Query of Mind
As the panel in the wall slid open and exposed the window, Dr. Jessica Richards spoke to the assortment of psychologists, psychiatrists and law enforcement officials in the room. "The diagnosis was not difficult in itself. The subject is a paranoid schizophrenic with some megalomanic tendencies," explained Richards. "There is also a history of parental abuse of the subject and conduct disorder, which has led to an Axis II diagnosis of borderline personality disorder."
A young man, no older than 24 and probably here as part of his internship, spoke up from the back of the room. "What about cognitive/behavioral therapy for him? Wouldn't that work?"
Richards grimaced as he asked the question. What an idiot that punk must be, she thought. I was doing behavioral therapy on patients before you were even out of fucking junior high school, so don't get cocky with me, you little shit!
"We've tried behavioral therapy, we've tried cognitive therapy, we've tried every kind of therapy known to man including electroconvulsive shock therapy. Nothing except maybe a lobotomy will work on this bastard. Nothing." Her gaze went steely with the last word. "We just don't understand.
"Here he comes. This is probably the most convincing display of any condition that I have ever seen." The sarcasm dripped from her voice as the madman entered the adjacent room.
"Time to sit back and enjoy the show."
**********
When the reporter entered the cubicle, the killer was already there. Slowly, calmly, as if trying to navigate around a wild animal, the reporter approached the table.
"What's the matter? I don't have a weapon. I can't shoot you or stab you. I'm handcuffed. I can't pummel you with my fists. I can't choke you because this chain goes around my waist. I might be able to chase you into a corner and bite you, but by that time the guards would be in here, throwing me up against the wall and pumping me full of Stelazine. So there's really nothing to be afraid of." The killer's voice was a beautiful tenor; it was warm, soft, almost caring. This wasn't the voice of a mass murderer, it was the voice of a children's TV show host, a priest, someone who has been gifted in working with people. But this voice coming from a serial killer? It was almost sacrilegious.
"Mr. McDowell?" inquired the reporter. A lump the size of a loaf of French bread suddenly developed in his throat as he hesitantly sat down at the table.
"Call me Tom. Everyone else around here does. I find it quite . . . personable." The lunatic's manner, his voice, everything about him seemed so civilized. This was not at all what the reporter expected. He was pale and visibly confused.
"Okay, Tom, uh, I'm here from Newshour magazine to do an interview with you. We wanted to get a different angle on the story. Rather than reporting the usual boring courtroom-transcript-type story, my editor thought it would be a good idea to talk to you in person. Kinda inside the head of the, uh, defendant." The reporter almost maintained a facade of complete calm. "So, Tom, my editor . . ."
"Enough about your editor," Tom said softly. "Let's talk. You and I. What do you want to know about me? My thoughts? My feelings? My sordid childhood past? Or maybe just the basic reporter-type questions -- who, what, when, where, why, how. Let's discuss this."
"All right, Tom, let's discuss this." The reporter was growing less nervous with every word exchanged. His confidence began to bloom; this could win him the Pulitzer Prize. He leaned over the table and looked Tom directly in the eyes. "Tell me what it's like to kill someone."
Tom smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Ah, a very good question. And the answer must go back into history. Many ancient religions practiced human sacrifice. They offered virgin females or their finest warriors in an effort to appease the gods. As civilization developed, so did this practice of ritualized death ceremonies. Kings and queens in Europe, warlords in Asia, Puritans in New England -- all of these had people put to death in public for their crimes against the ruling society. And now somebody finally has the sense to question this utter destruction of life.
"You see, killing someone, or having someone killed, is the ultimate display of power. It's a rush that's more exhilarating than skydiving and an addiction stronger than the bonds of heroin. It's something that changes your entire being, your entire life.
"What the people in charge of the courts simply cannot seem to realize is that if you kill one man, you are already judge, jury and executioner, and punishing you for the crime will not change the fact that you have already decided the fate of another man for that man, whether he agrees to it or not. Once you kill a second time, you become a god. Not just any god, but the god of life and death, the god with control over the life forces of man, woman, child, and everything else. You cease to be human once you kill a second time. But you are not the subhuman monster that the courts and the politicians and the media and the ruling class want everyone to believe you are. Rather, you are above them. You are above their laws. And they just can't stand it. They say fear of loss of control is the one thing that causes anxiety so strong that it sweeps all others away by comparison. And, lo and behold, the so-called justice system bears this out. So the upper echelons decide to put you away for one reason or another. And if they don't have a valid reason, they'll fabricate one. It really doesn't matter as long as they remain in control.
"In becoming this god, this divine sentencer, you also find something else, something deep inside. You discover this lucidity, this clarity that was never there before. You see things as they should be seen. You know who is good and who is not. Remember the classical paintings where the Mary and Jesus figures would have halos of light around their heads? It's a lot like that. The good people have the same type of halos over their heads and auras around their entire bodies. The faces of the evil people are completely darkened, like somebody has placed a spotlight behind the person in order to protect their identity and therefore the face is unidentifiable. You've seen it in your own magazine; it's done to protect the identity of the individual. The blue dot thing. And something inside drives you to eliminate these bad people and save the good. And then the bad people realize you can see them." Tom nervously stood up and started pacing the perimeter of the room. The reporter could see Tom's hands shake and the veins in his neck flare.
Pause. "And then . . . ?" the reporter asked.
Tom began to scream. His voice rose like a banshee's wail and exploded through the air of the room. It became a conflagration of righteousness striking out violently at a sinning, evil world. "And then they follow you and corner you and lock you up in a place like . . . like this! And they poke you and prod you and say `Talk to me.' And then they run tests on you and play with your mind and try to brainwash you and then finally try to tell you that everything's going to be all right but you know it won't be because the bad people have you . . .." Tom sank to the floor and curled up into a ball, wailing, clutching his arms across his stomach as if he had been stabbed with a white-hot sabre. He shook in place, crying like a two-year-old child, his voice pouring out at a volume that intensified his fear. When the sound would no longer come, when his voice was shattered and dissipated and the echoes no longer tolled throughout the corridors, he lay on the linoleum tile and sobbed quietly until a mental health worker came in and gently ushered him out of the room.
**********
"So you see, ladies and gentlemen, this weekly, shall we say, interview, simply serves as an intrinsic reinforcer. He reaffirms his views to himself and, therefore, effectively blocks out any and all attempts to modify his behavior with another reinforcer." Richards was silently pleased with Tom McDowell's presentation. He had never been quite so dramatic before. "Thank you for coming. There is coffee in the next room and I will join you there for discussion of this case momentarily."
As Richards headed for the ward in order to sedate McDowell so he would not become violent, the same young man who had inquired about behavioral therapy at the beginning of the presentation approached her.
"Dr. Richards, I'm afraid I'll have to be leaving now but I would like to ask one question. What would happen if you put someone in the room to play the role of the reporter?"
Richards stared him in the eye and saw the passion for knowledge burning inside him, the same fire that she had once, long ago. It sent chills up her spine.
"I honestly don't know."
Nom De Plume: this site Copyright 1999 t.ogre productions. "Query of Mind" Copyright 1994, 1998 Larry Alton Garrett. Under no circumstances shall this story be republished without express written consent of the aforementioned author / copyright holder.