Olshaker Psychiatric Hospital
South Turvey, Washington
The sturdy woman who heads up this mental institution is nothing like Reeve’s psychiatrist. There is no scent of citrus, no delicate orchid blooming from a cobalt pot as Reeve and Milo Bender enter the office of Dr. Wanda Blume. She wears a somber suit and sits behind a heavy walnut desk stacked with files, giving the impression that she’s anchored in administration rather than psychiatry. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and the dark circles around her eyes bespeak a run of sleepless nights.
Milo Bender thanks her for meeting them. “I’m sure these past few days have been stressful. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition.”
Without getting up, Dr. Blume gives them a tight smile and waves them toward two leather chairs. “I took a look at your file notes after you called, Agent Bender. Given the work you’ve put into Flint’s case, I can surely spare a little time.”
“I’m not an agent anymore. You can call me Milo,” he says.
Reeve scans the walls of books, recognizing several, and then spots an excellent model of the human brain. Resisting an urge to pick it up, she takes a seat.
“Are you just moving in?” Bender asks, nodding toward several framed paintings leaning against the wall beside a bookcase, apparently waiting to be hung.
Dr. Blume flashes a look of surprise. “I’ve been here since January, but I’m afraid it’s taking me awhile to get settled.”
All the walls are bare save one, which is crowded with framed diplomas and certificates. Reeve studies the scrollwork. “You moved here from Nevada, is that right? Are you getting used to the rain?”
Again, the flash of surprise. “Let’s just say that the greenery here is a nice change.” Dr. Blume spreads her hands on the desk. “Now, Miss LeClaire, I of course understand that you have a personal interest in seeing Daryl Wayne Flint apprehended, but it seems unusual that a former victim would make the effort to become involved in an ongoing investigation.”
Reeve holds her breath, sensing that something unpleasant is coming.
“And as you are surely aware, there’s very little I can tell you.” Dr. Blume lifts her palms off the desk and holds them up, empty. “There are confidentiality issues and protocols involved.”
“We’re not here to violate anyone’s privacy.”
“This is an unofficial visit,” Bender says. “We’d merely like to look around.”
“Well, you know that everyone here has already been questioned extensively. All our security tapes have been examined. Individuals at every level, employees and patients alike, have been interviewed and exonerated.”
“Of course. That’s understood,” Bender says.
“How long did you work on Flint’s case, Mr. Bender? Four years?”
“Let’s see … From the time of the kidnapping, right through his trial and sentencing. More than five.”
“He knows Flint cold,” Reeve interjects.
Dr. Blume sighs. “Well then, perhaps you might have been better than Dr. Moody at predicting Flint’s propensity for violence.”
“I certainly would have,” Reeve mutters. She shifts in her seat and notices a tower of books stacked neatly on the floor beside Dr. Blume’s desk, with Dr. Moody’s most recent on top. Glancing back at Dr. Blume, she catches the woman studying her with interest.
“Reeve is the one who seems to have the most insight into Flint,” Bender is saying.
“Because of your years as his captive?” Dr. Blume shakes her head sadly. “That’s a very unfortunate way to gain insight.”
Reeve nods and abruptly stands, wanting to sidestep this particular discussion. She finds herself drawn to the plastic model of the human brain. Placing her fingertips lightly on the clear plastic skull, she asks Dr. Blume, “May I?”
“Certainly, if you wish.”
Reeve lifts the model by its skeletal jaw and carries it to Dr. Blume’s desk, setting it down gently.
The doctor’s curious expression deepens. “Are you studying anatomy?”
“I’ve always had an interest in brain function.” Reeve removes the clear skull and lightly taps the frontal lobes above the eye sockets. “This area, the orbitofrontal cortex, controls decision making, social behavior, and aggression.”
Dr. Blume steeples her fingers with just the hint of a smile.
“Flint’s brain would likely show impairment here. And”—Reeve lifts out a part of the brain and points to a section colored in blue—“psychopaths have reduced activity here, in the anterior cingulate cortex, the center of empathy.”
Dr. Blume nods. “The ACC does show reduced activity in psychopaths. But researchers don’t know why.”
Reeve points to two areas located deep within the brain, the amygdala and hippocampus. “These are the centers of mood and memory, which can be affected by stress hormones.”
“Especially during childhood,” Dr. Blume says. “And Flint’s brain likely had some impairment in this area, since his father was by all accounts a brutal man.”
Reeve can’t muster any sympathy. No doubt her own brain suffered a flood of stress hormones, thanks to Flint. Each time she struggles to keep her feelings in check, each time a memory eludes her, she blames him. But she doesn’t mention any of this. Instead, she says as lightly as possible, “The man is also a sadist, of course.”
“A sadist, an opportunist, and a narcissist,” Dr. Blume agrees. “But he doesn’t easily fit into classification, perhaps because of his closed-head injuries.”
“Ah, from the car crash,” Bender says. “As I recall, Dr. Moody testified that brain trauma caused some kind of obsessive disorder. Isn’t that right?”
“He exhibited some ritualistic behaviors, yes.”
“What kind of ritualistic behaviors?” Reeve asks, staring at Dr. Blume.
“Repetitions. An obsession with sets of three, apparently. I never spoke with the man directly.” After a beat, Dr. Blume adds, “I did meet his mother, however.”
Reeve notices that the doctor compresses her lips, as if sealing further comment.
Bender asks, “Did Flint have any violent episodes prior to his escape?”
“None. But Dr. Moody and I had our disagreements regarding Flint’s long-term treatment. His prognosis was based on somewhat questionable results, in my opinion.”
“Meaning what?” Reeve asks. “His psychological evaluations were inconclusive?”
Dr. Blume cocks an eyebrow at her. “Somewhat. Dr. Moody administered all the standard tests, but Flint tested in the midrange.”
Reeve rests her fingertips on the plastic brain. “Didn’t I read about a new type of evaluation, a new technique that can diagnose psychopathic subcategories?”
Dr. Blume smiles at her. “You have done quite a lot of reading on this subject, haven’t you?”
“Excuse me,” Bender says, “but could you two fill me in on what you’re talking about?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Blume responds. “There are new tests which measure the brain’s response to various stimuli, such as olfactory stimulations.”
“Odors?” Bender adjusts his eyeglasses.
“Yes. The smell of fear, for instance.”
“Is there such a thing? I thought that was a myth,” he says.
“It’s a physiological fact.” Dr. Blume again steeples her fingers. “You see, there are three types of human sweat. The one associated with fear is distinct. When afraid, human skin actually sheds cells along with fluid, unlike what is produced during exercise or sexual activity. And fear produces a smell to which psychopaths respond. Measurably.”
“Respond in what way?” Reeve asks. “I mean, in real life.”
“Brain imaging shows that their pleasure centers are stimulated by fear.”
Reeve shudders at the thought that her own scent must be stored somewhere deep within Flint’s brain.
Bender clears his throat. “I’m guessing this is somewhat controversial.”
“New ideas are always controversial. But classification hardly matters at this juncture, does it?”
“Right,” Bender says. “We’re just trying to figure out where to find him.”
“And as I told your colleagues, that’s anyone’s guess. Because without his medications, Flint’s behavior will likely become more erratic, more unpredictable, more impulsive.”
The talk turns to risk assessment, and Reeve half listens while lifting the plastic model with both hands and returning it to its place on the shelf. Before setting it down, she peers into the eye sockets and whispers, “Where are you, you monster?”