“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.