In Dark Corners (31 page)

"Tell Dr. Cato about that, Jackie. Getting all tricked out and cruising the bars," McCarthy suggested.

She glanced over at the attorney, giving him a hard look, before shrugging and nodding, as if saying:
Okay, why not
?

"Yeah, been doin' it for the last two years, ever since numbnuts let me out—"

"Let you out, Jackie?" Alex interrupted, after clearing his throat. "How'd he do that?"

She smiled slyly, then whispered, "The booze triggers it, man. The more he drinks, the longer I'm out."

"Does he know about you, Jackie?" asked Alex, putting the pack of
Marlboros
down in front of himself on the table, barely within her shackled reach.

"Nah, he doesn't have a clue," Jackie explained in a kind of bored tone. "He wakes up, everything blacked out—" Suddenly she reached out and deftly snaked a cigarette from the pack. "Ya got a light, Doc?"

Alex took out the lighter and lit the
Marlboro
for her.

Jackie took a deep drag, turned slightly and blew the smoke in the attorney's direction, who she knew did not smoke. She grinned mischievously, then turned back to Alex and said, "Yeah, I used to get out in the old days, but not for very long, and never dressed
to kill
…" She giggled, "If ya'll forgive the expression."

"So, you been with Jack for a long time?" Alex asked.

"Nah, not really," she replied, sucking in another deep drag from the cigarette, watching the smoke drift up toward the air intake screen. "'Bout six years or so, I think. Caught me just before he quit drinking."

Caught me
? Alex repeated to himself, thinking the expression odd, but keeping quiet, hoping Jackie would continue. But she said no more and eventually reached over and snubbed out the half-smoked
Marlboro
in the ashtray. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back, her face gradually softening…

Now it was Jack Dumont again slumped in the chair.

"That was the real murderer," McCarthy whispered, reaching over and pushing the ashtray away from him to the far side of the table. "But we can't keep her out long. I bring in any more than an ounce of booze, and we're risking getting caught by the guard."

Jesus. Alex had never seen an alter in person, even though he'd read about a number of cases, and seen some film at USC. He shook his head, then murmured as if refreshing his own memory, "Multiple Personality Syndrome…one of the five Dissociative Reactions, characterized by separation of self and some kind of memory loss." He turned to the attorney, who grinned back broadly.

"Hey, pal, we got something here or what?" McCarthy asked.

Alex nodded at his friend:
We got something here
.

"Okay, I have some precedent research to do," the attorney said, standing up. "From your side, I want to know more about this Multiple Personality Syndrome thing. Everything you can dig up, especially how valid it is considered within the psychiatric community. And how about this sociopathic deal? If he's not one, do we need some extensive testing for support?"

"I'll take care of my end," Alex said, picking up his suitcase. "I'll want to do more testing, first…Ah, set me up an afternoon block of time on Friday," he said, after checking his patient calendar.

***

On Friday, Alex met Dumont alone and administered a pair of projective tests, the Rorschach and the Thematic Apperception Test, then the Minnesota Multi-phasic Personality Inventory, which had a built-in key to detect subject lying. He also conducted a structured interview, using the recently published Sociopathic Serial Murderer Profile Inventory developed by the FBI.

***

Over the weekend, Alex scored the tests; and he began his survey of the medical literature on MPS.

***

Early Monday afternoon, Alex called McCarthy and discussed his progress. "Yeah, Mac, I'm one hundred percent convinced that Jack Dumont is not a sociopath, nor does he fit the FBI serial murderer profile. And I've got some test back up now, including one with a key that he's definitely telling the truth."

"That's great, pal," McCarthy answered. "And you could testify to all that in court?"

"Sure, no problem," Alex replied confidently, wondering about the restrained nature of his friend's tone. "What's the matter, Mac?"

His friend sighed deeply. "Oh, I've researched several cases where attorneys tried to introduce MPS as a defense in a criminal trial," McCarthy answered slowly. "So far though, I haven't found
one
where the California courts allowed it as a defense. No precedent for what we want to do."

"Other states?"

"Yeah, I have a clerk checking." Then, McCarthy chuckled, his enthusiasm picking up slightly. "Man, can you see us introducing Jackie during the trial?"

Alex smiled and nodded to himself. But he knew that was unlikely unless they could get MPS allowed in court as an accepted legal concept, and the thought dampened his spirits.

"What else you got on your end, pal?"

"Well, it kind of fits what you say about non-acceptance in court," Alex answered. "There was a lot of excitement years ago, when the first cases of MPS were published, but the enthusiasm in the psychiatric community died down. In treatment, the alter or alters were usually called up by the therapist during hypnosis and
that
was the problem. All the subjects were highly suggestible, and there was some controversy that alters were the result of some kind of subtle suggestion by therapists, actually originating with the psychiatrists—"

"You mean they thought the patient actually caught MPS from the therapist?"

"In a way that's right," Alex responded, smiling wryly at the way his friend characterized MPS as a contagious disease, making him recall Jackie's expression:
Caught me
.

Alex continued, "And up until recently, there has been an absence in the literature of very many cases; but in the last four years there has been a major swing, again a growing acceptance of MPS within the psychiatric community, especially in spousal abuse treatment. The direction of therapy has changed radically, too. Now, there is an attempt at fusion of the alters into one personality, a unification of the dissociative reaction. Hypnosis is still the major accessing tool to the alters. No doorways opened with booze."

"What about psychiatrists successfully testifying in court about the existence of MPS?"

"The medical literature doesn't mention anything about that."

"Wait, maybe
I
can find something under Spousal Abuse, one of the recent murder cases where MPS might've been used as a self defense," McCarthy interrupted, enthusiasm returning to his voice. "Yeah, I'll check it out. What's next with you, pal?"

"I'd like to run a few tests on Jackie, if we can keep her out longer—then compare similar test results with Jack's."

"Whoa, that's a good idea but really dangerous," McCarthy said, pausing. Reluctantly, he agreed, "Well, maybe another ounce in the binoculars. But we're out on the edge doing that, you understand?"

"I know," Alex agreed, "but the results might justify it. Do you think she'll cooperate?"

"I don't know," McCarthy said, his tone again restrained.

They set up Wednesday afternoon, when Alex had only one late appointment, followed by an evening group.

***

On Wednesday, Jackie emphatically declared, "No friggin' tests, period. I ain't the goofy one, Doc."

She preferred to talk about the case, smoking one Marlboro after another, growing exceedingly restless as she interrogated both McCarthy and Alex, gradually realizing that so far the defense didn't look too strong.

"Well, I ain't hangin' 'round and goin' down the tubes with ole numbnuts," she said with a sense of finality. "Nope." She shook her head, frowning deeply. "You boys don't get him off, he'll be by his ownself on death row, maybe
sooner
."

McCarthy cut a laugh short when Jackie glared at him, her green eyes flashing. "Hey, man, I mean it!"

"What exactly do you mean, Jackie?" Alex asked. "You have plans on leaving?" The discussion had shaken his own confidence about the wisdom of staying involved in the case.

Jackie stared at him for a moment in silence. Then she kissed her fingertips, and leaned across the table, stretching to the end of her shackles, and patted Alex's right hand, as if she were reassuring a small boy. "Yeah, I got plans, Doc," she whispered hoarsely then winked lewdly.

"What are you saying, Jackie?" McCarthy said. "You aren't going anywhere."

For a moment she just let her wet fingertips rest on Alex's hand, looking him squarely in the eye. Then she straightened, leaned back in her chair, and laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, I guess you're right, counselor," she said, glancing first at McCarthy, then at her shackles. "I'm pretty well stuck, ain't I, now?"

***

After meeting with his late afternoon patient at his office in San Rafael, and returning to an empty home before group, Alex felt restless and at odds with himself, trying to think of a way to gracefully bail out on his commitment to his friend. Jamie was gone, still teaching one of her Lit classes at Marin Community College. His throat felt dry and sore.

Alex still had over an hour before group. Not interested in watching TV or reading, he wandered the house, still feeling unsettled. Then, reacting to a strong impulse, he got back in his car and drove through town, stopping at a seedy-looking saloon just off Highway 101, The Black Knight. A place he'd never visited.

Inside the bar, Alex paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, recognizing Merle Haggard's husky voice coming from the jukebox, singing, "Tulare Dust." Two men dressed in work clothes were shooting pool, and paid him no mind. Alex crossed the room and slipped onto a stool at the bar, setting his briefcase down beside him, wondering why he'd brought the damn thing in here. Just a stupid habit, he told himself, grinning sheepishly and glancing around. No potential paying customers here.

The bartender, a beefy, red-faced man, wiped the already spotless counter, slid a basket of shell peanuts in front of Alex, and asked, "What will it be, friend."

"Ah, Jack Daniels and water," Alex said, then added, "make that a double, please." He surprised himself with the order, not usually drinking hard liquor.

"You got it," the bartender replied, grabbing a bottle of black label from behind him on the counter and pouring the whiskey. He hesitated a moment after giving Alex his drink, then moved down bar as one of the pool shooters came over and ordered two more Buds.

Alex took a couple of sips, the drink actually soothing his sore throat, and relaxed, enjoying the cool air in the bar. He intentionally kept his mind off the Dumont case. Behind him the pool balls clicked as the two men continued shooting. He finished his drink, already feeling the alcohol hitting his system. The bartender shuffled back and pointed at his empty glass.

Alex glanced at his watch, shook his head, and asked, "Bathroom?"

"Down the hall past the jukebox," the bartender answered, pointing in the general direction with the bottle of Jack.

Alex slipped off the stool, picked up his briefcase, and walked down the hall to the men's head. Inside the restroom, he set the case by the mirror, then paused to glance at himself. His face felt funny…hot, kind of numb. Suddenly, his vision tunneled and he was overwhelmed with a shortness of breath; gasping, he slumped, leaning against the cool mirror…

***

…She was smiling crookedly into the mirror, her emerald gaze glittering mischievously. She kneeled, slipped a cosmetics case from underneath her clothes in the briefcase, then, after carefully applying lipstick, eyeshadow, and some liner, she winked and announced in her sex-husky voice, "Showtime, folks!"

It has been said that the Great Wall can be seen from space…if there was someone up there to see it
.

—Grandpa Sandoval

Sanchez and I left M-City in the evening on the Bullet, heading north to Monterrey. An hour later we arrived and picked up our final team member, Balzac Romanov.

He'd been released a few days earlier from the federal super-max, high-tech facility east of the city. But Romanov was not just any old convict. No indeed. He was a famous American gangster, picked up three years ago at a resort in the Quintana Roo during a well-publicized Federale bust of a meeting of the international Russkie crime syndicate—The Brotherhood of the Black Iris.

Romanov had been kept permanently on ice at the Monterrey facility because of his reputation. Neither Sanchez nor I had ever met the man or even seen a photo—surprisingly, no pictures existed on the web either. And I must admit, I was edgy hooking up with such a legendary figure. In fact, the two of us had never worked with
anyone
else during our ten-year partnership after Gramps died. Just Sanchez and me. No need really, smuggling tobacco, cannabis, and lately, a few art curios back across the border—strictly small time operations. For sure, no connections to local organized crime, much less the Brotherhood.

So, I was nervous to say the least, waiting for the notorious gangster in the nearly empty lounge car.

We didn't have to wait long.

He strode into the bar and spotted us immediately, only a minute after the Bullet hit the magnetic saddle. Didn't' say shit. Only handed me the Arab's card with the holo thumbprint. All business, this boy.

I had built him up to giant proportions in my mind, only to discover he stood five foot two. Slightly built. Receding gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and goatee, his pale face drawn and etched with deep creases, a gaunt, almost ascetic look. Plain khaki pants, a mahogany guayabera shirt. Not an imposing figure, someone you'd easily dismiss on the street as not much of a threat,
until
you took a second, closer look. He had a badly broken nose and a nasty, raised scar at the left corner of his mouth, the shape of a small fishhook. His partially hooded gaze was unwavering and striking, grayish eyes the color of a cold, stormy sky. In addition to his unsettling facial features, he moved with smooth efficient grace, like a tango dancer…or a predator. That second look generated the chilling impression of being too close to restrained violence, as if you were standing next to a coiled rattlesnake.