Twenty-Three

ONCE WITHIN THE walls of McGill, she heard almost exclusively English, which seemed odd to her ear now, and while it made communication easier, she found herself wishing for the opportunity to exercise her French.

She was in a dorm just for girls. She had no idea if they were all divided that way, but that’s where Jackson had put her. Once he had left, she’d called Billy and talked for as long as her change lasted. She’d told him about the house and the journal and that she was at McGill, following up. He was, perhaps, the one person who could hear that and say, “Cool,” not “Are you nuts? You can’t investigate by yourself.”

Of course, she wasn’t doing it by herself, but that was the part she excised from her account. The truth would sound ridiculous—that she’d met a backpacking student camping out in an abandoned house, hired him and they were now at McGill, solving her mystery together. Billy would react in the same way Jackson had to Steve. Did she really think Jackson was helping her out of the goodness of his heart? Well, no. The idea made her laugh. He was helping because this mystery promised far more excitement than hitchhiking through the Quebec countryside. But to understand that, you needed to know Jackson, and Billy did not.

Having bought postcards nearby, along with snacks and a notebook, she spent most of the evening writing to her friends. One distinct advantage of the postcard form: there wasn’t room for more than a few lines, meaning no one would expect details of her adventure. A simple: Salut de Montreal! Still hard at work, unraveling the mystery of my past while improving my deplorable French (remember how Mlle. Béringer said we’d be all set for Paris? We aren’t!) Hope you are making progress of your own. Miss you! XOXO Tess

She then found a mini-library in the dorm common room, where guests had left behind books for others. She took The Collector, which she’d seen on a new-release shelf in the train station. She got about fifty pages in before realizing it was, quite possibly, the worst book she could have picked to read at the moment. It was the story of a girl “collected” by a predator, who locked her in a room like his precious butterflies. She put it aside quickly but still spent the night surfing through dreams where Steve took her captive and trapped her in one of the mansion’s closets.

Despite her nightmares, she awoke feeling refreshed. Or perhaps simply relieved that the night was over. At just past seven, she was bounding down the front steps, showered and dressed in her boots, scarf and a miniskirt she’d found among the clothes Billy gave her. She even had a newly purchased notebook under her arm and a fountain pen in her pocket, and she felt like an actual university student. When she came down the steps, a boy going up swiveled to watch her, and she grinned at him.

“Thérèse.”

Jackson sat on the balustrade that enclosed the front porch. He checked his watch as she walked over.

“You said seven thirty at the cafeteria, didn’t you?”

He grunted and eyed her as she swung over to him.

“You’re chipper this morning.” His tone suggested he took this as a personal affront.

“And you are not. You didn’t stay up all right reading that journal, I hope.”

Another grunt.

“You look as if you did,” she said. “At least you seem to have showered, though, which is an improvement.”

She grinned as she said it. Teasing him, and perhaps, yes, needling him a little, which she’d learned was more likely to shake his ill temper than solicitude.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Are you going to be able to sit still through breakfast?”

“Of course. I may skip all the way there though. That won’t embarrass you, will it?”

“We’re not going to the caf.” He lifted a bag from his side. A bakery bag, the smell of fresh bread wafting out. “The library opens at eight, and I want to be there when it does.”

“Yes, sir.”

They crossed the lawn and found a place not yet shaded, the morning cool and the sun warm.

“I finished the journal,” he said as they started eating. “I made notes.”

He passed her a sheaf of papers. At least ten of them, in single-spaced, perfect handwriting.

“You were up all night,” she said. “You shouldn’t have—”

“I was in bed before midnight. Now, about the journal. I’ve determined they were doing sensory-deprivation experiments.”

“Sensory…?”

“Depriving someone of sensory input. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. Normally, it’s done with a hood or a tank. The purpose is to induce a meditative state and allow the subject to focus.”

She stared at him. “Meditative state? Those boxes—”

“I know. Clearly, whoever was in them was not relaxing and enjoying a quiet rest. What I’m saying is that sensory deprivation has been used in psychiatry, and it’s not considered cruel in small amounts. But the system normally used is humane. Like a tank filled with salt water. Not a wooden casket.”

“The journal says that’s why they were using those?”

“It alludes to that. I can’t figure out exactly what they were hoping to accomplish, but it seems, as you saw, that the doctor who wrote the journal became increasingly disillusioned with the work and increasingly concerned for the patients. He began to suspect that he’d been sold a bill of goods.”

“What?”

“That the purpose of the research had been misrepresented to him.”

“What did he think they were really doing?”

“He never says. Even though he was hiding the journal, he was still cagey. No names. No specifics. His concerns are generalizations. As for the supposed treatment, I’ve compiled his oblique references on this page”—he pulled one out—“and my theory is that they were treating depression by inducing a relaxed state with drugs and then putting the patient in the boxes. The closet seems to have been an early stage of the experiment—without drugs—followed by the wooden boxes. Yet while the subjects were all volunteers, not all of them could voluntarily withstand the experience. Some panicked despite the sedative.”

“That primal fear,” she said. “Claustrophobia.”

“Correct. That is where the author began questioning the ethics and purpose of the research. Subjects who objected weren’t permitted another method of treatment.”

“Or allowed to leave.”

Jackson fingered the journal pages. “There’s no proof of that. I’m not defending what they did, Tess, but I don’t like jumping to conclusions that these men were—”

“Evil?”

“Exactly. They were scientists. Yes, maybe subjects were held against their will if they objected, but I don’t want to presume that without evidence. Psychiatrists are supposed to abide by the Nuremberg Code when they do human experimentation. The first principle is that subjects must be able to consent and do so voluntarily, under no duress.”

“All right.”

He seemed to visibly relax at that, as if he’d expected her to argue. He was right though. It was easy to see whatever had happened in that house as something straight out of a gothic novel. Mad scientists experimenting on unwitting patients. Without proof, though, they could travel too far down the wrong road and miss a simple answer while looking for a nefarious one.

“I called my mom last night,” he said. “Asked if she knew of any link between McGill and sensory-deprivation research.”

“What did you tell her?”

He seemed confused by the question before saying, “Nothing. I just asked.” For him, it seemed, that was normal. Raised to ask questions and explore whatever piqued his curiosity. Which explained a lot, and Tess couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy.

“She knew of a connection,” he said. “Donald Hebb. He’s a psychology professor at McGill. Chairman of the department until ’59, and then he served as president of the American Psychological Association in 1960.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, he’s a big deal in the field. He’s still here, teaching, though my mom’s not sure what his position is. She remembers, though, that he was known for sensory-deprivation experiments, because she heard him speak on it a few years ago. He studied its effects on the mind. What he found suggested the effects weren’t positive. My mom doesn’t know much more, but we should be able to dig deeper here.”

“Hebb, you said? Is he mentioned in the journal? I know there’s a Dr. K. mentioned.”

“And a Dr. H., which I’m guessing is Hebb. However, Dr. H. didn’t seem to have anything to do with the actual experiments. He’s cited because of research he did on the subject, and there are a few passages that suggest Dr. K. was a student of his—either literally, by taking his classes, or figuratively, by studying his work. Nothing suggests Hebb was in any way involved with what happened in Sainte-Suzanne. In fact, at one point the journal writer says he told Dr. K. that he’s misusing Dr. H.’s research and that if the man found out, he’d be horrified.”

“They were taking Hebb’s research a step further.”

“Seems so. Now we need to find out what Hebb’s research was.”

After a couple of hours at the library, they had their answers. While at Harvard, Donald Hebb had studied the effects of sensory deprivation on rats. Then, in 1951, the Canadian Defense Research Board paid him to start human trials. He’d given McGill students a lot of money—twenty dollars a day—to volunteer. They were placed on beds in a cell-like room and fitted with goggles to block out light and earphones to block out sound. Tubes over their arms and gloves on their hands ensured they couldn’t feel anything.

The tests were conducted as humanely as possible. Participants ate and used the washroom—still wearing goggles and headphones. They were allowed to quit at any time.

The trial was supposed to last six weeks. Most subjects gave up after a few days. Only one made it a full week.

Hebb had theorized that without sensory stimulation, cognitive abilities would deteriorate. He was right. All the subjects performed poorly on tests afterward. Instead of allowing them to focus, prolonged deprivation actually made them confused, easily misled. Some even reported visual and auditory hallucinations.

The purpose of the experiments had been more than mere academic interest. The defense department feared the Soviets had used sensory deprivation to brainwash Canadian POWs.

Whatever happened at the house near Sainte-Suzanne, it had stemmed from this research. Yet if Hebb had found negative effects from sensory deprivation, why would anyone use it to cure mentally ill patients?

A possible answer came in an article’s reference to another McGill professor: Dr. Ewen Cameron, who’d been head of the psychiatry department while Hebb headed psychology. Cameron had used Hebb’s work to “reprogram” mentally ill patients with a combination of isolation, drugs and hypnosis.

“Is that what we were seeing?” Tess asked. “Cameron’s work?”

“I don’t think so. His work started in the mid-’50s, which means it’s past the date you saw on that calendar. But I know where we might get more information. Cameron’s still doing work here, over at Ravenscrag.”