When She Was Bad

3

I never get to have any fun….

On the other side of the surveillance mirror, Ruth Trotman shot Alan Corder a meaningful glance. A tough-minded, hawk-nosed forensic psychiatrist, originally from Great Britain and now working out of the Oregon Attorney General’s office, she was all too aware of what “having fun” used to entail for Ulysses Christopher Maxwell.

Corder, the Institute’s director, had wavy ginger hair combed straight back from a broad-cheeked, pleasant face; his characteristically placid expression often caused others to underestimate his resolve. Hastily he reached under the conference table and pushed a button: the green floor-to-ceiling curtains swept silently across the one-way glass. His mistake, he realized, was having expected Trotman to see Ulysses through his eyes: the Lyssy he had grown to love almost as a surrogate son (not surprisingly, as he had in effect raised him from a three-year-old) was a gentle, sweet-natured naif to whom violence of any kind was utterly abhorrent.

No more screwups, Corder told himself firmly-Lyssy’s future was on the line here. “If you don’t mind, I’d, ah, like to give you a little background before we bring Ulysses in.”

“I think I have all the background I need right here,” said Trotman, untying the string of the two-inch-thick manila folder in her lap and removing at random a badly photostatted coroner’s report. “Paula Ann Wisniewski. She was victim number twelve, I believe. He disemboweled her. Which made her one of the lucky ones-some of the others took years to die.” She slipped the document back into the folder, selected another at random. “And this would be-”

“I’ve seen the goddamn-” Corder caught himself, lowered his voice. “I’ve seen all that, Ruth. But what you have to understand is that for the time period during which those crimes were committed, we have an unimpeachable diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder from Irene Cogan, whom you have to agree is tops in the field and had, shall we say, unprecedented access to the patient.”

Trotman looked as though she’d just bitten down on a rotten pistachio. “As far as I’m concerned, Dr. Corder, there’s no such thing as an ‘unimpeachable’ diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder. And if by unprecedented access, you’re referring to the fact that he kidnapped and tortured Dr. Cogan, attempted to rape her, and was preparing to kill her when she was rescued, I must say I consider your choice of terminology somewhat flippant, if not outright offensive.”

“I apologize. That wasn’t my intention. I was just trying to get you to see that for all intents and purposes, the man who committed those acts-terrible as they are,” he added hurriedly, “that man no longer exists.”

“Either that, or he’s sitting on the other side of that mirror having a jolly great laugh at our expense.”

“But-”

“My job, Dr. Corder, is to determine whether Mr. Maxwell is competent to understand the charges against him, and to assist in his own defense. A judge and jury will sort out the rest.”

“But how can he assist in his own defense if he doesn’t remember a single, solitary-”

“Spare me, oh spare me. If amnesia were a bar to trial, every criminal in the world would suffer an immediate loss of memory.” Trotman leaned forward, resting her forearms on the desk. “You have to understand, the pressure is on the attorney general from every direction. The media, the governor, Maxwell’s surviving victims and the families of the ones who didn’t, district attorneys and federal prosecutors all across the nation-they’re all clamoring to know why he hasn’t been brought to trial yet. Now are you going to let me do my job, or must I go back to the AG and tell him you refused to permit a court-ordered examination?”

“No, of course not.” Corder reached under the desk, pressed another button. “Walter, we’re, ah, ready for Ulysses now.”