Twisted Read online

  On this day, I’m also aware that my perceptions are more heightened than usual. I’ve been worn out from working too many long hours lately, and the pressure of Donny Ray’s arrival to Loveland only adds to my distraction.

  Not a single body found.

  I’m still stuck on that one. How do you strip ten people from the world without leaving any trace of them? In the pursuit of supporting logic, I start digging through Donny Ray Smith’s case files—at the same time, I hope to perhaps jog my memory and figure out how we might know each other.

  Six-year-old Jamey Winslow vanished one morning while walking to school.

  I stop right there.

  Jenna said I shouldn’t worry so much about Devon, but this new information only confirms my fears. I may be overprotective of my son but only because of a deeper understanding about how truly vulnerable children are these days.

  Now another concern pokes at me, this one just as relatable.

  A child walks out the door one morning, and, by evening, her short life is a tragic memory.

  Ten kids means at least ten parents trapped in a cycle of relentless agony. Ten parents who have not only lost their most precious young ones but also their ability to begin the healing process. No bodies to bury. Nothing tangible to prove their children are actually dead. To walk into a tiny bedroom and feel a void so powerful and deep, so excruciatingly endless. To realize you’ve lost something that can never be replaced. I try to imagine what that must feel like, whether I could accept or even believe my son was really gone.

  I take a sustaining breath and move on through the file.

  The detectives got a break in the case. Not far from where Jamey disappeared, they discovered small sneaker prints in the mud leading down toward a ravine. After combing the area, crews unearthed a clump of hair partially hidden beneath a small boulder. Hair that not only matched Donny Ray’s color and texture, but also his DNA.

  It appeared the girl had fought to her death.

  I swallow hard, feel the skin on the back of my neck turn cold. Picturing these details brings on an intense moment of conflict, squaring my personal and professional objectives directly at odds with one another. The commitment I made a long time ago to defend the rights of the mentally ill, now pitted against love for my child.

  I remind myself to remain impartial, to keep things clinical, to compartmentalize and gather facts, even though the emotional toll is steep. As a regrouping effort, I return to the task at hand, or more specifically, to the question: Does Donny Ray Smith remember murdering Jamey?

  I begin sorting through the nearly fifty pretrial motions, most of them from Smith’s lawyer, a guy by the name of Terry Campbell. He claims that, evidence or not, his client isn’t guilty by reason of insanity because of a closed head trauma he suffered at the age of eleven. The theory, according to Campbell, is that Donny Ray went into a dissociative state—induced by the injury—before murdering Jamey and is unable to recall the event. Therefore, he can’t be held responsible.

  And then I keep forgetting things, and everything around me doesn’t fit, and that just makes it worse . . .

  Donny Ray’s comment boomerangs back, along with my previous thoughts about a potential dissociative disorder. Of course, until I dig deeper and examine that possibility, there’s nothing on which to base a concrete diagnosis. Since my patient is suspected of malingering, he could have thrown out the comment as a means to plant doubt. But his panic and confusion yesterday seemed so real. Is he sophisticated enough to lie that convincingly?

  I keep reading.

  As for his alleged intent to cover up the girl’s death by disposing of her body (an insanity plea no-no, which often indicates knowledge of wrongdoing), that’s explained away as also occurring during his temporary amnesia.

  I consider the likelihood, and something else flags my interest. Hiding a victim after murdering her can be an act of remorse. But people who dissociate aren’t able to feel much of anything, which is why they check out in the first place. If Donny Ray went into an altered state during the murders, his hiding behavior could have been part of an unconscious pathology. Since he allegedly racked up ten victims, I’m even more curious. But what would be the trauma trigger?

  While consistently concealing bodies is indeed an interesting and definitive pattern of behavior, it’s not yet at direct issue here. Until evidence is found linking him to the other disappearances, my patient only has to account for Jamey’s.

  Reading on, I find more to pique my interest. Donny Ray Smith is no stranger to disappearing bodies. The first person in his life to vanish was his sister, Miranda, when they were children. At that time, detectives zeroed in on the father as their prime suspect, but they were never able to bring charges because the evidence wasn’t strong enough.

  Miranda was never found.

  Just a coincidence?

  I scroll forward to the information about Donny Ray’s head injury. According to the medical reports, he claimed to have fallen onto the family tractor’s front bucket loader but couldn’t recall the exact date. Only that it happened the summer his sister disappeared. Nothing from detectives on whether they contacted the originating hospital to zero in on when the incident occurred. Nothing mentioned about it in the attorney’s notes, either.

  Interesting.

  About six months prior to Miranda’s disappearance, their mother passed away. Nothing suspicious about it: she had cancer of the pancreas. The father died about a year later of a massive heart attack, and Donny Ray spent the remainder of his childhood bouncing between foster homes.

  I’m about to open a file containing photos of the ten victims, plus Miranda Smith, but that last bit of info about his lack of a stable home life tugs me in another direction—or rather, the potential for answers does. An increasing pattern of antisocial behavior can often be a precursor to psychopathy, so I investigate whether Donny Ray Smith has a juvenile record. After scrolling through more pages, I find a section titled “Criminal History,” but just beneath it is a rather rough-looking blank space.

  That’s not right.

  A juvenile’s criminal records are expunged when he reaches eighteen, but the defense team usually makes them available to experts. If Donny Ray has no history of illegal activity as a minor, this document would state so, as would be the case if his records remain closed. But seeing the header with only a gap beneath it raises my suspicions.

  I dial Donny Ray’s attorney.

  “Terry Campbell, please,” I tell the receptionist when she answers.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Campbell is no longer here.”

  I check the screen to make sure I didn’t miss something. “This is Dr. Kellan at Loveland Hospital. My records indicate he’s representing one of my patients.”

  She hesitates. “Unfortunately, not anymore. Mr. Campbell passed away.”

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry. When?”

  “Last week. It was an accident off the coast of San Diego. They found his boat but no sign of him.”

  “Dear Lord. How awful.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, I was just calling to get some clarification on my patient’s criminal records. Donny Ray Smith?”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes . . . sorry. I’m here.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No.” But she answers a bit briskly, nearly gulping down the word. “That case is in the process of being reassigned, but there have been a few unexpected delays.”

  “What kind?”

  “I really don’t have that information.”

  “Do you know when the new attorney will take over?”

  “I’m sorry, I actually don’t. But I can call you when we have more information.”

  I give her my number, then hang up.

  The receptionist was a bit clo
sed-mouthed, but given how high profile this case is—plus having an employee tragically die—I suppose it’s not a complete surprise.

  Hoping to find concrete instead of sand, I turn to the reports from Miller Institute, but that only lands me in another quagmire of ambiguity. Donny Ray’s imaging tests show none of the physical evidence typically seen with a moderate head injury that could cause lapses of memory. The EEGs, however, potentially suggest otherwise—they show slight abnormalities in some cognitive functions.

  I flip to comments from the attending neurologist at Miller, Dr. Stephen Ammon, who says that despite the conflicting test results, he’s confident Donny Ray’s head injury has no bearing on this case. His reasoning is based on a review of the patient’s educational history following the accident: Donny Ray was never placed in any special ed classes, and, in fact, his grades were just fine. With that as a baseline, Ammon concludes that enough time has since passed for the brain to heal. In plainer language, Donny Ray’s defense is trying to parlay an insignificant head injury, which happened eleven years ago, into a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  Diagnosis: malingering.

  The psychologist, Dr. Sherri Philips, ran a different course with her opinion. Donny Ray’s assessment tests split right down the middle. His MMPI-2 validity index suggests he wasn’t being forthcoming about his stated psychiatric illness, but the PAI validity scales were within normal range. Because of that disparity—and because some of the PAI scales typically associated with trauma were slightly elevated—Philips felt there might be some other psychological disorder at play that she could not yet identify. According to her notes, she was working on a provisional diagnosis but needed more time to evaluate Donny Ray’s childhood history and get him to open up about it. Apparently, that was when she got pulled off the case, because her notes end there.

  Diagnosis: incomplete.

  I search the Internet for details about the scandal that broke out at Miller. As the two doctors were wrapping up their reports, accusations started flying that Philips was having inappropriate sexual relations with a patient. The judge, anticipating the potential fallout and a media firestorm, got Smith the hell out of Dodge, parked him on us, and requested a new evaluation.

  My mind is flip-flopping like a skillet pancake in a greasy-spoon diner. The reports from Miller have potential to go in either direction: nothing to indicate Donny Ray’s crimes are psychopathic, nothing to indicate disassociation as the culprit, either.

  I’m scoring goose eggs.

  Then I get another knock to the chops. Under the “Additional Comments” section is a notation from Ammon, the neurologist, which sends my heart into palpitations.

  Three words.

  Be very careful.

  9

  The temperature in my office feels as though it’s dropped about ten degrees. Outside the window, dark clouds tumble by, casting murky shadows across my desk.

  The storm is finally coming.

  I read Ammon’s comment again, this time not so much because of what it says, but rather what it does not. In our profession, we deal with a different kind of patient. Warnings like this are not uncommon, but it is very unusual to find no explanation.

  I need answers, so I reach for the phone and dial Ammon’s number.

  “Miller Institute,” a detached, almost mechanical female voice recites, “how may I direct your call?”

  Okay. Apparently it’s not Ammon’s number. It’s the main switchboard.

  “Can I help you?” she says, more as a prompt than a question.

  I clear my throat. “Yes. Sorry. Dr. Christopher Kellan at Loveland. I was trying to reach Dr. Ammon.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Ammon,” I repeat.

  “One moment, please.”

  Click.

  It seems customer service is sadly lacking at Miller Institute—either that or Robo-Receptionist is due for a tune-up.

  About twenty seconds later, I hear someone on the line. “Hello?” The voice is male, older, but definitely human.

  “Dr. Ammon, it’s Christopher Kellan over at Loveland. I was hoping to ask about your—”

  “I’m sorry,” he interrupts, “this isn’t Dr. Ammon. I’m Dr. Pritchard.”

  “My apologies, Doctor. The receptionist must have made a mis—”

  “No . . . It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, voice taking a noticeably deeper tone. “His calls are being forwarded through the switchboard for now. I’m the hospital administrator. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Well . . . you could start by telling me how I can reach Dr. Ammon.”

  “That is a good question.”

  I tell him I’m confused, and he responds, “You’re not alone. He failed to show up for work about five days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

  I skim Ammon’s report. His disappearance happened a few days before Donny Ray was transferred to Loveland.

  The hairs on my arms flick up.

  “Are the circumstances suspicious?”

  “No . . . no . . . ,” he says through a drawn-out sigh. “Nothing like that. At least, the authorities don’t seem to think so. No evidence of foul play.”

  “Do you have any idea why the doctor would just take off?”

  “Unfortunately, I might. A few weeks ago, Dr. Ammon became extremely depressed, and it kept getting worse.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “We have a pretty good idea, yes,” Pritchard says. “We’d just lost another doctor. A suicide. They found her at home.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s been a rough few weeks around here. Dr. Ammon took it especially hard. He and Dr. Philips were very close friends.”

  “Wait a minute.” Heat flushes my forehead as I check the report. “Doctor, I’m calling in reference to Donny Ray Smith. Philips was the attending psychologist on that case.”

  “Correct. I’m sure you’re aware that she was under review.”

  “She killed herself over it?”

  “That seems to be the consensus, yes.”

  I look at my screen and wonder why Jeremy never mentioned this, then dismiss the thought, deciding he probably felt it was irrelevant to Donny Ray’s case.

  “And still no clue where Dr. Ammon might be?”

  “Not a one. It’s like the man disappeared off the face of this earth.”

  A man who stood in the way of Donny Ray’s insanity plea.

  I try to connect dots I can’t yet see. “Dr. Pritchard, did Donny Ray Smith leave the hospital at any point during that period? Perhaps he was transported for ancillary medical care? A court hearing, even?”

  “No, and he remained under high-level security the entire time he was here. Why do you ask?”

  I hang on to my suspicions because I’ve got nothing to support them. Ammon and Philips are adults, not young girls. And the cryptic warning—plus a lack of explanation—could have easily been a product of Ammon’s depression.

  “Just covering all bases,” I say. “One last thing, Doctor. I’d really like to get more information about Donny Ray. Is there a chance you could provide some?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help in that respect, other than reciting what’s already on Ammon’s evaluation. I had minimal contact with Smith. Practically none at all, actually.”

  I thank him for his time, hang up the phone.

  What exactly do I have here?

  Bodies falling away all around this guy.

  And those hauntingly familiar eyes.

  My persistent and unsettled feeling creeps back. I need to get to the bottom of it, prove or disprove whether Donny Ray and I have met once and for all.

  I begin with our patient database, narrowing down my search to male patients only, then narrowing further by age group. A more manageable number of
files come up, but they reveal zilch. Nothing to indicate that Donny Ray Smith has ever set foot inside Loveland before now.

  I go back to the Internet. Donny Ray has been making headlines for months. With headlines come in-depth background pieces and, occasionally, older photos. I search through all the links for anything that might indicate we’ve previously crossed paths.

  Nothing.

  I continue skimming through headlines, then land on video coverage from one of the TV stations. About a minute in, it seems there’s nothing new here, a repeat of information I already know. Just as I’m about to move on, I zero in on footage of Donny Ray Smith as he’s being moved from a transport van to the court building for one of his hearings. Cuffed, shackled, and wearing a jail-issued, orange jumpsuit, he shuffles forward, then looks directly into the camera lens.

  My skin flashes hot and cold.

  Because I just saw something pass through those eyes, which, during my meeting with him, never once did I witness. An unforgiving cloud of darkness, devoid of anything that resembles even a modicum of human emotion.

  Now a biting chill arcs through my entire body.

  Which throws me back into a sea of swirling uncertainty. I still don’t know what to think. Everything associated with Donny Ray Smith seems laden with equivocality and unanswered questions: his appearance so innocent, the accusations so drastically opposite. Then there’s the odd string of disappearances all around him.

  And that look I just saw.

  Maybe we can both find it.

  If it’s the truth my patient is after, he’s sure taking a circuitous route in getting to it, and so far, pulling me right along with him.

  I need to talk this through with Adam.

  10

  “People do seem to vanish all around him.” Adam leans back in his chair and looks like he’s thinking. “But only one of the doctors is actually missing, and as for his attorney, he was all the way clear over in San Diego. I can’t imagine how Donny Ray could have anything to do with that. He’s been locked up. Besides, adults don’t seem to be his forte.”