As Brian Wentworth approached the building that housed Dr. Andersen’s office, he considered raising the top on his Mercedes convertible. He didn’t want to risk being seen and recognized by one of his friends. Not that his friends would have cared. Seeing a shrink was considered by some a symbol of status. But to Brian it was a symbol of weakness and shame, a sign of mental inferiority. And he was definitely not inferior or weak. Just unlucky.
In the end, the warm caress of sun on his face and the cool fingers of breeze ruffling his hair felt too good. So he decided the hell with it.
He had his choice of parking spaces; the lot was virtually empty. Choosing one near the door, he slid the car in so that it overlapped the next space, gunned the engine a few times, and then turned it off. Not for the first time, he wondered why there were never any other patients in Andersen’s office whenever he came for his regularly scheduled appointment every Friday afternoon. He supposed it was the usual deference bestowed on members of his class and wealth. On the one hand, he was grateful for it. The fewer people who saw him here, the better. But it nagged at him nonetheless. The few times he had thought to ask Andersen about it, the man had neatly skirted around the issue. Probably unwilling to admit he was kissing ass, Brian thought. Still, he made a mental note to ask again today.
He glanced at his watch, saw that he was ten minutes early, and leaned his head back, tilting his face toward the warmth of the sun. One more session, he thought. Today was the last. Finally, the end to four months’ worth of weekly appointments with the pigheaded shrink. What a waste. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he actually enjoyed certain aspects of these silly-assed sessions, he would have quit coming a long time ago. Still, he could have done very nicely, thank you, without it. If only he hadn’t made that one, stupid mistake.
It had started when he realized that his family’s wealth, combined with his aristocratic, blonde good looks, made him a much sought after commodity with the opposite sex. His first experiences with his newfound power had been heady. That feeling of being in control, of being so superior, was addictive. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. Just long enough to have screwed every last one of the desirables – and a few of the not-so-desirables – more times than he could count. When the thrill started to wear off, he had tried abusive, forced sex, but none of the girls found him repulsive enough to fight. That was when he discovered the downside to all that power and influence: there was no more challenge in it for him. All the girls were too eager, too easy. He was bored.
He supposed it was the oppressive and tiresome weight of that invasive boredom that had led to his current troubles. At first he had sought relief through academic challenges, taking a few college level courses in computers, math, and science during his junior year. But he managed to maintain straight A’s with little effort, no matter how difficult the classes were advertised to be. He knew he was smarter than most people, certainly smarter than the idiots who had the unmitigated gall to think they could teach him something. And though the accolades and praise for his academic achievements assuaged his ego for a while, that eventually wore off, too.
Finding himself with no challenges left, Brian set out to create some.
He started by breaking into the chemistry lab at the high school one night during a basketball game and rigging up a little surprise for the next day. The resulting explosion caused sufficient damage to close the chem lab down for a week and bring a bevy of officials – police, firemen, and arson experts – to the school to investigate. The thrill of being on the edge, of wondering if he would be caught, gave Brian a surge of excitement unlike any he had ever experienced. The officials investigated, interrogated, and intimidated half the student body while Brian sat back and watched, smug and amused. When his own turn at questioning came up, he delighted in playing the role of the frightened, but honorable student who was appalled by such violent and wasteful acts, while in his mind he was laughing at the pathetic efforts of the so-called professionals. Eventually the investigation was dropped, the case unsolved, the “perp,” as Brian had overheard an officer refer to him, still at large. He had outsmarted them all.
That made him want to move on to bigger and better things.
Next he broke into the administrative offices and accessed the students’ files in the computer system. The self-righteous dumb-asses who ran the school had written down all of the passwords. Though they were hidden, in what Brian was sure they thought were great hiding places, it had taken him less than twenty minutes to find them. Once he was in, he went through and altered a few grades. Mike Collins, a computer geek and the only student to outscore Brian on the Algebra tests, got his A’s changed to D’s. Then Brian went through and pulled up the records of some of his closer friends and within seconds their grade points were elevated a number or two. Finally, to thank Cathy Pollander for one of the better blow jobs he had ever had, he changed all of her grades to A’s.
For the coup de grâce, before exiting out of the system, he attached a virus that froze access to the hard drive and then threatened to eliminate all its data unless the operator could win a slot-machine-type casino game.
Not knowing the virus was harmless in reality, the school officials went into a week-long panic, sweating the loss of their data and calling in experts to try and circumvent the virus.
Once again Brian watched from the periphery, aching to tell them it was he who had outsmarted them all, but smart enough to know better. It wasn’t until weeks later, when that dweeb Mike Collins complained about his grades, that anyone realized the computer had been accessed by someone inside the school. Thinking they were on to something, the school officials then asked for any students whose grades had been changed to notify the office. But Brian had thought that possibility through as well. All of the other grades he had changed had been elevated rather than dropped, and Brian knew the students he’d made changes on well enough to know they were desperate to improve their grades. Not one of the students came forward.
Once again, Brian had outsmarted them all.
In fact, he might have continued along, creating mayhem on a regular basis if it hadn’t been for that one little slip – a gross error in judgment. It still angered him, though he supposed even he was entitled to an occasional mistake. And his error had not been a tactical one; the job had been carried out as smoothly as all the others. His error had been in wanting to demonstrate his exceptional intelligence, to boast his abilities. What satisfaction was there in getting away with something if no one knew you were getting away with it?
His only mistake had been in trusting that prick, Danny. The stupid little do-gooder had squealed on him, telling the principal who had killed all the mice in the biology lab, stashing their mutilated bodies in various food items in the cafeteria. Danny had always idolized Brian, and the idolatry went to Brian’s head, allowing him to succumb during a moment of weakness. The temptation to show off, to impress the little shit had proved too great. And now, he was paying the price.
Though Brian had to admit it could have been worse. The school had labeled him a behavior problem, and requested a parent conference. They threatened suspension. But once his parents had paid for the damages and then offered a significant donation to the school’s budget as an extra incentive, the proposed punishments disappeared.
Except for one. Brian had to see Dr. Andersen for counseling every week until school’s end. Brian knew his parents could have made the school waive this requirement as well had they persisted, but the shits had unfortunately decided that it might be a good idea. And so his weekly treks to Dr. Andersen’s office had begun.
Determined to make the best of the situation, he had even managed to make a challenge out of this. He knew exactly what the good doctor wanted to hear, knew exactly what behaviors, answers, and comments were desired. During the first weeks of his sessions, Brian manipulated the fat bastard handily, trying to convince the man that he was appropriately remorseful and repentant, and therefore cured of his rebellious behavior.
When that became boring, and with months of therapy still ahead – for the doctor seemed determined to make Brian serve every damned appointment in this ridiculous sentence – Brian started mimicking the symptoms of psychological disorders he uncovered with library research: developing some extra personalities, talking about menacing voices that spoke to him inside his head, and laughing as the doctor scribbled down notes excitedly. Truth be told, Brian began to look forward to his weekly sessions with Dr. Andersen. He rather enjoyed fucking with the old coot’s mind. Head games, he’d discovered, could be fun.
Smiling with the memories, Brian raised his head and squinted at his watch. One minute to go. He yanked the keys from the ignition and climbed out of the car by leaping over the door. Before entering the office building, he stopped and dug first one foot, then the other, into the rich, red mud of the flowerbed that ran along the front of the building. Satisfied that both shoes were thoroughly caked, he strutted into the office, whistling a Pink Floyd song he had heard earlier.
He didn’t bother to stop at the receptionist’s desk to check in. After nearly four months of visits with Andersen, their pattern was well established. Brian suspected that the arrangement, which eliminated any need for him to wait in the tiny waiting room, was one more example of the special treatment he was entitled to. Someone else might have been impressed, but Brian didn’t labor under any false illusions. He knew the red carpet treatment was not so much for him as it was to impress his parents. After all, they were the ones with the deep pockets.
Brian hesitated a moment in the small foyer outside Andersen’s office to decide what type of mood he was going to portray today. It was going to be difficult to hide his delight over the fact that today was the last of his sessions. What the hell. Today Brian Wentworth would be ... Brian Wentworth. That was certainly good enough for anybody. He started whistling again and strode into the spacious office.
***
Dr. Andersen smiled to himself when he heard Brian whistling his way into the office. He was glad the boy was in a good mood. Not that it really mattered. His own mood was high enough to carry them both. When he thought about the significance of today’s visit, his heart rate sped up with excited anticipation.
It wasn’t the first time. Brian had the capacity to trigger that level of excitement each time he came. He was a very special and unique patient. Andersen knew that Brian would undoubtedly agree with that assessment, though the boy thought his popularity was due to his parents’ incredible influence and wealth. But Andersen’s excitement stemmed solely from the good fortune he’d had in discovering Brian. For Brian was a true sociopath, a human being totally without conscience – a bright, manipulative, amoral little smart-ass. Sociopaths of this caliber were extremely rare.
Brian Wentworth had the capacity to become the Ted Bundy of the nineties: an extremely clever, cold, and calculating mind capable of unconscionable acts of violence. Or a future President of the United States, for not all sociopaths were criminals. In fact, many of the world’s leaders, corporate big-shots, and well-known entertainers were sociopaths to some degree, using and manipulating anyone they could, coldly and without compunction, in order to facilitate their own meteoric rises.
Regardless of which future Brian might choose, he was the type of patient who could lead to a lifetime of highly-acclaimed publications for Andersen, if only he could be treated as just another patient. But Brian had been tapped for The Cause. At times, Andersen resented the fact that he could not cash in on this career-boosting potential, possibly his only shot at world notoriety. But Brian Wentworth was precisely what The Cause needed – the right age, the right personality defect, and more importantly, access to the right social connections.
It was a stroke of pure luck that he came to Andersen when he did. Otherwise, MAGI’s Stage Two experiment might still be on hold. So far everything was going along better than expected. Though neither the general public, nor the medical community could ever know it, Brian Wentworth was a huge success, the result of an experiment so advanced, so far-reaching in its implications, so absolutely brilliant, that if it were known it would have preserved a spot in the history books for them all. As it was, Andersen and his cohorts had to settle for a few congratulatory slaps on the back, keeping the news of their staggering success amongst themselves.
Today was the last day of Brian’s required sessions. It was also the day.
Andersen had reviewed Brian’s chart carefully that morning, to insure that the documentation offered just enough vague allusions to Brian’s personality defect without opening himself up to a malpractice suit for a totally missed diagnosis. He kept another, separate chart locked up in his safe at home, one that read quite differently from the official one. That was the wonderful thing about psychiatry and psychology; as a science, they were just nebulous enough to leave plenty of room for interpretation amongst practitioners. There were few clear-cut diagnoses like you had with regular medicine and no autopsies to second-guess the professionals.
Brian swaggered into the room and dropped onto the couch, using the same insolent, cocky strut he used every time he came in. He immediately lifted his feet up and stretched out to his full length, sliding his filthy shoes along the couch seat.
Dr. Andersen suppressed a grin. Early on in Brian’s sessions, Andersen had made a big stink over the boy’s habit of putting his feet on the couch. Just as soon as Brian knew the habit irritated him, he had started to do it with each visit, hoping to take advantage of what he thought was one of the doctor’s many idiosyncrasies. In truth, it was a test; Andersen wanted to see just how manipulative and irresponsible the boy really was. Brian had passed with flying colors.
“So how are you today, Brian?” Andersen asked, running his characteristic finger around the inside of his collar.
Brian shrugged and scraped a chunk of mud off one shoe with the other, letting it drop onto the couch. “Fine as ever, I guess,” he said with the air of someone who is thoroughly bored. “How about you, Doc? You happy? You get any from the old lady last night?”
Andersen watched Brian, the expression on his face placid and unrevealing. This was a routine game they played, one Andersen referred to in his mind as Shock the Doc. In the past he had alternated his responses between scientific curiosity and deep offense, depending on his mood or on what aspect of Brian’s personality he was trying to map on any given day. But today, he had another agenda and chose not to play.
“Carneal,” Andersen said slowly. It was his mother’s maiden name, a word he could easily remember, and one that Brian was not likely to hear outside the confines of this office. Its effect on Brian was instant and startling.
The boy’s cocky and arrogant facade disappeared, his face going slack. His body posture changed, his arms and legs becoming so limp that one arm actually fell over the side of the couch, its hand laying palm up on the floor with the fingers curled slightly like the edges of a drying leaf. Brian’s eyes closed down to tiny slits, so that for all appearances, it looked as if he was sound asleep.
Andersen smiled. It had taken numerous attempts to hypnotize Brian the first time, long enough in fact that at one point Andersen feared he would never succeed. But then Hippocrates had stepped in and helped out, providing a mild sedative disguised as an antibiotic when Brian came down with a cold a few months ago. With the numbing effects of the medication, Brian’s guard had let down just enough to allow Andersen to pull him under. Through hypnotic suggestion, he had created the trigger word so that for future sessions he had only to utter “Carneal” and Brian fell instantly into a trance.
“Brian?”
“Yes?” The word came out slurred and sleepy-sounding.
“Tell me how you feel today.”
There were a few moments of silence. Then Brian said, “I don’t feel today. I haven’t felt anything for so long now.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I need ... something. Need ... do something. Need thrills.”
Andersen shifted excitedly in his seat. It was this aspect of Brian’s personality that intrigued him the most and that made him perfect for what they needed. The boy’s belief in his own superior intelligence and abilities left him seeking new and creative ways to test himself. What Brian Wentworth needed most, like a drug addict needs his fix, was a dose of thrills. Something to get his adrenaline pumping. The boy existed in an almost constant state of underarousal, a condition that had led to his previous mischievous behavior in an effort to achieve the rush that accompanied both the actual performance of his destructive acts, as well as the subsequent tension as various people attempted to catch him. The problem was, this state of underarousal was very much like a junkie’s habit – each time it required more risk, more challenge, and acts of greater immorality in order to achieve the same level of excitement.
In most people, sudden surges of adrenaline generally accompanied fear, so that any real or perceived threats created an uncomfortable state of existence – the oft mentioned “fight or flight” reaction. While small doses of adrenaline could actually enhance the ability to think and respond, the threshold where that response took the opposite turn, making someone essentially useless and disoriented, was relatively low.
In Brian’s case, however, the effect was just the opposite. It was the low levels of adrenaline that were uncomfortable. High levels gave him a rewarding rush of euphoria and arousal that were as addictive to his psychological system as heroin.
“Let’s talk about that, Brian. About excitement. You have accomplished so much and outsmarted so many people. Where can you go from here? What is there left to do?”
Brian’s face was devoid of expression as he considered the doctor’s question. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly.
“There must be something, Brian. How can you prove that you are smarter than everyone else? More capable than everyone else?”
“Must do something astounding. Attract a lot of attention. Outsmart all the know-it-alls.”
“So maybe something that would attract the world’s attention? Something that would make the news – be broadcast on television?” Andersen suggested.
“Yes.”
“Any ideas?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell me what they are?”
“I could kill someone. Someone big. Someone important. But it would have to be perfect.” A baleful smile stole across his face. “A perfect murder,” he said almost gleefully.
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“No.”
“I know someone who would be ideal, Brian. Someone who is famous now and likely to become even more so in the future.”
“Who?”
“Senator Tranley. They say he is going to run for president and many think he will likely win.”
“Senator Tranley,” Brian repeated.
“Did you know Tranley is in favor of initiating a requirement for all boys between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one to go through some type of military training?” This was a total fabrication, but Andersen had discovered during the course of Brian’s therapy that the boy had a vehement hatred for the military, thanks to his father’s Marine background and subsequent child-rearing philosophies. Brian loathed everything the military did and stood for, considering them a lower life form: barbaric, heathen, and stupid.
Brian’s brow puckered slightly and one corner of his mouth twitched violently. “That is insane,” he said blandly.
“It is,” Andersen agreed. “That alone proves how crazy the man is.”
“He should be eliminated.”
“Ah, yes. But who? And how? The man is closely guarded. It would take someone truly brilliant just to figure out a way to get by his bodyguard.” It was a subtle challenge and to Andersen’s delight, Brian jumped on the bait.
“I could do it,” he said with a satisfied smile.
“How?”
“My parents. Tranley is a friend of theirs, at least as long as they keep contributing money to his pockets. He comes to our house. He’s coming tonight.”
“Tonight?” Though Andersen had already known this, he sounded surprised.
Brian nodded. “A fundraiser. It would be easy to kill him while he is there.”
“But how could you do it without getting caught? There will be too many people around. You can’t commit a perfect murder if you’re caught.”
Brian’s face screwed up with concentration while Andersen bided his time. He really didn’t care if the boy was caught. Post-hypnotic suggestion would eliminate all memory of this and certain other sessions with Andersen. His only concern was that the plan be fool-proof enough to be completed before anyone caught on. But he wanted Brian to believe that the entire idea was his own. And given enough encouragement, Brian was bright enough to come up with something.
“A gun is no good,” Brian said thoughtfully. “People would see it.”
“True.”
“Maybe an explosion of some kind, a bomb in his car.”
Andersen said nothing. He just watched and waited.
“No,” Brian said finally. “Too risky and too difficult to time.” His slackened face twitched almost imperceptibly. Andersen wondered if it was a smile.
“How about poison?” Brian asked. “If it was something that could be given on the sly, there would be no way of knowing who did it. There will be so many people around.”
“Poison might work,” Andersen said carefully, a smile crawling across his face. It was truly a delight to watch the boy’s mind work.
“But what poison? It should be something readily available. Easy to get. Maybe something in the house.”
“Doesn’t your father have a heart problem, Brian?”
“Yes, he does. Do you think some of his medication might do the trick?”
“Possibly. Do you know what he takes?”
“Something called Digoxin, and those little nitro pills you stick under your tongue.”
“Ah,” Andersen said. “Nitro pills can be very poisonous if you take too many.”
“I wonder what they taste like,” Brian mused.
“Sort of sweet, like saccharine,” Andersen offered, amazed at the way the boy’s mind was already sorting out the various ramifications and potential downfalls.
Brian sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I could put them in his coffee. He always has coffee at the end of the night and he takes it with sugar and milk.”
“You could,” Andersen agreed.
Brian smiled. “Well then, let the games begin.”
Later, after Brian had left the office, Andersen picked up his phone and dialed.
“This is Pythias,” he said. “Stage Two is right on schedule. By this time tomorrow, Senator Edward Tranley’s only upcoming race will be against the worms waiting to eat his flesh.”