Method of Madness Read online

  Ta­ke ca­re in the conf­ron­ta­ti­on of evil Do not be lost in the black­ness that hi­des be­ne­ath the still sur­fa­ce. Wit­ho­ut strength or ser­vi­ce, mad­ness wa­its. Ta­ke ca­re in the conf­ron­ta­ti­on of evil be­ca­use alt­ho­ugh you may se­ek, you shall not see.

  - excerpt from an un­pub­lis­hed por­ti­on of the De­ad Sea Scrolls

  ONE

  "Is it a pa­in­ful thing to lo­se yo­ur mind?" Dr. Mic­ha­el Wen­ton po­sed the qu­es­ti­on to his gra­du­ate le­vel co­ur­se in fo­ren­sic psycho­logy.

  Wen­ton's six-fo­ot-fo­ur fra­me ma­de the po­di­um in front of him se­em small, so­me­how out of pro­por­ti­on. His freshly dry-cle­aned Ed­die Ba­u­er dress pants and whi­te shirt ga­ve his mus­cu­lar fra­me a cle­an, cal­cu­la­ting pre­sen­ta­ti­on. His ap­pe­aran­ce ni­cely matc­hed his per­so­na­lity.

  At the age of 38, Wen­ton was con­si­de­red an aut­ho­rity in the fi­eld of fo­ren­sic psycho­logy. He spe­ci­ali­zed in the study of psycho­paths and vi­olent se­ri­al of­fen­ders and had writ­ten land­mark bo­oks in the area. He was cur- rently ful­fil­ling his le­ast fa­vo­uri­te as­pect of be­ing a pro­fes­sor at Dal­ho­usie Uni­ver­sity in Ha­li­fax, te­ac­hing a co­ur­se-espe­ci­al­ly sin­ce it was sche­du­led on Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­ons.

  The small clas­sro­om of doc­to­ral and mas­ters stu­dents sta­red at Wen­ton. No one da­red ven­tu­re an ans­wer to his rhe­to­ri­cal qu­es­ti­on. He was in­fa­mo­us for mo­re than on­ce ma­king a stu­dent bre­ak in­to te­ars for a ca­re­less ans­wer.

  Wen­ton lo­oked over the stu­dents slowly, wit­ho­ut exp­res­si­on. He le­aned he­avily on the po­di­um, lo­oking mo­re ti­red than bo­red. "Well, is it a pa­in­ful, hor­rib­le thing to lo­se yo­ur mind?"

  A few of the bra­ver stu­dents nod­ded yes. It was ba­rely no­ti­ce­ab­le.

  "It's not," Wen­ton an­no­un­ced with ob­vi­o­us dis­da­in. "If you knew you we­re go­ing in­sa­ne, you wo­uldn't be in­sa­ne, wo­uld you? Pe­op­le who go crazy and com­mit hor­rib­le of­fen­ses ha­ve no idea un­til it's far too la­te. That's the trick, no one knows they're in­sa­ne un­til the bo­di­es start to pi­le up."

  ***

  Cat­he­ri­ne Mer­cer co­uld ba­rely bre­at­he. Even the air aro­und her se­emed dif­fe­rent. He­avi­er. Thic­ker. So­met­hing.

  The ho­use was qu­i­et-Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on qu­i­et. The kids we­re down- sta­irs watc­hing car­to­ons and her hus­band was nap­ping in the bed­ro­om. Cat­he­ri­ne was usu­al­ly at her Bib­le study gro­up at Holy Sa­vi­o­ur Lut­he­ran Church, but not to­day.

  She pres­sed her back aga­inst the ups­ta­irs hal­lway wall. She dar­ted her he­ad back and forth, lo­oking for the sligh­test sign of mo­ve­ment.

  Not me, she tho­ught. Not this af­ter­no­on. Not ever.

  She slip­ped along the wall, her arms outst­retc­hed on eit­her si­de of her, fe­eling out with her fe­et and then easing her body for­ward. The bulky kitc­hen kni­fe she held in one hand felt un­na­tu­ral, but she'd fe­el de­fen­se­less wit­ho­ut it.

  I won't be a part of this any­mo­re. I'm not a gu­inea pig or a lab rat. I want my fa­mily back.

  She con­ti­nu­ed to mo­ve, stop­ping only long eno­ugh to scan the dim hal­lway.

  ***

  "So one of the­se cra­zi­es com­mits an of­fen­se," Wen­ton con­ti­nu­ed in his lec­tu­re. "Are they gu­ilty?"

  "NGUU," Pa­ul pi­ped up from the back of the ro­om. He wasn't af­ra­id of Wen­ton's rep. He fi­gu­red Wen­ton sho­uld be af­ra­id of his own re­pu­ta­ti­on: a so­lid 4.0 and fi­ve pub­li­ca­ti­ons un­der his belt be­fo­re he'd even fi­nis­hed his mas­ters.

  Wen­ton lo­oked up, surp­ri­sed to he­ar a vo­ice. His exp­res­si­on didn't chan­ge as he ap­pra­ised the spe­aker. Punk. He didn't know the stu­dent's na­me. Didn't know any stu­dents' na­me in this class or any ot­her. Ex­cept for one stu­dent, but she was an ex­cep­ti­on.

  "NGRI," Wen­ton re­pe­ated. "Whe­re you from?"

  Pa­ul didn't ex­pect that. "Um, Win­ni­peg."

  " 'Not Gu­ilty by Re­ason of In­sa­nity' is how Ame­ri­cans re­fer to cri­mes com­mit­ted by pe­op­le who are psycho­tic at the ti­me of the of­fen­se. That's not the ter­mi­no­logy of the Cri­mi­nal Co­de of Ca­na­da." He pa­used a mo­ment lon­ger than ne­ces­sary as he watc­hed Pa­ul squ­irm. "Ca­na­di­ans, even tho­se from Ma­ni­to­ba, re­fer to the­se ca­ses as NCRs, or 'Not Cri­mi­nal­ly Res­pon­sib­le by vir­tue of a men­tal il­lness.' It's a far mo­re en­ligh­te­ned and po­li­ti­cal­ly-cor­rect ap­pro­ach. You ob­vi­o­usly think you're pretty smart so I don't know how that slip­ped yo­ur at­ten­ti­on. Thanks for par­ti­ci­pa­ting, tho­ugh. It's al­ways ni­ce to ha­ve an examp­le for the rest of the class."

  Ex­cept for Pa­ul, the ot­her grad stu­dents smi­led. It was a re­li­ef not to be in the li­ne of fi­re.

  Pa­ul was not amu­sed.

  "Oh, and by the way," Wen­ton nod­ded to him, "wel­co­me to Ca­na­da." Idi­ot.

  ***

  The swe­at that so­aked Cat­he­ri­ne's eyeb­rows now fo­und its way to her eyes.

  She wi­ped her free hand ac­ross her fa­ce, trying to cle­ar her vi­si­on. Her bre­at­hing con­ti­nu­ed in qu­ick spurts. She felt light­he­aded.

  She re­ac­hed the end of the hal­lway, the mas­ter bed­ro­om. Te­ars jo­ined the be­ads of swe­at rol­ling down her fa­ce.

  Why, God? Why do pe­op­le do such things? Why me? I won't let them kill me. I won't let them hurt me or my fa­mily any­mo­re. They'll tell me now. I'll ma­ke them ad­mit to it.

  She pus­hed the do­or open with a fo­ot. It swung in easily.

  She lo­oked aro­und the cor­ner, ta­king in as much of the ro­om as pos­si- ble.

  The bed!

  Her eyes fi­xed on the bed, se­arc­hing the co­vers, lo­oking for, The­re he is!

  She suc­ked in her bre­ath and held it.

  It's not him, she re­pe­ated to her­self. It was so­met­hing that had be­co­me mo­re and mo­re cle­ar every­day for the last few we­eks. It's not him.

  She mo­ved in­to the bed­ro­om.

  I'll ma­ke him exp­la­in what's hap­pe­ning. He has to. I won't let them do this to me, to my fa­mily.

  Her bre­at­hing be­ca­me rag­ged aga­in. Every ex­ha­la­ti­on se­emed to re­le­ase wha­te­ver hold she'd kept over her te­ars. She wept as she mo­ved ac­ross the car­pe­ted flo­or to the ed­ge of the bed. She lif­ted her kni­fe, ex­pec­ting that the man in bed wo­uld le­ap up and conf­ront her. But he just lay the­re, sno­ring.

  My hus­band ne­ver sno­red, she tho­ught. Not li­ke that.

  ***

  "And what if so­me­one has a pre­mor­bid hat­red of so­me­one el­se and sub­se­qu­ently mur­ders that per­son du­ring a psycho­tic epi­so­de. Are they NCR?"

  Wen­ton lo­oked aro­und the blank fa­ces of the class aga­in. He pa­used on a fa­ce that was fa­mi­li­ar to him. The only stu­dent worth lo­oking at. A gor­ge­o­us bru­net­te. Slim and sha­pely with a per­fect smi­le. Wen­ton was her gra­du­ate su­per­vi­sor. She was the first gra­du­ate stu­dent he'd ever ac­cep­ted, but she wasn't the shar­pest of stu­dents. Her abi­lity to me­mo­ri­ze in­for­ma­ti­on pas­sed for bra­ins, but it wasn't her bra­ins that Wen­ton was in­te­res­ted in exp­lo­ring.

  "Nor­ma?" Wen­ton as­ked. Boy, she has per­fect tits.

  "Yes."

  He co­uld al­most smell her. Sta­ring at her now ma­de him want her.

  "What do you thin
k? If you kill so­me­one you wan­ted to kill any­way, co­uld you be NCR?"

  She brus­hed her sho­ul­der-length ha­ir back from her fa­ce. It was a prac- ti­ced mo­ve that was in­ten­ded to get a re­ac­ti­on from men.

  Wen­ton al­most smi­led.

  "Well," she be­gan, "wo­uldn't it de­pend on the type of psycho­tic il­lness?"

  Wen­ton's exp­res­si­on didn't chan­ge. I wan­na see this chick na­ked.

  "Li­ke whet­her or not it's schi­zoph­re­nia," she con­ti­nu­ed.

  Wen­ton ig­no­red her and ad­dres­sed the class aga­in. He ne­ver mis­sed an op­por­tu­nity to un­der­mi­ne her self-con­fi­den­ce, to le­ave her han­ging wit­ho­ut any fe­ed­back. Her vul­ne­ra­bi­lity was so­met­hing he used.

  "A true NCR fin­ding is mo­re cle­ar when the vic­tim is so­me­one for whom the at­tac­ker had no ma­li­ce. If a mot­her kills her child­ren, you ins­tantly as­su­me she must ha­ve be­en crazy. The sa­me wo­uld be true if a per­son sud­denly star­ted sho­oting pe­op­le on a crow­ded bus, you'd as­su­me the sho­oter was crazy. He'd ha­ve to be be­ca­use the­re'd be no lo­gic to the cri­me. That's the ba­sis of an NCR fin­ding: no mo­ti­ve ba­sed in re­ality. That's why the le­gis­la­ti­on was writ­ten in the first pla­ce: to help pe­op­le who com­mit cri­mes that they'd ne­ver com­mit if they'd be­en in the­ir right mind."

  ***

  Cat­he­ri­ne sta­red down at the man. He was pre­ten­ding to sle­ep. She knew that. She knew he'd jump to his fe­et at any se­cond.

  She was so sca­red. I sho­uld go. I can't do this. I don't want to.

  She grip­ped the kni­fe mo­re tightly, af­ra­id that her sha­king hand wo­uld drop it al­to­get­her.

  As she le­aned over the bed, swe­at and te­ars mi­xed and drop­ped from her che­eks. Ple­ase don't wa­ke up! Ple­ase don't wa­ke up!

  She star­ted to back away. She glan­ced back to the do­or­way, then back to the bed. I won't turn my back on you, you bas­tard. I won't let you get me!

  "Ho­ney," a vo­ice cal­led be­low her.

  So­met­hing was sit­ting up, sta­ring at her. Its fa­ce was twis­ted and sun­ken, A lar­ge open wo­und was slas­hed down its fo­re­he­ad, from its ha­ir­li­ne to the brid­ge of its no­se. The wo­und se­emed to pul­se with the cre­atu­re's every bre­ath. She scre­amed and plun­ged the kni­fe down.

  "No! Le­ave me alo­ne!" Cat­he­ri­ne cri­ed out as the kni­fe ra­ised and drop­ped…ra­ised and drop­ped…ra­ised and drop­ped.

  TWO

  Ser­ge­ant Mitc­hell Wa pul­led up to the curb and par­ked. He was a thin but fit man in his early for­ti­es. He wo­re wi­re-rim­med glas­ses that ga­ve him a stern, in­tel­lec­tu­al ap­pe­aran­ce.

  He'd be­en with the Ha­li­fax Re­gi­onal Po­li­ce for over ten ye­ars and had spent most of the­se ye­ars with the Ma­j­or Cri­mes Di­vi­si­on. Shortly af­ter his last big ca­se he'd se­pa­ra­ted from his wi­fe of thir­te­en ye­ars. That was months ago.

  Now he was par­ked on a re­si­den­ti­al stre­et in the qu­i­et sub­di­vi­si­on of

  Port­land Es­ta­tes. He and his est­ran­ged wi­fe, Glo­ria, had purc­ha­sed a ho­use the­re be­ca­use the area was bil­led as a "fa­mily com­mu­nity." In re­ality, it was just a mas­si­ve sea of ho­uses with ro­ads that tur­ned in­to a nasty traf­fic jam every we­ek­day mor­ning and af­ter­no­on. Wa sta­red ac­ross at his lit­tle split-le­vel, a ne­ar car­bon copy of the ho­mes on eit­her si­de. His eyes we­re drawn to the ne­igh­bo­ur's on the right. Po­li­ce ta­pe still hung ac­ross the do­or­way, rem­nants of the vi­olen­ce that had oc­cur­red the­re not so long ago. He sho­ok his he­ad, not wan­ting ugly tho­ughts of a mur­de­red fa­mily ta­in­ting him be­fo­re he went to talk to Glo­ria.

  He lo­oked back at his own ho­me. He knew Glo­ria and the­ir three child­ren we­re in­si­de. It was la­te eno­ugh that the kids wo­uld be in bed. Kno­wing her ro­uti­ne, he ex­pec­ted she was in the li­ving ro­om watc­hing TV, pro­bably with a cup of tea. He smi­led when he pic­tu­red the sce­ne be­ca­use he knew she'd be we­aring her old, terry cloth ro­be. It was a worn, fa­ded, wrink­led ro­be that he had al­ways te­ased her abo­ut. The par­ti­cu­lar sha­de of pink re­min­ded the kids of a Ca­re Be­ar.

  "That's it," Wa sa­id, ban­ging the ste­ering whe­el. He wan­ted to try and re­sol­ve things with Glo­ria. He didn't think the­ir prob­lems we­re so big that they ne­eded to carry on this cha­ra­de of be­ing se­pa­ra­ted. Just be­ca­use I work hard do­esn't me­an I sho­uld be kic­ked out of my own­fuc­kin' ho­use. I'm the one who pays the god­damn mort­ga­ge.

  He tur­ned off his Sa­turn and got out. He lo­oked up and down the stre­et, sur­ve­ying the ter­ra­in, chec­king for anyt­hing out of the or­di­nary. It was so­met­hing he did wit­ho­ut even thin­king.

  As he wal­ked up the steps he to­ok a big bre­ath. He didn't know if he sho­uld knock, li­ke a stran­ger, or whet­her he sho­uld just walk in. Damn, I ha­te this.

  He knoc­ked.

  The­re was no­ise im­me­di­ately. He he­ard fo­ots­teps co­ming down the sta­irs, ap­pro­ac­hing the do­or. He watc­hed as Glo­ria pe­eked aro­und the cor- ner of the do­or. He tho­ught she might ha­ve smi­led but wasn't su­re.

  When the do­or ope­ned Glo­ria was we­aring her ro­be. "Hi," she sa­id qui- etly, ner­vo­usly.

  "Hi," Wa ans­we­red, shif­ting back and forth. "Can I co­me in?"

  Wit­ho­ut a word she step­ped back and held the do­or. He ca­me in and wa­ited as she shut it.

  "What do you want, Mitc­hell?"

  He ha­ted when she used his first na­me that way. It was so cold, so im­per­so­nal. Over the last ten ye­ars she'd cal­led him "Dad" or "Sar­ge," but ra­rely "Mitc­hell."

  "I just tho­ught we sho­uld talk," he ans­we­red.

  "Abo­ut what?" She wasn't g6ing to ma­ke this easy for him.

  "Don't be li­ke that. I'm trying. I don't want things to be li­ke this."

  "You ha­ve no right to tell me how to be," she snap­ped.

  "I'm sorry. That's not what I me­an. It's just… Can we go ups­ta­irs, sit down?"

  Glo­ria tur­ned and he­aded ups­ta­irs, Wa fol­lo­wed. The TV was on and a cup of tea sat ste­aming on the cof­fee tab­le. She went to her fa­vo­uri­te cha­ir and sat. Wa to­ok a se­at on the co­uch, far away from her.

  "So talk," she chal­len­ged.

  "Co­me on. Can't you gi­ve me a bre­ak? I just want to talk to you-see if we can work this out."

  "So talk."

  Wa clo­sed his eyes and rub­bed them with his fin­gers. He re­ali­zed he sho­uldn't ha­ve co­me. She was still too angry. He bri­efly con­si­de­red le­aving be­fo­re the si­tu­ati­on got wor­se, be­fo­re he sa­id so­met­hing he'd reg­ret. But no, he'd co­me this far and he ne­eded to try. He co­uldn't stand sta­ying alo­ne in his crappy apart­ment for one mo­re night. Be­si­des, he was still her hus­band, the fat­her of the­ir child­ren, and he knew he had every right to be the­re.

  "How are the kids?" he as­ked, trying to switch ge­ars.

  "Do you re­al­ly want to know?"

  "Co­me on, Glo­ria."

  "The kids are fi­ne. Nicky's limp is get­ting wor­se. I'm trying to get a spe­ci­alist ap­po­int­ment."

  "Is the lim­ping that bad?"

  "Kind of."

  "What do you think's go­ing on?"

  She drop­ped her fa­ce in­to her hands, sha­king her he­ad.

  "Mitc­hell," she sa­id, star­ting to stand. "I can't do this. I can't sit he­re and talk to you right now. I'm just get­ting used to you not be­ing he­re. I'm just star­ting to fe­el hu­man aga­in. My psycho­lo­gist says that the emo­ti­onal pa­in that-"

  "The what? You're se­e­ing a psycho­lo­gist?"

  "I had to. Mitc­hell, you ra­ped me. Y
ou ma­de me fe­el less than hu­man."

  "I don't even re­mem­ber that," he blur­ted. "That wasn't me. That was the ca­se I was wor­king on. I was stres­sed out of my mind."

  "That's not fa­ir."

  "I don't want to do this aga­in," Wa sig­hed. "You know I was wor­king on the Ed­ward Car­ter ca­se. That sick bas­tard was ra­ping wo­men and le­aving them in­sa­ne. I had to stay with it. I co­uldn't let that bas­tard get away. I don't know what hap­pe­ned, but it won't hap­pen aga­in."

  Glo­ria fo­ught back te­ars fil­ling her eyes. "But he di­ed when you trap­ped him in that ho­use. He di­ed af­ter he ra­ped that po­or yo­ung girl. He was de­ad and go­ne when you tri­ed to ra­pe me."

  Wa sho­ok his he­ad. He knew that Glo­ria felt he'd tri­ed to for­ce him­self on her, but he had no me­mory of it. He co­uldn't be­li­eve it.

  "I ne­ver ra­ped you," he whis­pe­red, trying to avo­id an ar­gu­ment.

  Glo­ria con­ti­nu­ed to talk. "How am I sup­po­sed to fe­el af­ter so­met­hing li­ke that? Huh? How?"

  "The Car­ter ca­se was mo­re than it lo­oked li­ke. Ed­ward Car­ter ma­de peo- ple in­sa­ne. He ta­in­ted pe­op­le." He pa­used and then qu­i­etly ad­ded, "I think he ta­in­ted me."

  She just sta­red at him.

  "But I'm-" Wa star­ted and stop­ped. Her fa­ce sho­wed only pa­in.

  "Mitc­hell," she fi­nal­ly sa­id, "I don't know what to do with myself. I'm ba­rely ab­le to fo­cus on the kids any­mo­re. I fe­el li­ke you even to­ok away my abi­lity to be a mot­her." She pa­used and wi­ped her che­ek. "I can't hand­le that. That bot­hers me mo­re than anyt­hing. You to­ok away my con­fi­den­ce in myself as a mot­her." She sto­od de­fi­antly with her hands on her hips and gla­red at him.

  "I didn't ta­ke away yo­ur con­fi­den­ce, that's crazy," Wa sa­id, sha­king his he­ad. He re­ali­zed as so­on as the words ca­me out of his mo­uth that it'd be­en a mis­ta­ke.