An Artificial Life Ch. 03

The body had been found by a patrol officer at 0615 hours Tuesday, and the coroner indicated time of death between 2300 and 0300 hours Monday night or Tuesday morning. No progress had been made on identification until an unidentified caller, a woman, called the tip line on Tuesday at 1300 hours to express concern that Vanessa Amante had not been at classes Monday or Tuesday.

The information was picked up by homicide, and a routine check indicated that Vanessa had dropped out of school. To be thorough, Detective Fordham contacted the University and had copies of Vanessa's photo ID and a set of dental x-rays within an hour, and sent them to the coroner for comparison. By 1600 hours Tuesday, a preliminary match on the dental x-rays indicated the body was indeed Vanessa Amante.

And I was on a plane the next morning, Henry thought as the review continued. Technically, the suspect had already been held well over the forty-eight hours, he mused. But not by me.

Local authorities had "picked up" Jackson in his apartment at 1730 hours for questioning. Caldwell had read the report on how the locals had enthusiastically "picked up" the kid: tranquilizer pen, cloth hood, zip ties... no wonder the kid had been freaked out and confused.

If Jackson hadn't been psychotic before, that experience alone would have pushed anyone over the edge, Henry thought shaking his head. He wondered if Congress may have gone too far authorizing sweeping "custodial interdiction procedures" for suspects and "persons of interest" in crimes of violence. He had waited until Wednesday at 1700 before exercised his federal authority over the suspect, starting the clock on the forty-eight hour hold.

"We need to pick this up a bit. We have been through this part extensively this morning. Can we focus on the suspect, please?" Caldwell asked, getting control of his wandering thoughts while dry review of the case history had been droning in the background.

The team went over the findings again, beginning with forensics. Fingerprints, DNA, hair found at the suspect's apartment -- not a match.

Fordham's phone chirped, and he looked at the number. "I need to take this," he said looking at Agent Caldwell who gave a curt nod.

Detective Fordham stepped out. The rest continued with the discussion. Dr. Sinclair pressed her point. "He believes everything he says. His behavior is entirely consistent with a psychotic break."

"You don't need to convince me, talk to Carl." Connie Francis said. "But what about the sex? He believes he had an intense sexual relationship with the victim."

"With Ainsley, his fantasy girl, not with Vanessa. He had sex with Ainsley. He made her up," Dr. Sinclair stated, "the real woman was probably a hooker."

"And she probably cleaned him out when she left. Nothing of value except his wall monitors were left in his apartment." Agent Caldwell added.

"She left her panties," Connie smirked.

"Maybe you can use them when you find her and prosecute her for theft." Dr. Sinclair said tersely, prompting a look from Connie as she continued, observing, "this poor man is a tortured soul. To be taken advantage of like that."

Angela Sinclair cared about her patients, event the ones that committed or were suspected of crimes. Jackson wasn't her patient yet, he was a suspect: her role was not to treat him, but to gain information and provide insight. But Henry could see Angela's wheels turning.

Agent Caldwell maintained a straight face, willing himself not to roll his eyes. "We don't torture, Angela. What do we have on the professor -- uh," he shuffled his notes, "... Dr. Johnson. I understand he had some interaction with Vanessa."

Detective Fordham returned while Caldwell was speaking. "And by interaction you mean he fucked her."

"No, I was thinking more of his public humiliation. We have the letter, right?" Caldwell continued, trying to get the letter up on the wall monitor.

"Well, he could be our guy, but that call was from the lab. While canvassing the area, a patrol officer dove a dumpster and found a small backpack with the victim's ID, driver's license and cellphone." Fordham informed the group. "The cellphone belonged to Vanessa Amante."

"And we're just getting this? When did they find it?" Caldwell asked.

"Wednesday afternoon. Some kind of paperwork screw up. It was turned into forensics but not to us. At least we are being told now." Fordham shared Agent Caldwell's frustration.

"Where was this found?" Connie Francis asked.

Fordham walked over to the area map. The location of the body dump at the drainage canal was in red. He placed his finger in the middle of a nearby alley.

"Here, less than a block away. Also, couple of crisp hundreds were recovered." Fordham informed the group as he tapped the screen. "No prints on anything, it was in the bottom of the dumpster covered in goo..."

"No prints or DNA?"

"Not a chance. Everything was soaked -- poor bastard that had to dive for that." Fordham sighed. He had been the poor bastard many times, and he felt sorry for the patrol officer.

"What about the cellphone? Any data from that?" Connie Francis asked.

"I forgot to ask," Fordham said dialing his phone as he left the room. The rest waited for his return. He was back quickly.

"Nope," he said, once the door closed. "It looks like she only turned it on to make calls or check it occasionally. She used it to authenticate her withdrawal at the bank. Other than that, there isn't anything from that day. Once they got the card, they ran the tower logs."

"Smart girl, she didn't like being tracked I imagine," Agent Caldwell observed, asking, "and did her phone show her at the suspects address?" He realized he had switched to calling David a "suspect" again.

"They only looked at a month's data. Vanessa was there on two weekends this past month, which is consistent with the suspect's account of their gaming habits. Nothing this weekend." Ford reported.

"This is starting to look more like a crime of opportunity, folks." Agent Caldwell announced, looking around the room.

Fordham raised his hands in surrender. "You're right, he may be out of his mind, but he didn't do this, poor schmuck. We could have wrapped this up quicker if they'd bothered to get us the information sooner."

"It may help you later, Carl, but it doesn't change anything regarding this kid." Henry could read Fordham's frustration.

Connie Francis agreed. "I can't charge him. As of now, Vanessa Amante, a woman with no known relatives suddenly quit grad school, withdrew all of her savings, cleared out of her apartment and tried to leave town, only to get mugged and beaten in an alleyway and dumped in a ditch."

"That about sums it up." Fordham agreed.

"And we don't like David Jackson for the crime?" Caldwell asked everyone present.

They all began shaking their head when Detective Fordham interrupted, "hold on, the guys also found cameras near the alley entrance." Reading his message, he continued, "video might show something." Everyone perked up a bit as Carl typed on his phone.

"Any chance we can see it?" Dr. Sinclair asked.

"No," he said sending a message. "They weren't even plugged in. A dead end. Jesus -- can't they just send the damn reports on time? They've had it for more than two days."

"What about all the talk of the optic implants or the 'nerd glasses' mentioned by David?" Agent Caldwell asked. He was back to calling him "David" now.

"The autopsy found nothing, I doubt that tech even exists. I told you, he made it up, it's part of his elaborate fantasy." Dr. Sinclair emphasized.

"He may have washed out, but damn that kid has one hell of an imagination. His writing is way too heavy on the tech, but otherwise..." Caldwell said, smiling.

"I'd read him." Connie Francis stated, trying not to blush.

Dr. Angela Spicer shot a quick look at Connie. Caldwell noted Dr. Spicer had switched into protective mode regarding her soon to be patient. They were all getting tired.

None of the team knew of Special Agent Caldwell's instructions, but it was looking more like Vanessa did not die at the hands of a terrorist conspiracy. Carrying around eight thousand dollars in that area was likely to get anyone killed.

As sad as he felt for his departed friends, Sara and Michael Donovan, he knew what he would be reporting to his superiors at the Bureau: "No, we don't care." At least Vanessa is back with her parents and her adoptive parents. He'd let the local police figure out the rest.

"Anything else? Is there anything more at the lab?" Henry looked at Detective Fordham typing on his phone. "Anything at all? Carl?"

Fordham shook his head. "That's everything."

"Okay, people. I am going to have to order the release of David Jackson. Any objections?" he said, looking at Dr. Sinclair.

"In his current state, I will place him on a mental health hold, at least for the next few days while the drugs work their way out of his system. Depending on how he is when he comes out of it, I may have to place an extended hold on him. Has anyone contacted his parents?" Angela asked.

"I will take care of that." Caldwell concluded, his color draining imperceptibly from the others. He had read the Bureau file on Cynthia and Alexander Jackson, David's parents. This task would not be pleasant. They had earned their nickname many times over, and he did not look forward to being on the wrong side of the "viper duo." Hell, President Goldstone was nothing compared to them, he thought, if the stories in the briefing could be believed.

"Okay, let's wrap this up. David Jackson is no longer a suspect in this murder, are we all in agreement?" Even Fordham agreed.

Caldwell continued, "Is there any evidence or reason to believe Jackson is a material witness in this matter?" No one spoke. "I need an answer, yes or no, people -- Fordham?"

Beginning with Detective Fordham, each person in attendance answered in the negative.

"Then as the Special Agent who authorized the chemically-assisted interrogation and the chemically-induced hypnotic interview, I am required to inform you that the information obtained is deemed not relevant to this investigation." Caldwell was going by memory now, having been involved in so many of these cases in the past. "I need all video and audio recordings of the sessions, any notes containing any reference to these sessions, anything at all about the sessions, people, except for the memories in your head."

"And Detective Fordham --" he smiled, as Fordham looked up. "The sooner you forget this, the better."

Fordham feigned distress. "I'm hurt, you know. This is not my first rodeo ..."

"I didn't hear that, Carl," he grinned back. All of the people in this room knew the rules. Chemically-enhanced interrogation, whether assisted or hypnotic, was a closely held secret among law enforcement. Every person in the room had been through training and had been cleared at the highest levels to attend the sessions. Now that David Jackson was cleared in the murder and they had agreed his participation was irrelevant to the case, no one would every learn of these sessions.

Dr. Sinclair didn't need reminding, she helped draft all of the current regulations and procedures. Even Agent Caldwell's report regarding David Jackson would be scrubbed, it would read "David Jackson was interviewed, and following an extensive investigation, cleared of involvement in the matter." His superiors would never ask, and he would never volunteer any additional information. "Extensive" was the word that would terminate discussion.

Henry truly wished David well. He knew that he would be leaving David in the best of care with Dr. Sinclair. She would personally direct his care at the Institute, and she would move mountains to help him get better. And if her reaction to Connie Francis' off-colored remark was any indication, no one would come between this mama bear and her new cub.

"We are done here, people. I leave the rest to you." Special Agent Caldwell looked around, thanking the team as he gathered his papers and began placing them in his leather satchel. "Good hunting, everyone. I need to get back and brief DC." It would be a very short report: "No sir, we really don't care."

Meet the Parents

David awoke to the sounds of gentle waves against a shore. He looked around and found himself in a room with wall panels displaying a beach on a tropical island, with the sun rising on the distant ocean horizon. He was disoriented, and searched his mind for an anchor, any reference to explain his current situation.

He was in a comfortable bed, and the diorama was broken with doors, one in the middle of the video wall jungle, and one interrupting the view up the beach. I'm in a hospital, he thought. But why?

A jumble of memories, and experience drifted through his semi-conscious mind, amplifying his internal questions which in turn brought on memory of other questions, first by faceless people in a more sterile room, and a separate round of questions -- or was it a conversation -- with a very kind, soft spoken woman wearing white.

The sound of a metal door opening, drew his attention, and the woman in white appeared, smiling. "How are you, David?" she asked in her calm, soothing voice.

"Is this real?" David asked. "Where am I and who are you?" Who am I for that matter? David asked himself. He was comfortable lying in his bed, he felt like he couldn't get up even if he wanted to do so. He was relaxed, so relaxed. Just like I was when... and the memory floated away without connecting.

"This is real, David. You are in my hospital, and I am Dr. Sinclair. You can call me Angela if you prefer." She found that patients responded better to the term hospital as opposed to institute.

"But you work for me, don't you?" David asked, his question bringing back memories of a garden, of her typing while he... While I did what? He thought. I was writing a book. No, it wasn't a book. It was real, it really happened. He focused his efforts to look through the fog as the mist in his mind began to clear.

David's eyes went wild, his breathing came in rapid, deep gasps. "Oh god, is she really dead? Why would they say she was dead. Vanessa... no, Ainsley... O god o god o..." He was screaming now.

"I need a little help in here!" he heard a voice call. Other people in white came in and grabbed him as he thrashed against restraints holding him down. Wait, I'm tied down? What the hell?

He struggled for thought as his panic rose and the memories flooded in: of even more questions asked and answered; of his time with Ainsley; of Vanessa at the lab staring off into space through her nerd glasses; of his fear as he was pulled from his bed and blackness and cloth were pulled over his face; of hands behind his back and being pulled upright; of a quick pain in his neck; of wanting to shout; and then, finally, of darkness and nothing.

Was anything real? It had to be, I remember so much. I was there. He fought against the restraints as his mind urged his memories to break free. And then the medication took hold, and all memories fled as he succumbed to silence and an enforced bliss.

"That could have gone better," Dr. Sinclair stated. "Increase the Ziprasidone and keep him comfortable. I will see him again tonight. We can try backing him down to straight Ativan later."

Over the next several days, Dr. Sinclair adjusted David's medications. He was showing improvement and no longer experienced the extreme panic reactions she had witnessed when she first began his treatment. He had settled on calling her Dr. Angela, and she felt she was beginning to gain his trust.

David persisted in the delusions brought about by his psychotic episode, but he was responding well to therapy and could speak of Vanessa and Ainsley more calmly now, although he would devolve to tears and confusion by the end of each session. But the sessions were running longer now, and that was encouraging. She had been able to keep David calm for up to twenty-five minutes in the last session.

Unfortunately, she had made mention of the time, and when she said nine "twenty-five" he began chanting the phrase "pre-alpha" repeatedly and had to be sedated. She made a note that "twenty-five" was a trigger and had the time erased from his video wall as a precaution.

She had made a deal with Special Agent Caldwell to have the Bureau pick up the costs of David's care and treatment, arguing that the "enhanced" interview techniques had complicated David's chances of full recovery. Henry hadn't argued with her, he never did, he just signed the form before he left to catch his flight back to Washington.

"I don't want updates, and I don't care how long it takes. Do whatever is right, Angela." Those were his orders, and she would carry them out. She liked that about Henry Caldwell. He was a good man. Angela did not mention her professional opinion to Henry. David would be spending quite awhile as her guest; and it wouldn't be cheap.

David's parents were a whole different story. She wasn't sure if they were worried about David or if they were worried about how it might reflect on them if it became known that their son was in psychiatric care. Angela had assured them without giving any information on David's condition that he would be well treated, and with the highest level of discretion. "Discretion" resonated will with the couple, and they requested a regular update on his progress. Maybe they did care, she thought. She told him she would do her best to update them within the bounds of David's rights of privacy.

The parents shifted to the issue of money, a reasonable concern for all parents. The couple argued that they could care better for him at home, and that David couldn't possibly afford a lengthy stay. Angela let them know that the University had excellent coverage for this sort of thing, and that there would be no co-pay for David -- or them. They ended the call quickly after learning they had no responsibility. "Let us know when he's back to himself, or just have him call us when he's out." Her opinion of David's parents did not improve.

Class Is in Session

He was making progress, Dr. Sinclair recorded in her notes at the end of his first week of therapy. She had ordered him freed from restraints, and she had the staff place a comfortable chair in his room for him to sit and think between his sessions. He often paced about, sometimes animated and gesturing, but he remained mostly calm during the day. He occasionally held back a giggle or it escaped, but this didn't bother her.

At night, David had disturbed sleep, calling out at times for Ainsley, or waking suddenly upright and visibly making efforts to regulate his disturbed breathing. He no longer required sedation at night, and video indicated that he was able to control these attacks. The staff had reported several incidents of David experiencing nocturnal ejaculation, and video indicated that this was neither masturbatory nor conscious.

In her experience, all of his was normal for recovering victims of psychotic schism. David was putting reality back together slowly, and occasional setbacks and vivid dreamscapes were all part of the process. His realities were talking with one another, trying to reconcile, maybe even battle for dominance.

She believed that each of us creates reality. Often we create multiple realities or even situational reality. It is an evolutionary advantage we have over other species, she theorized. Sometimes people get trapped in an unhelpful reality and it dramatically impedes their ability to compete for resources and societal acceptance. She passed by such people everyday as she walked about the city, often dropping change in their cups and seeing their circumstances in light of failed attempts at reality engineering. She had never written this down or given lectures on this theory, and she probably never would.