The courtroom is hushed. Hempstead looks at Danielle, her face a mixture of horror, confusion and—yes—a brief glint of apology. “Have you ascertained how the comb came into Mrs. Morrison’s possession?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” she says. “After Mrs. Morrison was taken to the police station, Sergeant Barnes will testify that she was left for a short time in the drying room so that she
could avoid the reporters swarming the station. It is then, he believes, that Mrs. Morrison took the comb.”
The judge gives Danielle a confused look. “But why would she take the comb? It was the one piece of damning evidence against Max.”
Danielle nods. “The diaries are clear that she kept trophies of all of her murders. She even kept the poison ampoules that she used on her other children. Marianne was obviously convinced that she would never be caught. She had outsmarted the best and the brightest.” Hempstead nods numbly, mute in shocked silence.
Danielle steps forward. “This concludes the bill of exception on the part of the defense. We recall Marianne Morrison to the stand.”
Doaks hits the switch, and the room is suddenly awash in light. Everyone, including the judge, takes a few moments to blink and adjust their eyes.
“Marianne Morrison to the stand!” the bailiff cries.
A murmur begins as a small wave in the courtroom and rises to a swell. The judge finds the gavel and her voice. “Order!” She bangs it again. “Order, I said!”
“Ms. Marianne Morrison to the stand!” the bailiff cries again.
A silence falls over the room.
Marianne has vanished.
The courtroom is in pandemonium. The judge stands at her bench in earnest conversation with her bailiff. Langley sits in his chair in a state of shock.
Danielle wastes no time. “Doaks!”
“I’m on it. If she’s anywhere in this stinkin’ town, I’ll find her.” He dashes through the crowd and slips out of the side door. Danielle rushes over to Max, who crumples in her arms. “It’s almost over, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Be strong—just a little while longer.” She holds him for a long moment and then walks back to the judge’s bench.
Hempstead bangs her gavel, and the room falls into an uneasy quiet. “Counsel? Approach.” When they reach the bench, she nods briskly at both lawyers. “Mr. Langley, where is the State’s chief witness?”
Langley looks wildly around the room. “I don’t know, Judge. One minute she was here, and the next—well, she wasn’t.”
“Don’t you think you better find her?” He stares at her. She holds up her hand. “Never mind. I’ve sent my bailiff out to look for her. You better hope she’s in the building, or the State is going to have even more to answer for.” She turns to Danielle. “I’m not terribly pleased with you, either, Ms. Parkman. Don’t you think it would have been more appropriate if you had made the State and the bench aware of this new evidence before making a spectacle in open court?”
“I certainly tried, Your Honor,” says Danielle.
“Never mind, never mind.” For the first time, she lets her emotions show. “Can either one of you explain what happened to this poor child?”
“Judge, the defense has one more witness to call,” says Danielle. “I believe she will be able to answer all your questions.”
The bailiff returns. “Can’t…find…her…Judge,” he gasps, his face red with exertion.
“Try again,” she hisses. She turns to Danielle and raises her voice. “Ms. Parkman, do you have a witness you wish to call?”
“The defense recalls Dr. Reyes-Moreno to the stand,” she says. “And Judge?”
“Yes?”
“May we request that Mr. Sevillas be permitted to rejoin the defense team?”
Hempstead nods at the sheriff. “Retrieve Mr. Sevillas.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Danielle waits nervously until Tony has taken his place at the defense table. Their eyes meet. Love is a blue jolt that crackles between them. Danielle forces herself to turn to the bench.
In response to the bailiff’s cattle call, Dr. Reyes-Moreno walks up the aisle holding two cloth-covered diaries and an accordion file. The bailiff holds out the Bible to her. She takes the oath. Her mouth is set, eyes grim.
Danielle paces in front of her. “Doctor, have you reviewed the documentation we provided to you and the evidence obtained from Ms. Morrison’s hotel room?”
“Most if it,” she says.
“Enough to establish a diagnosis?”
“I’m afraid so.” She shakes her head sadly. “Every piece fits perfectly—now that it is too late.”
Danielle nods. “Please tell the court what the diagnosis of Jonas Morrison is—and has always been.”
“Jonas Morrison suffered from Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”
Hempstead leans toward the witness. “Doctor, isn’t this just a horrific case of child abuse? That’s what I see.”
The doctor shakes her head. “Perhaps I should explain the difference between Munchausen and Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”
“Of course.”
“Women with Munchausen syndrome, which is now well-known, fabricate illnesses to get attention. One of the most startling cases involves a woman who had two hundred procedures performed in over eighty different hospitals by the time she was sixty. Her mental illness went undetected until her final hospitalization.”
The judge’s face is white. “Go on.”
Reyes-Moreno takes off her glasses. “Munchausen syndrome by proxy is a similar but separate disorder. Instead of the deception being perpetrated by the adult with respect to her own health, the deception relates to the child. The essential features involve pathological lying, peregrination—constant moving to avoid detection—and recurrent, feigned illnesses that are inflicted by the mother upon the child. It is rarely seen in a child past the age of four.”
“Why is that?”
Reyes-Moreno shakes her head. “Most children who are victims of MSBP are untrustworthy as they get older and communicate their pain—which is why most victims are infants or toddlers.”
Danielle takes a deep breath. “Please continue.”
“The mother usually has antisocial personality traits, accompanied by an odd lack of concern for the child—particularly
with respect to painful surgical procedures she has elected for the child to undergo. She has extensive knowledge of the medical field and derives intense pleasure from manipulating the various physicians involved, as well as creating the ‘illnesses’ which bring her child to the attention of doctors and hospitals.”
“Anything else about the mother?”
“Yes,” she says. “As with Ms. Morrison, the mother is often intelligent and appears to be wonderfully devoted to the child—often too devoted.”
“What physical symptoms are present with such children?”
Reyes-Moreno shakes her head. “That’s the problem. The range of feigned illnesses covers the entire spectrum of the human body. Anything from respiratory, feeding and thriving difficulties to complex blood diseases or systemic infections can be induced. There are cases of mothers giving their children nitroglycerine over long periods of time; putting acid into their food; or cutting their children and bathing the wounds in toilet water. That is what makes it so very difficult for the treating physician. He sees a child in an emergency room with inexplicable symptoms, and he wants to fix him. If he can’t find anything wrong, the number of exploratory tests and surgeries are overwhelming.”
Hempstead’s shoulders sag as Danielle walks toward the witness. “Why aren’t they caught more often?”
The doctor fixes her with a weary look. “Who wants to believe that a mother could purposely sicken her child or even kill him?” She shakes her head. “As a society, we’ve had exposure to horrific incidences of child abuse. I believe what makes MSBP so incomprehensible is that the mother derives such intense pleasure from the attention she garners in harming or killing her children.”
“Dr. Reyes-Moreno, have you discovered any link between Max Parkman’s violent behavior and the medication he took while at Maitland?”
The doctor takes a deep breath. “Yes, I’m afraid I have.” She turns to the judge. “The hospital recently hired a Dr. Fastow, a psychopharmacologist who had, so everyone thought, impeccable credentials. My understanding is that the Maitland board screened him very carefully. The hospital in Vienna where he worked prior to coming to Maitland had no reservations about recommending him to us. In fact, they gave him the highest of praise.
“He was to consult on our most difficult cases and to continue his research into various psychotropic medications, some of which were very exciting.” She shakes her head. “What we didn’t know, and what seems apparent now, is that Dr. Fastow—instead of running a formal clinical trial with the appropriate controls—was experimenting with a new drug protocol on some of our patients. As you know, he has disappeared. When Lieutenant Barnes showed us the toxicology report of a sample of Max Parkman’s blood, we were appalled to learn that the medications he gave both Max and Jonas had serious side effects.”
Danielle feels her throat tighten. “And what were those?”
Reyes-Moreno looks at her. “All of the patients on Dr. Fastow’s medication protocol exhibited significant spikes in bizarre and violent behavior during their assessments. Although some parents claimed that these behaviors were not present at the time of admission, the psychiatrists treating those patients—including me, I’m sorry to say—observed them firsthand and discounted such claims as denial.”
Danielle sees the apology in her eyes. “And such behaviors were the basis for erroneous diagnoses of some of the patients, were they not?”
The doctor clasps her hands. “Yes.”
“Including Max Parkman?”
“Yes.”
Danielle nods, satisfied. A quick glance at Max reveals a look of overwhelming relief on his face. Tears brim and fall unashamedly down his cheeks. Danielle turns back to Reyes-Moreno. “Let’s get back to Ms. Morrison. What do the entries reveal about her intentions toward Jonas?”
“She had deceived the entire Maitland staff, while basking in the attention and pity she craved. In her mind, there was nothing else to achieve—no accolade Jonas could still be instrumental in affording her.” She shakes her head. “She decided to get rid of him.”
“And where did Max come in, Doctor?”
“Oh,” she says simply. “He was the perfect foil. The diaries are clear that once she ascertained that Max exhibited violent behavior, her plan was to set him up for Jonas’s murder. We have no evidence that indicates that Ms. Morrison knew that Dr. Fastow’s medication had made Max violent. In that respect, she just got lucky.”
Danielle turns to the defense table. The warmth and relief in Tony’s brown eyes say it all. She takes a deep breath and turns back to the witness. “Is that all?”
Reyes-Moreno looks uncomfortable. “I’m afraid not. I have never heard of a case like this.”
“In what way?”
The doctor stares at her hands. “Jonas Morrison was not born autistic, retarded, obsessive-compulsive or self-inflictive. Autism is a spectrum disorder—a psychological and neurological disorder,” she says. “Ms. Morrison succeeded in actually creating a profound, tragic psychiatric illness in a normal child. It is clear that Jonas was trying in whatever way he could to break free from his mother and his life of pain.”
“Why didn’t Marianne just poison or overdose Jonas instead of exposing herself to the risk of discovery?” asks the judge.
Reyes-Moreno shakes her head. “One must understand the core nature of this disorder, Your Honor. Ms. Morrison craved the attention. Tell me, would you rather be the mother of a horribly disabled child who dies from an unintentional overdose—” she looks at the judge “—or the center of national attention from the press and a sympathetic world?”
The judge bows her head. Not a word is heard anywhere in the courtroom. The bailiff trails in from the back of the courtroom. Hempstead looks up. “Bailiff, have you located Ms. Morrison?”
“She’s gone, Your Honor. Disappeared into thin air.”
The sun has set. The rectangular windows of the courtroom show the flicker of streetlights. Judge Hempstead has returned after a short break, leaving reporters and observers milling about the courtroom, many on their cell phones sending in last-minute details of the hearing.
“All rise!”
All shuffle to their feet until the judge is seated. Her face shows the wear and tear of the day, but her voice is resolute. “Ms. Parkman?”
Danielle stands, never letting go of Max’s hand. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“I am advised by the police department and the sheriff that all current efforts to locate Ms. Morrison have been unsuccessful. Do you have anything else you wish to offer the Court at this time?”
“In fact, I do, Judge.” She reaches into the file box and pulls out a videotape. “There is one more piece of evidence I would like to show the Court. It was found in Ms. Morrison’s room. I would be happy to put on Lieutenant Barnes to establish the chain of custody if you wish.”
Hempstead waves a weary hand. “That won’t be necessary. I believe all of this evidence will be properly submitted to the judge who is assigned to the trial of Ms. Morrison—if she is ever found.”
“May I proceed, Your Honor?”
“Yes, please do.”
Danielle whispers something to Max and then nods at Georgia, who takes him gently by the hand and leads him from the courtroom. Danielle signals to Doaks, who has returned with only the news that Marianne left everything in her hotel room and that law enforcement is scrambling to track her down. He pulls down the projection screen and dims the lights. She inserts the tape and turns to the judge. “I’m afraid this will tie up all unanswered questions, Your Honor. This video was found in Ms. Morrison’s closet and appears to have been taken from the Fountainview unit on the day Jonas died.” She presses the play button. There is a whirring noise and a blank screen. After a few moments, it begins.
Marianne enters the room and drags a form out of view of the camera. It does not move. She closes the door, takes a rubber doorstop and wedges it tightly under the door. She slips on a pair of thin latex gloves and crouches down, only white nurse shoes visible under her dress. She inches her way to the bed.
Jonas is turned with his face against the wall, knees drawn up tightly into his body. His angle of repose makes him look even more childlike, hauntingly vulnerable. Sandy hair is swept back from his face. Eyes closed, he looks peaceful, angelic.
She sits on the bed next to him. She places a large shopping bag on the floor beside the bed and puts her hand softly on his shoulder. One can almost sense the warmth of his body against her palm. Gently, she loosens and then removes the restraints in place around his wrists and legs. Without taking her right hand from his body, she gropes in the bag. She caresses the cool
metal of the comb as if it is inviting to her fingertips. She places the instrument on the side of the bed.
It is so quiet.
As she shakes his shoulder, his eyes flutter, then focus on hers. He pulls himself into a sitting position and hugs his knees to his chest, watching her carefully. “Go ahead, Jonas, do it now,” she urges. He immediately begins banging his head against the wall—first the back, one side, then the back, then the other side. He does it in a continuous rhythm, a drumming with eyes closed, following the ritual. Four bangs in back, four left, four back, four right. Four, four, four, four. When the requisite number of raps has been accomplished, he begins slapping his face, first with the right hand, then the left—right, left, right, left. His hands move faster and faster in staccato syncopation. The strokes are harder and harder. The skin mottles.
Jonas opens his eyes and searches her face, as if looking for confirmation that this is what she wants. She shakes her head no. He starts biting the top of his right hand—bite, bite, bite, bite. She leans over and picks up the metal comb with the long, sharp prongs and begins tapping it against her palm. Slap, slap, slap, slap. It is a metronome, keeping time with his methodic inflictions.
Alerted by the new sound, he looks up and sees the comb. It flashes in the light. His eyes fix upon it like a parrot watching the sun glint off the mirror in his cage. He bites his hands ever harder. It takes a long time for them to bleed, misshapen as they are with calluses from years of earlier assaults.
She nods and taps, watching as the curiosity flickers
in his eyes. “Yes, baby, yes,” she whispers, smiling at him. “You can touch it in a minute, my love, and you’re going to feel so much better.” Her voice is a croon, her eye applause.
The left hand is bleeding strongly now—on top, where he has found a vein. He moves to the right and begins again, further renting the skin each time with smaller, angrier bites. His head rocks slowly up and down, up and down, his eyes never moving from the sight of the rhythmic slapping of the metal comb in her hands. He no longer looks for her eyes. It is as if he knows what she wants. His eyes are glazed, hypnotic.
Once she sees that he has successfully penetrated the skin of the right hand and is biting hard, she moves ever so carefully closer, the metal comb keeping time with their dance. Holding the instrument in her left hand, she gently taps the side of the bed with it, the soft, muffled beat uninterrupted. With her right hand, she strokes his head as his eyes track the vertical bobbing of the comb. Her face surges with love.
“There, there,” she murmurs. She leans down and kisses the top of his head, loving him, as the comb taps against the sheet. He rocks with her. “Isn’t that a pretty thing? So shiny, so new.” He bobs more rapidly and reaches for the comb with his ruined left hand. “Oh, no, my love, not yet, not yet,” she whispers. She pulls back the covers to expose his bare legs. He stops biting and grunts softly, reaching for the comb in earnest. She places the comb in his right hand and wraps his left hand tightly around it.
Raising their linked hands, she helps him press the sharp prongs against his skin—just hard enough to leave
five red impressions on his right thigh after the pressure is released. He stares at the comb in his hands, transfixed. She raises their hands again and croons softly, a mother teaching her child to raise a baby spoon to his lips for the first time. Slowly, she continues to lift his hands high above his face, and together they come down upon his thigh, this time with more force.
He does not whisper or moan, but stares with fascination as this effort produces bright red droplets where the prongs pierce the skin. Now he automatically raises his hands on his own, this time so high at the peak that they are actually behind his head. She stands close by, tenderly cupping her hand around the back of his neck.
“You’re such a good boy, Jonas, such a good boy.” Her chant is low and satisfied.
He is monomaniacal in his focus now. He swings his head back roughly and pushes her away. She moves silently to the corner of the room and observes. It is as if she knows what he will do. She glances at her watch. “Twenty-two minutes,” she whispers.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the metal comb clasped tightly in his right hand. With the left, he pinches the top of each thigh. He stabs the right, then the left, the right, the left. Awkward at first, he finds a shorter arc better suited to his purpose. He switches seamlessly from one leg to the other. He moans softly now, eyes glassy. Soon both legs are flowing blood. His stabs become faster and deeper. He doesn’t stop, but looks up at her.
Where now, where now?
his eyes ask.
“Nomomah, Jonas, nomomah?” she whispers. “Are
you ready? If you are, if you really are, baby, I’m going to give you nomomah and let you stop.” She takes a few steps back, puts her arms around herself and begins to rock.
“Nomomah, nomomah, nomomah.” His chant is psalm.
She walks across the room and sits in the armchair, first covering it with a sheet. “Look at me, baby, and I’ll show you how to do it, I’ll show you how to fix it all.” She stretches her legs straight out and points her index finger at the soft vein in her groin. Calmly and purposefully, she raises her hands together and clasps them high above her head. She then viciously drives her balled fist into the area of her femoral artery.
She smiles dreamily and nestles back into the chair. “It will be quiet, and there will be no more pain, my darling, no more at all.” She closes her eyes, still smiling—as if to show him the glory and peace of it all. He has eyes only for her. After a moment, she stands and goes to him. She takes one of his white socks from the floor and stuffs it into his mouth. He doesn’t react, as if it isn’t the first time.
She looks again at her watch. “Fourteen minutes.”
His eyes follow her as she takes her seat across the room once more. The comb dangles in his hands. He doesn’t seem to see the red holes that stare up at him from his thighs, doesn’t see the blood running down his legs. He grasps the comb more tightly. It is wet with gore. He clutches the handle and, with interlocked fingers, holds it high above his head.
He gives her one last look, a gaze filled with bruises, trust, betrayal, torture and finally—damnation. He turns
his head upward, as if in prayer. Without a sound, he uses all his force to plunge the iron prongs directly into his lifeline. Even with the muffling of the sock in his mouth, his scream is crazed and awful. His neck arcs and bends, inhumanly rigid, his throat a parallel line to the ceiling. He is paralyzed, lightning-struck in that position for what seems like an impossible moment before he collapses back onto the bed.
A spurt of blood so violent and forceful shoots from his groin that she seems both revolted and gratified at its height, its breadth. She is there in a flash, running around and behind him, placing the pillow over his mouth. He struggles against her for a few moments, but the horrific beauty of the red geyser seems to have lent her inhuman strength and power.
Blue eyes stare into the camera’s eye. It is the gaze of a righteous woman.
She turns back to him and forces him down, strong as a man. When minutes have passed and he is finally still, she lifts the pillow and places it neatly on top of the bed. She takes the sock out of his mouth, carefully removes the comb from his hands and places it purposefully into the hand of an unidentifiable form lying next to the bed.
Blood is everywhere—on the bed, the floor, the ceiling. She checks her clothing. Crimson streaks stain her dress. She stands on the sheet, removes her bloody gloves, and steps out of her dress and shoes. Handi Wipes remove the red traces from her arms and face. She takes a shift from her bag and slips it quickly over her head. Gold sandals follow. She rolls the soiled items
in the sheet and places it into the plastic shopping bag. She raises her wrist. Her hand is steady.
“Six minutes.” She slings the shopping bag over her shoulder and takes a last look at Jonas.
His eyes stare up like empty marbles from a white bowl. His body is laid open on the brilliant ruby sheets.
He stares at heaven.