seconds later, we hopped a curb and hit a trash can, which flew into a speedy roll, dead-ending in a neighbor’s cellar window.

And she kept driving.

“Mom! What are you doing?” I said, watching as she made her mistake disappear in our tracks.

“It was only a trash can, dear,” she replied, then stepped on the gas. “It’s nothing.”

“But that
trash can
just broke a window!”

A mild shrug, an oblivious smile. “I didn’t see that happen.”

“But I did!”

“And you didn’t, either.”

“How can you just—”

“I said,
you didn’t, either
.”

Whether we saw it was academic, because the homeowner most certainly had, and about ten minutes later, he came stomping up our front walkway. When he banged on the door, my mother ignored it, continuing to unload groceries. Dad, by now an expert at sensing this kind of trouble, immediately headed for the front door while keeping a wary eye on my mother.

Several minutes later, it was all taken care of, my dad apologizing profusely for
his wife’s derelict behavior and writing a check to cover the damages, his wife acting as if none of it had happened.

Problem solved.

Business as usual.

But living with such lunacy eventually took its toll, and my father wasn’t the only victim. Struggling to survive inside this thickly encapsulated, reality-skewed world was no way for a kid to grow up. It was shaky footing indeed, one that continued to chip away at my ability to trust the tangible.

Me at age ten. “Mom! There’s a giant spider on the ceiling!”

Painting her toenails, refusing to take her eyes off them, “Nonsense. There are no spiders in this house.”

“But you’re not even looking at it!”

Finishing one foot, moving onto the next, “It’s just a shadow, darling.”

“It’s not a shadow. It’s got legs!”

“Such a willful mind you have,” she replied through a dismissive laugh, wiggling her toes and admiring them. “I swear I don’t know where that comes from.”

The irony.

The following afternoon, still bothered by the incident, I asked my dad, “How come Mom pretends?”

His smile was tolerant and knowing. “Your mother’s a bit, well . . . she’s different.”

“Different.”

Sensing my confusion and taking the cue, he said, “Or maybe a better way to say it would be
fragile
.”

I still didn’t get it.

“Think of it this way,” he went on. “What happens when you drop a tomato onto the ground?”

I shrugged. “It smashes?”

“And how about an orange?”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because of the outside?”

“Exactly. Some are tougher than others.”

“Which one is Mom?”

He laughed. “Probably somewhere between the two. But that’s just how she is, and we love her anyway because of what’s on the inside.”

Well-meaning but completely flawed logic that, as the years wore on, would continue to fail the test of time.

Logic that would eventually backfire in the worst possible way, leaving my dad to pay the biggest price.

8

The hospital seems busier than usual—more people, more noise, more chaos. I’ve worked here long enough to gauge the activity without actually seeing it. Built in the 1930s, this building is so frail and rundown that sound travels easily through walls. Besides the structural shortcomings, poor planning has placed my office beneath Acute Care, a sort of psychiatric emergency room. There’s a lot of foot-pounding, cart rolling, and screaming, all of which at times make concentration difficult. Above that are six stories filled with treatment facilities and rooms for our patients, making Loveland often feel like a loose house of cards just waiting to buckle and collapse at any minute.

On this day, I’m also aware that my perceptions are more heightened than usual. I’ve been worn out from working too many long hours lately, and the pressure of Donny Ray’s arrival to Loveland only adds to my distraction.

Not a single body found.

I’m still stuck on that one. How do you strip ten people from the world without leaving any trace of them? In the pursuit of supporting logic, I start digging through Donny Ray Smith’s case files—at the same time, I hope to perhaps jog my memory and figure out how we might know each other.

Six-year-old Jamey Winslow vanished one morning while walking to school.

I stop right there.

Jenna said I shouldn’t worry so much about Devon, but this new information only confirms my fears. I may be overprotective of my son but only because of a deeper understanding about how truly vulnerable children are these days.

Now another concern pokes at me, this one just as relatable.

A child walks out the door one morning, and, by evening, her short life is a tragic memory.

Ten kids means at least ten parents trapped in a cycle of relentless agony. Ten parents who have not only lost their most precious young ones but also their ability to begin the healing process. No bodies to bury. Nothing tangible to prove their children are actually dead. To walk into a tiny bedroom and feel a void so powerful and deep, so excruciatingly endless. To realize you’ve lost something that can never be replaced. I try to imagine what that must feel like, whether I could accept or even believe my son was really gone.

I take a sustaining breath and move on through the file.

The detectives got a break in the case. Not far from where Jamey disappeared, they discovered small sneaker prints in the mud leading down toward a ravine. After combing the area, crews unearthed a clump of hair partially hidden beneath a small boulder. Hair that not only matched Donny Ray’s color and texture, but also his DNA.

It appeared the girl had fought to her death.

I swallow hard, feel the skin on the back of my neck turn cold. Picturing these details brings on an intense moment of conflict, squaring my personal and professional objectives directly at odds with one another. The commitment I made a long time ago to defend the rights of the mentally ill, now pitted against love for my child.

I remind myself to remain impartial, to keep things clinical, to compartmentalize and gather facts, even though the emotional toll is steep. As a regrouping effort, I return to the task at hand, or more specifically, to the question: Does Donny Ray Smith remember murdering Jamey?

I begin sorting through the nearly fifty pretrial motions, most of them from Smith’s lawyer, a guy by the name of Terry Campbell. He claims that, evidence or not, his client isn’t guilty by reason of insanity because of a closed head trauma he suffered at the age of eleven. The theory, according to Campbell, is that Donny Ray went into a dissociative state—induced by the injury—before murdering Jamey and is unable to recall the event. Therefore, he can’t be held responsible.

And then I keep forgetting things, and everything around me doesn’t fit, and that just makes it worse . . .

Donny Ray’s comment boomerangs back, along with my previous thoughts about a potential dissociative disorder. Of course, until I dig deeper and examine that possibility, there’s nothing on which to base a concrete diagnosis. Since my patient is suspected of malingering, he could have thrown out the comment as a means to plant doubt. But his panic and confusion yesterday seemed so real. Is he sophisticated enough to lie that convincingly?

I keep reading.

As for his alleged intent to cover up the girl’s death by disposing of her body (an insanity plea no-no, which often indicates knowledge of wrongdoing), that’s explained away as also occurring during his temporary amnesia.

I consider the likelihood, and something else flags my interest. Hiding a victim after murdering her can be an act of remorse. But people who dissociate aren’t able to feel much of anything, which is why they check out in the first place. If Donny Ray went into an altered state during the murders, his hiding behavior could have been part of an unconscious pathology. Since he allegedly racked up ten victims, I’m even more curious. But what would be the trauma trigger?

While consistently concealing bodies is indeed an interesting and definitive pattern of behavior, it’s not yet at direct issue here. Until evidence is found linking him to the other disappearances, my patient only has to account for Jamey’s.

Reading on, I find more to pique my interest. Donny Ray Smith is no stranger to disappearing bodies. The first person in his life to vanish was his sister, Miranda, when they were children. At that time, detectives zeroed in on the father as their prime suspect, but they were never able to bring charges because the evidence wasn’t strong enough.

Miranda was never found.

Just a coincidence?

I scroll forward to the information about Donny Ray’s head injury. According to the medical reports, he claimed to have fallen onto the family tractor’s front bucket loader but couldn’t recall the exact date. Only that it happened the summer his sister disappeared. Nothing from detectives on whether they contacted the originating hospital to zero in on when the incident occurred. Nothing mentioned about it in the attorney’s notes, either.

Interesting.

About six months prior to Miranda’s disappearance, their mother passed away. Nothing suspicious about it: she had cancer of the pancreas. The father died about a year later of a massive heart attack, and Donny Ray spent the remainder of his childhood bouncing between foster homes.

I’m about to open a file containing photos of the ten victims, plus Miranda Smith, but that last bit of info about his lack of a stable home life tugs me in another direction—or rather, the potential for answers does. An increasing pattern of antisocial behavior can often be a precursor to psychopathy, so I investigate whether Donny Ray Smith has a juvenile record. After scrolling through more pages, I find a section titled “Criminal History
,
” but just beneath it is a rather rough-looking blank space.

That’s not right.

A juvenile’s criminal records are expunged when he reaches eighteen, but the defense team usually makes them available to experts. If Donny Ray has no history of illegal activity as a minor, this document would state so, as would be the case if his records remain closed. But seeing the header with only a gap beneath it raises my suspicions.

I dial Donny Ray’s attorney.

“Terry Campbell, please,” I tell the receptionist when she answers.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Campbell is no longer here.”

I check the screen to make sure I didn’t miss something. “This is Dr. Kellan at Loveland Hospital. My records indicate he’s representing one of my patients.”

She hesitates. “Unfortunately, not anymore. Mr. Campbell passed away.”

“Oh . . . I’m so sorry. When?”

“Last week. It was an accident off the coast of San Diego. They found his boat but no sign of him.”

“Dear Lord. How awful.”

“It is.”

“Well, I was just calling to get some clarification on my patient’s criminal records. Donny Ray Smith?”

Silence.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes . . . sorry. I’m here.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No.” But she answers a bit briskly, nearly gulping down the word. “That case is in the process of being reassigned, but there have been a few unexpected delays.”

“What kind?”

“I really don’t have that information.”

“Do you know when the new attorney will take over?”

“I’m sorry, I actually don’t. But I can call you when we have more information.”

I give her my number, then hang up.

The receptionist was a bit closed-mouthed, but given how high profile this case is—plus having an employee tragically die—I suppose it’s not a complete surprise.

Hoping to find concrete instead of sand, I turn to the reports from Miller Institute, but that only lands me in another quagmire of ambiguity. Donny Ray’s imaging tests show none of the physical evidence typically seen with a moderate head injury that could cause lapses of memory. The EEGs, however, potentially suggest otherwise—they show slight abnormalities in some cognitive functions.

I flip to comments from the attending neurologist at Miller, Dr. Stephen Ammon, who says that despite the conflicting test results, he’s confident Donny Ray’s head injury has no bearing on this case. His reasoning is based on a review of the patient’s educational history following the accident: Donny Ray was never placed in any special ed classes, and, in fact, his grades were just fine. With that as a baseline, Ammon concludes that enough time has since passed for the brain to heal. In plainer language, Donny Ray’s defense is trying to parlay an insignificant head injury, which happened eleven years ago, into a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Diagnosis: malingering.

The psychologist, Dr. Sherri Philips, ran a different course with her opinion. Donny Ray’s assessment tests split right down the middle. His MMPI-2 validity index suggests he wasn’t being forthcoming about his stated psychiatric illness, but the PAI validity scales were within normal range. Because of that disparity—and because some of the PAI scales typically associated with trauma were sligh
tly elevated—Philips felt there might be some other psychological disorder at play that she could not yet identify. According to her notes, she was working on a provisional diagnosis but needed more time to evaluate Donny Ray’s childhood history and get him to open up about it. Apparently, that was when she got pulled off the case, because her notes end there.

Diagnosis: incomplete.

I search the Internet for details about the scandal that broke out at Miller. As the two doctors were wrapping up their reports, accusations started flying that Philips was having inappropriate sexual relations with a patient. The judge, anticipating the potential fallout and a media firestorm, got Smith the hell out of Dodge, parked him on us, and requested a new evaluation.

My mind is flip-flopping like a skillet pancake in a greasy-spoon diner. The reports from Miller have potential to go in either direction: nothing to indicate Donny Ray’s crimes are psychopathic, nothing to indicate disassociation as the culprit, either.

I’m scoring goose eggs.

Then I get another knock to the chops. Under the “Additional Comments” section is a notation from Ammon, the neurologist, which sends my heart into palpitations.

Three words.

Be very careful.