Syndrome E

58

James Peterson’s book was still available online, but it wasn’t in stock at the bookstores Sharko and Lucie tried. Given the title and description, a slightly savvier bookseller recommended asking at the University of Montreal Medical School—the third largest in North America—and more specifically, the Center for Neurological Sciences. Standing behind his advice, he managed to reach a professor named Jean Basso. He handed the receiver to Sharko, and the two men set an appointment for a short while later, enough time for Basso to refresh his memory of the book that he indeed owned.

In the taxi, Lucie and Sharko didn’t talk much, so close did they feel to the unspeakable mire. They were brushing up against a darkness that had engulfed politics, religion, and science, and that had insinuated itself into the recesses of sick minds. Lucie thought of her family, her daughters, whom she tried to raise in a state of innocence in a world she still wanted to believe existed. The faces of Clara and Juliette again floated above those of Alice and Lydia, little girls who hadn’t asked for anything and who had been given no chance. Today more than ever, Lucie felt powerless and terribly fallible.

They arrived at their destination.

The university rose like a monster of concrete and glass, between the western slope of Mount Royal and the infinite rows of student housing. But more impressive still was the great emptiness that reigned in midsummer. More than fifty thousand students absent, streets deserted, dining halls, gyms, libraries, and shops closed. It was like a ghost town, where all that remained were a few researchers and some maintenance and facilities staff.

Lucie and Sharko stopped in front of the beautifully designed science complex and began questioning the first people they saw. Eventually they obtained the name of a building: Paul Desmarais.

The structure was located at the other end of campus. More than half a mile away, after following the underground passageways that linked the various centers, they were ushered into an office and introduced to Professor Jean Basso, the head of what was now called the Central Nervous System Research Group. The man was a good fifty years old and affected an Einstein-like air.

Sharko explained their interest in Peterson’s book, Brain Conditioning and Freedom of Mind.

“I know it well,” Basso replied. “Who could not know his work on the brain? A remarkable scientist, who interrupted his research much too soon.”

“Would you know why?”

“No.”

Sharko was almost tempted to say, We do. He conducted experiments not very far from here, on children used as guinea pigs for a secret CIA program, along with an insane filmmaker named Jacques Lacombe.

“And do you have any idea what became of him?”

“None at all. Only the man’s scientific life interested me. As for his private life…”

He waved a green-and-black book of about four hundred pages, its cover showing a man staring down a bull. The copy had been well used, its pages yellowed and dog-eared.

“I’ll try to be brief and explain this in layman’s terms. You have to realize that for scientists of the time, what happened inside our heads was, for all intents and purposes, like a big black box. Peterson, with true genius, focused on something fundamental to the neurosciences: What took place between sensory intake—the eye seeing a red light—and its behavioral outcome—the foot stepping on the brake? What were the mechanisms that clicked into place inside that black box, so that on the basis of a sound or a smell, a movement or behavior should result? The fundamental principle that guided Peterson’s work was the tabula rasa, which posits that the mind of a newborn is a blank slate, on which experience writes its messages and thereby develops the various areas of the brain, which are related to certain senses. Basically, the origin of memories, emotional reactions, physical aptitude, of the words and ideas that constitute an individual are initially found outside that individual. Peterson conducted a slew of edifying experiments on animals to support his theories. For example, monkeys, which he deprived of several of their senses from birth. Cats, which he stimulated visually without respite. In the case of deprivation, the brain didn’t grow, and in that of sensory overload, it reached a weight higher than the norm. Which proved that the structure of the brain developed according to sensory experience. In this book, we can sense Peterson’s fascination with how the senses interact with the brain.”

“Does the term ‘Syndrome E’ mean anything to you?”

“Mmm. No, nothing.”

“And what about ‘mental contamination’?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The propagation of violence and aggressive behavior through the senses. Images and sounds so violent that they can modify the brain structure of a given individual, who through his actions then brings about a similar modification in the behavior of the group around him?”

Lucie surprised herself with the sentence she’d just uttered. But ultimately, wasn’t this the heart of all their research?

The professor rubbed his chin.

“Like a viral phenomenon? With a Patient Zero, and the propagation of an illness through the intermediary of neighboring individuals? Your theory is interesting, but…”

The professor paused a moment before continuing:

“I’ll have to look into it further. Peterson ultimately might have had a hidden agenda. Especially since he was in fact interested in areas of the brain conducive to violence, notably in monkey colonies.”

Sharko and Lucie exchanged a look.

“How so?”

“He demonstrated that monkeys who suffer injuries to Broca’s area and the amygdala develop abnormal social behavior patterns, an inability to control frustration or anger. Peterson went so far as to get them to attack tigers. In the same way, he had noted an abnormally reduced amygdala region in animals who became naturally aggressive. As if that part of the brain had atrophied. He never found an explanation for that atrophy.”

Little by little, the cops understood the path Peterson had followed and the significance of his discoveries. With each passing second, they grasped still further the essence of Syndrome E. Lucie leafed slowly through the book. Old black-and-white photos jumped out at her. Cats, their skulls attached to dozens of electrodes. Monkeys with large boxes of wires clamped to their heads. Then Peterson himself, facing the bull: the same photo as on the book jacket.

Lucie showed it to the professor.

“What does this image mean?”

“Impressive, isn’t it? Peterson was also a precursor of deep brain stimulation—using electrical impulses to provoke individual behavior.”

Sharko suddenly felt a wave of fire in his belly. Deep brain stimulation… The term he’d come across in the ME’s report, concerning the gruesome discovery in Gravenchon. Mohamed Abane had had a small particle of green sheathing under his skin, near the clavicle, and the ME had mentioned deep brain stimulation as a possible explanation for its presence.

“Explain that to us,” he said in a neutral voice.

“Galvani, 1791: a frog’s muscle contracts under electrical stimulation. The experiment was repeated by Volta in 1800, then by Du Bois-Reymond in 1848. Two decades later, in 1870, Fritsch and Hitzig notice that electrical stimulation to the brain of an anesthetized dog provokes localized movements in the body and limbs. Then we jump to 1932, and an experiment that strongly influenced Peterson: stimulating the brain of a nonanesthetized cat causes well-organized motor reflexes and emotional reactions: meowing, purring, hissing…”

It was terrifying. Lucie easily imagined Peterson, deep in his laboratory, opening skulls to gain access to the brains of animals while they were still alive and wide awake.

“Working with nonanesthetized animals was a huge step forward, for we then realized that electricity was the basis not only of movement, but also of emotion. It was in the hands of Peterson that deep brain stimulation would be born, in other words implanting electrodes in the brain through which one could transmit electrical impulses. Those large boxes you see, miss, clamped to the heads of those monkeys, are nothing more or less than the equivalent of circuit panels. By moving a small knob, you stimulate different areas of the brain, and thus provoke different reactions. Of course, the system was extremely crude and limited, but it worked.”

This was all highly enlightening. Sharko imagined a series of switches that could be turned on and off, acting upon things like sleep, anger, or motor function. What happened if you flipped several switches at the same time? What did cats feel when they heard themselves meowing without really wanting to? Those experiments must have been limitless, in both horror and cruelty.

The professor continued talking, revealing a chilling and very real truth.

“Peterson was a bit of a showman—he liked to produce an effect. For the bull, he simply implanted electrodes in the motor areas of the animal’s brain. The control box was outside the photographer’s range, and Peterson was hiding a remote control in his hand. When he pressed a button, an electrical current inhibited the motor areas and prevented the beast from moving. It’s instantaneous, like a freeze-frame.”

Sharko put his hand to his forehead. With his schizophrenia and his treatments at La Salpêtrière, he had seen what scientists were capable of. But to such a degree…

Jean Basso noticed his disturbance and smiled.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? And yet it was fifty years ago. Today, DBS has become a relatively common and widespread technique. And the equipment is much more compact. These days, the electrical stimulator is implanted beneath the skin, attached to electrodes embedded in the skull. The patient himself has a remote control that lets him start or stop the stimulation at will. With it, we’re able to help treat certain illnesses, such as Parkinson’s or obsessive-compulsive disorder, and soon maybe even depression or chronic insomnia. Its uses are still being developed.”

Sharko tried to repress the monstrous idea that had gradually been taking shape in his head. It was beyond comprehension. He nonetheless ventured the question:

“Do you think someone could do the same thing with violent behavior? Trigger or inhibit it at will, with a simple remote control?”

He was clearly thinking of Patient Zero—of the catalyzing element in a massacre, whom one could control scientifically, rather than waiting for it to occur randomly.

“Anything’s possible. It’s an awful thing to say, but electricity always trumps will or mind. With deep brain stimulation, you can stop someone’s heart, put him to sleep, keep him awake, or erase his memory. The possibilities are endless. The difficulty lies in reaching the right area with the electrodes, and sending the impulse to exactly the right place. Long electrodes have to pass physically through the brain, and therefore cross through the areas governing motor function, language, and memory. It’s no simple task and it creates problems we haven’t yet figured out how to solve. But the biggest problem is the area itself. When it comes to violence, the amygdala is very small, it controls multiple functions, and it’s in contact with some very sensitive parts of the brain. Being off by even a fraction of a millimeter can make the patient lose his memory, start raving uncontrollably, or become paralyzed for life. That’s why we need time and money to establish sufficient guidelines to justify the use of implants. There’s no room for error in neurosurgery. The technique is very promising, but once you delve into the reaches of the brain it can be either heaven or hell…”

Sharko shut the book and set it on the table. Having no more questions, the two cops said good-bye and went out, feeling as if their own brains were close to giving out.