Book of the Dead (23 page)

    
“‘Checked in’? You seem to refer to McLean as if it’s a hotel.”

    
“Now it’s too late.”

    
“Do you really believe that Dr. Maroni touched you inappropriately?”

    
“I believe I’ve made that patently clear.”

    
“So you do believe it.”

    
“Everybody here would deny it.”

    
“We absolutely wouldn’t. If it were true.”

    
“Everybody would deny it.”

    
“When the limousine brought you to admissions, you were quite lucid but agitated. Do you remember that? Do you remember talking to Dr. Maroni in the admissions building and telling him you needed a safe refuge because of an e-mail and would explain later?” Benton asks. “Do you remember becoming provocative with him both verbally and physically?”

    
“You have quite the bedside manner. Perhaps you should go back to the FBI and use rubber hoses and whatnot. Perhaps break into my e-mail and my homes and my bank accounts.”

    
“It’s important you remember what you were like when you first got here. I’m trying to help you do that,” he says.

    
“I remember him coming into my room here at the Pavilion.”

    
“That was later on – in the evening – when you suddenly became hysterical and incoherent.”

    
“Brought on by drugs. I’m very sensitive to drugs of any sort. I never take them or believe in them.”

    
“When Dr. Maroni came into your room, a female neuropsychologist and a female nurse were already there with you. You continued to say that something wasn’t your fault.”

    
“Were you there?”

    
“I wasn’t.”

    
“I see. Because you act as if you were.”

    
“I’ve read your chart.”

    
“My chart. I suppose you fantasize about selling it to the highest bidder.”

    
“Dr. Maroni asked you questions while the nurse checked your vitals, and it became necessary to sedate you by intramuscular injection.”

    
“Five milligrams Haldol, two milligrams Ativan, one milligram Cogentin. The infamous five-two-one chemical restraint used on violent inmates in forensic units. Imagine. My being treated like a violent prisoner. I remember nothing after that.”

    
“Can you tell me what wasn’t your fault, Dr. Self? Did it have to do with the e-mail?”

    
“What Dr. Maroni did wasn’t my fault.”

    
“So your distress had nothing to do with the e-mail that you said was your reason for coming to McLean?”

    
“This is a conspiracy. All of you are in on it. That’s why your comrade Pete Marino contacted me, isn’t it? Or maybe he wants out. He wants me to rescue him. Just like I did in Florida. What are you people doing to him?”

    
“There’s no conspiracy.”

    
“Do I see the investigator peeking out?”

    
“You’ve been here for ten days. And told no one the nature of this e-mail.”

    
“Because it’s really about the person who has sent me a number of e-mails. To say ‘an e-mail’ is misleading. It’s about a person.”

    
“Who?”

    
“A person Dr. Maroni could have helped. A very disturbed individual. No matter what he’s done or hasn’t done, he needs help. And if something happens to me, or to someone else, it’s Dr. Maroni’s fault. Not mine.”

    
“What might be your fault?”

    
“I just said nothing would be.”

    
“And there’s no e-mail you can show me that might help us understand who this person is and perhaps protect you from him?” he says.

    
“It’s interesting, but I’d forgotten you work here. I was reminded when I saw the ad for your research study posted in admissions. Then, of course, Marino said something when he e-mailed me. And that’s not the e-mail. So don’t get excited. He’s so bored and sexually frustrated working for Kay.”

    
“I’d like to talk to you about any e-mails you’ve received. Or sent.”

    
“Envy. That’s how it starts.” She looks at him. “Kay envies me because her own existence is so small. So desperately envious she had to lie about me in court.”

    
“And you’re referring to…?”

    
“Mainly her.” Hatred coils. “I’m perfectly objective about what happened in that gross example of litigious exploitation and never took it personally that you and Kay – mainly Kay – were witnesses, making the two of you – mainly her – champions of that gross example of litigious exploitation.” Hatred coils coldly. “I wonder how she’d feel if she knew you’re in my room with the door shut.”

    
“When you said you needed to talk to me alone in the privacy of your room, we made an agreement. I would record our sessions in addition to taking notes.”

    
“Record me. Take your notes. You’ll find them useful someday. There’s much you can learn from me. Let’s discuss your experiment.”

    
“Research study. The one you volunteered for, got special permission for, and I advise against. We don’t use the word experiment.”

    
“I’m curious why would you wish to exclude me from your experiment unless you have something to hide.”

    
“Frankly, Dr. Self, I’m not convinced you meet the criteria.”

    
“Frankly, Benton, it’s the last thing you want, now, isn’t it? But you have no choice because your hospital is far too shrewd to discriminate against me.”

    
“Have you ever been diagnosed as bipolar?”

    
“I’ve never been diagnosed as anything but gifted.”

    
“Has anybody in your family ever been diagnosed as bipolar?”

    
“What all this will prove in the end, well, that’s your business. That during various mood states the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex of the brain is going to light up, given appropriate external stimuli. So what. PET and fMRI have clearly demonstrated there is an abnormal blood flow in the prefrontal regions and decreased activity in the DLPFC in people who are depressed. So now you throw violence into the mix, and what will you prove, and why does it matter? I know your little experiment wasn’t approved by the Harvard University Committee on Use of Human Subjects.”

    
“We don’t conduct studies that aren’t approved.”

    
“These healthy control subjects. Are they still healthy when you’re done? What happens to the not-so-healthy subject? The poor wretch with a history of depression, schizophrenia, bipolar or other disorder, who also has a history of hurting themselves or others or trying to, or obsessively fantasizing about it.”

    
“I take it Jackie briefed you,” he says.

    
“Not quite. She wouldn’t know the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex from a small cod. Studies of how the brain responds to maternal criticism and praise have been done before. So now you throw violence into the mix, and what will you prove, and why does it matter? You show what’s different about the brains of violent versus nonviolent individuals and what does it prove, and what does it matter? Would it have stopped the Sandman?”

    
“The Sandman?”

    
“If you looked at his brain, you’d see Iraq. And then what? Would you magically extract Iraq and he’d be fine?”

    
“Is the e-mail from him?”

    
“I don’t know who he is.”

    
“Might he be the disturbed person you referred to Dr. Maroni?”

    
“I don’t understand what you see in Kay,” she says. “Does she smell like the morgue when she comes home? But then, you’re not there when she comes home.”

    
“Based on what you’ve said, you got the e-mail several days after Drew’s body was found. A coincidence? If you have information about her murder, you need to tell me,” Benton says. “I’m asking you to tell me. This is very serious.”

    
She stretches her legs and with her bare foot touches the table between them. “If I kicked this recorder off the table and it broke, what then?”

    
“Whoever killed Drew will kill again,” he says.

    
“If I kicked this recorder” – she touches it with her bare toe and moves it a little – “what might we say and what might we do?”

    
Benton gets up from his chair. “Do you want someone else murdered, Dr. Self?” He picks up the recorder but doesn’t turn it off. “Haven’t you been through this before?”

    
“And there it is,” she says from the bed. “That’s the conspiracy. Kay will lie about me again. Just like before.”

    
Benton opens the door. “No,” he says. “It will be much worse this time.”

Chapter 9

    
Eight p.m. in Venice. Maroni refills his wineglass and smells the unpleasant canal smell below his open window as daylight wanes. Clouds are piled halfway up the sky in a thick, frothy layer, and along the horizon is the first touch of gold.

    
“Manic as hell.” Benton Wesley’s voice is clear, as if he is here instead of in Massachusetts. “I can’t be clinical or appropriate. I can’t sit there and listen to her manipulations and lies. Get someone else. I’m done with her. I’m handling it badly, Paulo. Like a cop, not a clinician.”

    
Dr. Maroni sits before his apartment window, drinking a very nice Barolo that is being spoiled by this conversation. He can’t get away from Marilyn Self. She has invaded his hospital. She has invaded Rome. Now she has followed him to Venice.

    
“What I’m asking is if I can remove her from the research study. I don’t want to scan her,” Benton says.

    
“Certainly I won’t tell you what to do,” Dr. Maroni replies. “It’s your study. But if you want my recommendation? Don’t piss her off. Go ahead and scan her. Make it a pleasant experience and just assume the data is no good. Then she’s gone.”

    
“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

    
“I see you haven’t been informed. She’s been discharged and is leaving after the scan,” Dr. Maroni says, and through his open shutters, the canal is the color of green olives and as smooth as glass. “Have you talked with Otto?”

    
“Otto?” Benton says.

    
“Captain Poma.”

    
“I know who he is. Why would I talk to him about this?”

    
“I had dinner with him last night in Rome. I’m surprised he hasn’t contacted you. He’s on his way to the U.S. In the air as we speak.”

    
“Jesus Christ.”

    
“He wants to talk to Dr. Self about Drew Martin. You see, he feels sure she has information and isn’t coming forward with it.”

    
“Please tell me you didn’t.”

    
“I didn’t. He knows anyway.”

    
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Benton says. “Do you realize what she’ll do if she thinks we told anybody she’s a patient here?”

    
A water taxi slowly rumbles past, and water laps against Dr. Maroni’s apartment.

    
“I assumed he got the information from you,” he says. “Or Kay. Since both of you are members of the IIR and are investigating Drew Martin’s murder.”

    
“He certainly didn’t.”

    
“What about Lucy?”