Lost Lake

CHAPTER NINE

Dr. George French was in his late fifties and slightly overweight, but his clothes were hand-tailored so that the weight didn’t show. French’s gray-green eyes twinkled behind custom-made steel-rimmed bifocals. His skin was pale and his mustache and beard were salt-and-pepper like the fringe of hair around his otherwise bald head. When French walked into his waiting room, Ami Vergano put down the magazine she was reading.

“You’re looking well,” the psychiatrist said, flashing Ami an engaging smile.

Ami smiled back. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Let’s talk in my office. Do you want any coffee?”

“Coffee sounds great. I need to get my brain moving.”

There was a small kitchen halfway to Dr. French’s office. The doctor stopped there and filled two cups before continuing down the hall.

“I’m sorry your firm broke up.”

“Me too.”

“It must have been quite a shock.”

Ami shrugged. “The associates never know what’s going on. One morning the partners called us into the conference room and that was that.”

“And you’re out on your own now?”

“Yeah,” she answered, embarrassed by her fall from the higher echelons of the law to the lowly ranks of the solo shingle hangers. “I’m scraping by. Mostly divorces, wills, contracts. I’ve got a small business that sends me all its work. If Microsoft or Nike asks you for the name of a good attorney, I’d appreciate the referral.”

Dr. French laughed as he stood aside to let Ami into his office. A couch upholstered in burgundy leather sat against a pastel-blue wall under a grouping of sunny prints. Across from it, on the other side of the room, was a wide window that brought light and a skyline view into the room. The psychiatrist shut his office door and motioned Ami toward one of the two chrome-and-leather chairs that flanked a low glass coffee table. He took the other chair.

“I have someone I want you to see,” Ami told the doctor.

“A client in a divorce?”

“No. Actually, it’s a case that’s been getting a lot of notoriety. Have you heard about the fight at the Little League game?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“My son is on one of the teams that were playing and the man who was arrested was renting from me. He had the apartment over my garage. He’s the person I want to talk to you about.”

“Why me?”

“You’re an expert on posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“Ah, Mazyck,” French said, mentioning the case he had been hired to work on by Ami’s old firm. Gregory Mazyck was a veteran who had holed up in his house with a hostage. Dr. French had testified that Mazyck was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and believed the police were Iraqis and the hostage was his best friend, who had died in his arms during the Gulf War.

“How much do you know about what happened at the Little League game?”

“Not much.”

“Okay. Well, Dan-Daniel Morelli, my client-is a carpenter. I don’t know his age, but I’m guessing he’s in his late forties. He travels around the country in a pickup truck. He doesn’t have roots. Sometimes he lives in the woods for weeks at a time. He supports himself by doing odd jobs and building very beautiful handmade furniture. That’s how we met, at an art fair on the Park Blocks. He had a booth next to mine, and he was trying to get orders for his furniture. Anyway, he needed a place to stay. I liked him. He seemed very gentle. My son really took to him. I never saw any sign that he was violent.”

Ami told the psychiatrist about the fight.

“I asked him about what he did to Barney and the policeman. He said that he wasn’t thinking; that his training took over. He seemed very remorseful about what he did, very depressed. He also told me that he’d been locked up in Vietnam. I asked him if he’d been a soldier, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He also said that he had sworn not to hurt anyone again. I’m wondering if the sudden violence was connected to his experiences in Vietnam.”

“I guess that’s possible.”

“I remembered your testimony. You said that combat experience could produce symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder years after the event that caused the problem. I’d like you to talk to Dan and tell me what you think.”

“All right.”

“There’s another thing,” Ami said, “something weird. Dan’s ID is phony and they can’t find a match for his fingerprints.”

“Now that is interesting. His prints would have to be on file if he was in the military.” Dr. French stood up. “Let me check my schedule.”

He walked over to his desk and talked to his secretary over his intercom.

“I’ve got a cancellation this afternoon,” he told Ami, a moment later. “Would three be okay?”

Morelli was sitting up in bed when the guard let Ami and Dr. French into his room. The nasogastric tube and IV were gone, and some color had returned to his face. His long hair was fanned out behind his head, almost covering his pillow.

“You’re looking a lot better,” Ami said.

Morelli focused on Ami’s companion. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is George French. He’s a psychiatrist.”

Morelli smiled wearily. “That’s going to be my defense, insanity? I can save you a lot of trouble, Ami. It won’t fly. I’m sane.”

“You don’t have to be nuts to have a mental defense, Dan. Dr. French just wants to ask you some questions.”

“Is this confidential? It stays between us?”

“Yes,” Ami assured him.

Morelli shrugged and gestured toward the chairs that sat against the wall.

“Be my guest. I don’t have anything better to do.”

Ami and the doctor pulled the chairs over to the bed. George placed a yellow lined pad on his lap and scribbled a heading.

“Do you mind if I call you Dan?” he asked.

“You can call me anything you want, except late for dinner,” Morelli quipped to indicate that he wasn’t taking Dr. French’s inquisition seriously.

French laughed. “I’d like to get some background before we talk about what happened at the ball field. Is that okay?”

Morelli looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded his assent.

“Good. Let’s start with an easy one. Where did you grow up?”

“California.”

“Where in California?”

“San Diego.”

Morelli had told Ami that he was an army brat who moved around. Now he was telling Dr. French something else.

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Is your mother still living?”

“No.”

“Father?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t get along?”

“He walked out on us when I was young.”

“Did your mother remarry?”

“No.”

Dr. French made some notes before resuming the interview.

“Getting any deep psychological insights, Doc?” Morelli asked.

“Thirteen so far,” French answered with a smile.

“Touche,” Morelli replied. He was trying to upset George, but he was smart enough to see that the doctor wasn’t biting.

“Why don’t you tell me where you went to high school?” French asked.

“St. Martin’s Prep.”

George looked surprised. “You must have been pretty well off.”

“Scholarship boy.”

“So your grades must have been good.”

“A’s mostly.”

“Any sports?”

“I did a lot of stuff in junior high. No organized sports at St. Martin’s. I concentrated on my grades pretty much and kept to myself.”

“What subjects did you enjoy?”

“Science, math. I liked physics.”

“Did you like St. Martin’s?”

Morelli shrugged. “Some of the teachers were pretty sharp. The kids were from a different world. We didn’t have much in common.”

“Did you have any close friends?”

A cloud descended over Morelli’s features. “I don’t want to get into that.”

“You knew Vanessa in high school,” Ami said.

Morelli looked upset. “Yeah, Vanessa. I knew her. But I’m not going there, so you can move on.”

“Okay,” Dr. French said agreeably. “What about college?”

Morelli did not answer.

“Mr. Morelli?” George prodded.

“No college. It was during ’Nam. I was drafted.”

“You didn’t want to go in?”

“I don’t know what I wanted. It was complicated.”

Ami thought that Morelli sounded sad and bitter.

“Where did you go through basic training?” Dr. French asked.

“Fort Lewis.”

“This was your usual basic training?”

“Yeah.” Morelli paused, remembering something. “There were the tests. I don’t think they were part of the normal training.”

“What tests?”

“We all took tests during basic training; IQ, language proficiency. Like that. At first, we took the tests in a group, but I started getting singled out after a while. I’d be called in on a Saturday morning or midweek night, and I’d take these tests with two or three other guys. We were told not to talk about them. They were real strict about that. But I did talk to this one guy once. He was curious about it, too. It turns out his folks were Russian emigrants, so he was fluent. He knew that one of the other guys spoke an Asian language and another one had majored in Russian in college.”

“And you?”

“That’s what I couldn’t figure. I had high school French and my grades were good, but this guy spoke Russian like a native.”

“Did anything else unusual happen in basic?”

“Well, it wasn’t unusual. It was just unexpected.”

“And that was?”

“My posting. We were asked to indicate a preference for AIT,” Morelli said. When Ami looked puzzled, he explained. “Advanced Individual Training. I indicated OCS-officer candidate school-first, then Special Forces. I got Fort Holabird. It’s just outside Baltimore.”

“What went on there?”

“Intelligence training.”

“And you didn’t indicate a preference for that?”

“Nope. But mine was not to reason why, right? So I went along with the program.”

“What did you learn at Fort Holabird?”

“Intelligence stuff. How to tail someone, how to break and enter, electronic surveillance.”

“Bugging?”

“And other nifty skills.” Morelli smiled. “We got to go on these field trips.”

“Give us an example.”

“Oh, I’d pick a name out of the phone book and follow the mark all day. Another time I bugged a business. I broke in at night and put the bug in place. We listened to hours of the most boring shit. A few nights later I broke in again and took it out.”

“What would have happened if you were caught?”

“One guy was. The army smoothed things over. If it was cops, it was okay because they knew we did this stuff from time to time. If it was a civilian, they’d send over a colonel with a chest full of medals. First, he’d appeal to the guy’s patriotism, then his pocketbook. If that failed, he’d let the guy know how difficult life can be, in a very subtle way, of course.”

“Did anything happen at Fort Holabird that was unusual?” Dr. French asked.

Morelli nodded. “Around the end of my fourth month I was called out of training and told to report to an office on the base. There were two Green Berets waiting for me, both in full dress. They told me that they wanted me to apply for Special Forces training. They said that they were very impressed by my records and felt that I’d fit the mold. It was all low-key and very flattering. I was led to believe that I’d been singled out from all the others, and they hinted at clandestine missions and high-risk assignments.

“You have to remember that I was just a kid and very impressionable. Both of the Green Berets were out of a John Wayne movie. Their chests were covered with decorations. And there was the mystique of the Special Forces.”

George smiled. “I assume that you signed up.”

“You bet. As soon as I finished up at Holabird I went to Airborne at Fort Benning, Georgia, for three weeks to learn how to jump out of planes. After that it was the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”

“What did you do there?”

“Intense physical and survival training. There were five-mile obstacle courses; we learned how to repel off mountains and build rope bridges; that sort of thing. The survival training was a bitch. They’d drop us in salt water in a remote coastal area. We’d learn how to get to shore and survive off the land. You know, what type of plants were edible in the region, how to build a fire, real Boy Scout stuff.

“Then there was specialty training. Your basic unit in the Special Forces was the A team. That’s two officers and ten enlisted men. Each A team member has a specialty. There are combat engineers who train with explosives, medics, radio operators, language experts, weapons experts, and an expert in psychological operations. That was me.”

“What exactly did you do?”

“I learned how to use medical and agrarian assistance, assassination, and fear to bring people around and get noncombatants to work for us, and I learned how to interrogate prisoners.”

Morelli paused for a moment, as if he had recalled something that he wished he had not remembered.

“Anything else?” Dr. French asked in an effort to get the conversation going again.

Morelli’s eyes refocused on the psychiatrist. “Practical operations,” he answered. “My team would go out as a unit. We trained in Alaska and Panama; cold weather, jungle climates. After I finished up at Fort Bragg, I went to Fort Perry in North Carolina for training in advanced interrogation techniques. Then back to Bragg.”

“Did you ever get to put your training to use?”

Morelli looked wary, but he nodded.

“What were some of your assignments?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Is that because they were classified?”

“I’m not going to discuss my assignments.”

“All right.”

Dr. French made some more notes. Ami thought Morelli’s energy was decreasing. He closed his eyes while French wrote on the pad, and his last few answers had been given quietly.

“Ami told me that you were in Vietnam.”

Morelli looked at Ami when he nodded.

“And you were a prisoner of war?”

Morelli nodded again.

“How long were you a prisoner?”

“About two weeks.”

George tried to hide his surprise. “Why so short a time?”

“I escaped.”

“Where were you captured?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“This was Vietcong?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“How did you get away?”

Morelli got a faraway look in his eyes. “I made up my mind that I was going. I’d had enough of the situation.”

“Were you in a prison camp or a…?”

“I wasn’t any place you’ve heard of.”

“But it was in Vietnam?”

Morelli didn’t answer.

“Where did you go after your escape?” French asked.

“Into the jungle. I have a fair ability to get by in the woods without a map or compass. It worked out okay.” Morelli closed his eyes again. “I’m getting tired, and I’d like to stop,” he said.

“Fine,” French agreed. “Just one more question. What was your final rank?”

“Captain.”

Dr. French stood and Ami followed. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Morelli didn’t respond.

“I called a top criminal attorney about taking over your case, but he’s out of town,” Ami said. “I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

Morelli nodded but seemed uninterested.

“Vanessa is still in town. She still wants to talk to you. What should I tell her?”

“She has to leave. Tell her to go while she still can.”

“Is she in some danger, Dan?”

“I’m tired,” Morelli answered.

Dr. French touched Ami on the arm. “Let’s let Mr. Morelli rest,” he said. Ami was worried about Morelli, but the doctor was right. Her client had shut down and she knew they wouldn’t get anything more out of him today.

”What do you think?” George asked as they walked to their cars.

“Dan was obviously not your typical GI,” Ami answered enthusiastically. “Can you imagine what it must have been like for him after his escape from the Vietnamese?”

“Then you buy his story?” George asked, without revealing his own opinion.

“It certainly sounded real. Why, do you have doubts?”

“Last year, I was involved with a fellow whose defense to an embezzlement charge was that he worked for the CIA and was using the funds for a covert operation. He was very convincing and could look you in the eye and say the most outrageous things, but they were all lies. He had read every book ever written on the CIA and spy novels and newsmagazines. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of the CIA and its workings.”

“You think that Morelli is making this up?”

“He has the army training routines down, but those details are easy to learn. He could have known someone in the army or read about them in a library or online. Think about his story, Ami. Morelli wouldn’t discuss the smallest detail of any of his missions. I’ll tell you something else. I was in army intelligence during Vietnam. I’ve never heard of an American making a successful escape from a Vietnamese prison camp.”

Ami’s unlawyerly enthusiasm for Morelli’s exciting story made her feel foolish. It had been a welcome addition to the life of someone whose excitement usually came mainly at her son’s Little League games.

“Don’t look so glum,” George said with a light laugh. “I haven’t drawn any conclusions about Morelli yet. I’m just not going to accept a story like this without hard evidence. I have a friend who may be able to get us a copy of Morelli’s military records. Let’s see what they say.”

“What are the implications if he’s telling the truth, George?”

Dr. French thought for a moment. “The stress he would have been under if he was in a Vietnamese prison camp could cause PTSD. But I’d have to have a hell of a lot more proof that he was a prisoner and a lot more information about his conditions of captivity before I’d give that opinion in court.”

“Let me ask you something else. What if he made it all up, but he believes he was some kind of commando? Would that make him legally insane?”

“Well,” George said slowly, “that would be paranoid behavior, but he’s far too integrated to be paranoid schizophrenic. I don’t see that at all. He has good contact with reality. By that I mean that he speaks rationally, he’s aware of his situation, and his responses to questions are appropriate.”

Dr. French paused. “Paranoid personality disorder is another possibility. The onset usually occurs in early adulthood. There’s a pervasive distrust of others. People’s motives are interpreted as being malevolent. But I don’t really see that here. Morelli was willing to talk to us. He confided sensitive information to us, which someone with this disorder would be reluctant to do.”

They walked through the parking lot with Dr. French deep in thought. When they arrived at Ami’s car, French ventured another opinion.

“There’s a possibility that Morelli is in a paranoid state, but that form of paranoia is extremely rare.”

“Explain that to me.”

“A person is in a paranoid state when he has a very tight delusional system that develops in early adulthood. It starts with a belief that an outside force, like the CIA, is controlling him. Once the delusion is in place the individual constructs an extremely complex delusional system that is based on it. If you buy the original premise, everything else in the system works logically and it’s almost impossible to crack it. This type of individual is always in the delusional system, but he keeps his mouth shut because he learns that talking about it gets him into trouble and he is healthy enough to control it.”

“Would he open up to us because he’s afraid of going to jail?”

“That’s possible, and you told him that his conversation was confidential. Opening up under those circumstances would be consistent with that type of paranoia.”

“You said that a paranoid state is extremely rare.”

“Almost as rare as meeting someone who’s done what Morelli claims to have done. Look, it’s more fun believing an exciting story like Morelli’s than subjecting it to scrutiny, but that’s what we have to do.”

“Okay, get the military records. Call me if they confirm or rebut his contentions. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding a lawyer with criminal experience who can take over Morelli’s case.”