The Truth Machine Read online

  Reece glared. Defiance showed in his eyes—and something else.

  Contempt, Carter thought to himself.2 Mr. Reece is a racist.

  He plied his sense of timing and patience. Perfectly still and silent, he gazed at Reece with such intensity that the inmate felt as though Carter was peering straight into his brain.

  Reece had always enjoyed therapy sessions. In a way, he was addicted to them. Talking about himself with the various psychologists, psychiatrists, and social workers made him feel important, as though his life meant something, and as if there might be some hope for him. The more he disclosed, the better he felt.

  He now realized that this new shrink wasn’t going to utter another word; it was up to Reece to say something next, or there would be no further discussion.

  Finally he blurted, “I was only nine, but I knew there was gonna be trouble. Dad got mean when he was drunk and I knew he’d been drinkin’ a long time ’cause he got home so late. I heard them arguin’—my mother and him, I mean. Then I heard her go. She just left me with him. I never forgave her.”

  Did I just tell him I blamed my mother for what happened?

  Suddenly Reece wasn’t enjoying himself at all. He had never said that before. Not to anyone. What’s this black bastard doing that’s so different?

  “You never forgave your mother, but it was your father who brutally raped you. Tell me your thoughts about him.”

  Again the words came in a rush, unconsidered and unedited: “I didn’t really understand what was going on. I was in shock. He was like a runaway train and I was the track. Nothin’ could stop him. He smelled so bad. And it hurt. It hurt like hell.”

  Carter leaned toward Reece from the edge of his chair.

  “Are you absolutely certain your mother knew what was happening?”

  “Certain? Shit yeah. My mother was a goddam coward, but she wasn’t dumb. She knew exactly what would happen if she left me alone with him. She knew. Next day, she wouldn’t even take me to the doctor. Scared shitless he’d call in the Child Protection—maybe lose them their precious welfare checks. Fuckin’ right she knew.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone else?”

  “Yeah, I sure did. I told my best friend, Joey DelGreco. Know what he said?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Joey says, ‘Well I think that means you’re a queer now.’ That’s what he said. But he never told anyone else. Even after we stopped bein’ friends which was right around then.” Reece laughed. “Maybe he was afraid everybody’d think he was a fruit, too.”

  “So what Joey DelGreco said caused you anxiety. You felt.....”

  “Haven’t you read my file, dumbass? I come home one day about eight years later and my mother’s talkin’ on the phone. I ask her what’s for dinner or somethin’ like that. Anyway, she says ‘Hold your horses, you little faggot, I’m busy’ and I snap. I just snap. Musta stabbed her 100 times. Carved her up like a goddam side a beef. Afterwards, my arm’s so tired I can’t even move it. So yeah. Yeah, motherfucker. I guess what Joey DelGreco said caused me some anxiety.”

  Of course Carter had read the file quite carefully. And as he played back earlier tape recordings of Reece and the state psychiatrist, he realized that Reece had been lying in previous therapy sessions. Before today he had always told the story differently, claiming he blacked out after arguing with his mother. “And then I just remember the police came.”

  The police came because Reece had called them about 45 minutes after he carved up his mother. It was an action consistent with temporary insanity. Too consistent, Carter believed. Reece’s attorney had used the threat of an insanity defense to plea-bargain his case to second degree manslaughter.

  Reece would be out of prison in less than four years.

  Carter now suspected that matricide had not been Reece’s only violent crime. Unknown to Carter, Reece, as a teenager, had been responsible for a string of animal mutilations and two sexual assaults on younger children.

  Also, just 16 days ago Reece had stabbed Kendall DeLoach, a fellow inmate who had tried to sell him “protection.” Reece’s response was to slide a wooden blade he had stashed earlier clean into the inmate’s throat. Miraculously DeLoach survived. In keeping with the twisted code of prisoners, the injured inmate told the authorities he had been attacked from behind and therefore couldn’t identify his attacker.

  In 1991 video cameras were about the size of a man’s cap and cost a few hundred dollars each; large and expensive, but not prohibitively so. Yet because of privacy rights, these cameras could not be used in prison cell areas in the United States. So officially the assault by Reece didn’t occur. Many of the inmates and a few of the veteran guards knew the real story, but nobody acted on it. They just left Reece alone.

  If they hadn’t, our world might look very different.

  CHAPTER 2

  TWO FIVE-SIGMA EVENTS

  Massachusetts State Prison

  January 6, 1995—The Republican party assumes majority control of Congress after an unprecedented rejection by voters of the liberal policies instituted by legislators over the previous six decades since the New Deal. House Speaker Newt Gingrich, whose political action committee, Gopac, helped elect many Republican legislators, is now considered the second most powerful politician in America.—Russia’s President Yeltsin, who replaced Gorbachev as the nation’s leader, finds himself in political peril over his government’s inept and tragic war in Chechnya.—The United States public rivets itself on the upcoming double-murder trial of former football star O. J. Simpson. The trial will offer many Americans a long-term, close look at their expensive and flawed judicial system.—Through delicate diplomacy conducted at the eleventh hour by former President Jimmy Carter, war is narrowly averted in Korea, for the time being.

  Some 40 months after his first meeting with Reece, Alphonso Carter was having one of those mornings. It could have been worse, he decided; but his throbbing head and foggy brain were bad enough. He felt irritable, dulled, and marginally angry, all rare conditions for him. Just great, he thought. Why today, when I need my edge more than ever?

  The only explanation he could deduce for his attack of “the morning stupids” was that he hadn’t slept enough. Without his normal seven hours, his brain became akin to a 15-year-old automobile engine, its over-stressed timing chain firing in fitful pops and random stutters. Disjointed thoughts continued to run through his mind independently of, and despite, his intentions.

  Even Katherine, his wife of 14 months, had become aware of his restlessness, and she was a heavy sleeper, rarely aware of his presence at all between the hours of midnight and six a.m. Still, twice during the night she had come fully awake and had asked him what the matter was. He had assured her that he was fine, but she was having none of it. She could feel his distress in her sleep. Eventually his anxiety and sense of dread had so permeated their bed that neither of them could sustain any pretense of normalcy. From 2:30 a.m. until dawn they’d held each other close, sometimes in restive sleep, often wide awake.

  Dr. Carter had a horrifying problem and absolutely no solution.

  Now, at 10:14 a.m., seated in his office with six colleagues who had become inexplicably uncomfortable in his presence, talking to none of them in particular, Carter said, “This progress report is the most ominous-looking thing I have ever seen....” His voice trailed away momentarily. “Hell, I wrote most of it myself and it looks worse to me every time I read it. I wish I could tell you there was hope, but I would be lying.”

  Terry Harwood, the unit manager, reminded Carter in a much too cheery voice, “In the report you describe this guy almost like he’s some kinda sex criminal. I don’t quite follow your concerns. The only crime Reece ever committed was killing his mother.”

  Carter massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and admonished himself not to snap at this naive bureaucrat. “No,” he told Harwood, the words rolling off his tongue even more slowly and carefully than usual, “that is the only cr
ime we know about, but it has not been his only crime; on that you may depend. I have never seen such severe rage in a rape victim . . . of either sex. When Reece murdered his mother, his anger was so powerful he apparently found his release within the homicide itself. That he skipped the sexual component is all the more alarming.”

  Harwood lashed back, “You did have over three years with him. Didn’t your sessions help at all?”

  “Not in the least,” Carter answered calmly, his actor’s voice achieving an almost condescending tone, like that of a schoolmaster patiently explaining a geometry axiom to a fifth-grader. “There is no legal way to cure a man like Reece. As I am sure you must be aware, the recidivism rate for treated sex offenders is slightly higher than it is for untreated offenders. As brutal as this may seem, Mr. Harwood, surgical castration is the only effective treatment known.”

  “Surgical castration works on these guys?”

  “Apparently. In a Danish study involving 84 castrated criminals, only three committed sex crimes after castration—and all were nonaggressive acts. Obviously no castrated rapist has ever been known to rape again. Castration has been tested in several other countries, but never in the United States.”

  “Too bad,” Harwood whispered under his breath.

  In 1995 approximately one out of every six prisoners in state and federal lockups was a sex offender. Sex criminals tended to be very active, averaging perhaps a crime a week. The problem was severe and seemed to be getting worse.

  Carter, never one to sully his diagnoses with political opinions, merely added, “It may take a year or it may only take a few days, but Reece is going to kill again.”

  Harwood knew better than to question the doctor’s judgment. They had worked together for almost four years, and Carter was a cautious man; he’d seldom offered such an unhedged prediction. In rare but similar cases in the past, he had always been right.

  Harwood shrugged. “We can’t release this report to the press but at least we can circulate it to police departments. Any other suggestions?”

  Everyone in the room knew all about the “Privacy Act.” In 1974, Congress had passed legislation that, among other things, dictated severe penalties against those disseminating to the press any prisoner information outside the public domain. As federal law, the Privacy Act applied to every state and federal penal system. If Carter were ever caught violating the Act, he could never practice again. Besides, he would never break any law governing his professional conduct; committing such a crime would undermine everything he stood for and believed.

  Carter finally answered. “Mr. Reece is neither insane nor stupid. He knows he is dangerous, but believes, incorrectly, that he can control his impulses. He will not let me have him committed. Believe me, I have tried—and I will keep trying, but I know I will not succeed.”

  “What about counseling?” Harwood asked.

  “He has agreed to counseling; I only hope he will show up. I have decided to work with him myself, since he trusts me as much as he is capable of trusting anyone. But I doubt more counseling will help. The only other thing I can suggest is around-the-clock surveillance.”

  Tony Bechtold, the case manager, spoke. “I can pull some strings, probably have him followed for a week or two—assuming he stays in Middlesex County. That’ll take some serious begging even with this progress report. After that we should at least be able to keep tabs on him through the probation office. But I’m guessing the best we’ll be able to do is nab him after his first assault.”

  Carter thought to himself, Reece’s first assault will be a homicide.

  Harwood added, “Obviously we’ll warn his probation officer, but after probation he won’t even have to register his address. His term of supervision’s only 12 months.”

  “I doubt it will take him that long,” Carter said quietly.

  CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS—January 7, 1995

  Randall, the older child, stared at the blood worms floating at the top of the bowl. Still uneaten. Circling like buzzards, he thought, worried to the point of obsession.

  The worms should have disappeared within seconds, but Harry, the Armstrongs’ pet beta, hadn’t been himself since the two boys and their mother had changed his water an hour earlier. The boys’ nanny, Judith Sonntag, customarily responsible for that task, was away for the weekend. The water had looked pretty dirty, so they’d changed it themselves. Now Harry barely moved and wouldn’t touch his food.

  Why won’t he stop thinking about the damned fish? his mother thought. Naturally Liza Armstrong was much more worried about Randall. Accustomed to her son’s extreme sensitivity, she hated to see him agonizing over everyone else’s troubles—even those of a fish.

  “We’ve had Harry a long time,” she consoled. “He’s old for a beta and it might just be his time to die. Sweetheart, sometimes sad things happen and there’s nothing much we can do.”

  But Harry always becomes more energetic after Judith changes his water, Randall remembered. Certain that they were somehow responsible, he refused to accept his mother’s appraisal. Something is wrong.

  He imagined how he’d feel if he were Harry; so helpless, so dependent. He hated the idea that such a defenseless creature should have to suffer, especially if there were something he could do about it.

  Always aware of his emotions, Randall knew that if he sat still he’d get even more upset. He moved to the couch, where Tabitha, the Armstrongs’ cat, jumped into his lap. Stroking her fur, he began gently rocking back and forth to calm himself.

  He sat Indian-style, back straight as a board, slender legs crossed. Despite his earnest demeanor, Randall’s appearance was comical: tongue pushed far out through his front teeth, protruding slightly from the left side of his mouth as it often did when he concentrated on a problem, and his straight blond hair, which only that morning he had decided to comb into bangs, completely covering his now-closed eyelids. Even more than the hair, the stuck-out tongue gave him the bewildered look of a shaggy English sheepdog.

  Looks, however, do mislead.

  Seeking clues to Harry’s predicament, Randall now played back all of the past week’s events, like a video tape in his mind. When he got to Wednesday morning, he saw and heard everything he had experienced three days earlier, as Judith once again changed the water in the bowl. To Randall, it was as if he had gone back in time; as though it were Wednesday again. He hadn’t paid much attention back then, but now as he relived it, he noticed every movement, every nuance, every feature, and every sound.

  “Mom,” he finally said, “When Judith changed the water on Wednesday, she put something in Harry’s bowl—from a white and orange plastic bottle. Is there anything like that in the cabinet near the blood worms?”

  Liza Armstrong discovered the water conditioner they had neglected to use. She poured a teaspoonful into the bowl. The fish was back to his normal self within a few hours. Without a doubt, Randall had saved Harry’s life.

  Randall Petersen Armstrong, barely five years old, was obviously no ordinary child.

  His parents, Ed and Liza Armstrong, were a well-educated, worldly couple: he the CEO and sole owner of Boston Quality Corporation, a small, successful manufacturing business that employed 35 people; she a partner at Foley, Hoag and Eliot, a large Boston law firm. Still, neither of them could figure out how to deal with their two tiny geniuses.

  A case of mumps during Ed’s adolescence had left him sterile; therefore they had been unable to have children on their own. In 1988 Liza was referred to Concord Hospital’s In-Vitro Fertilization Clinic and, although at the time it was unusual for women over 40 to bear children, 41-year-old Liza became pregnant. Randall was born on December 6, 1989.

  Normally paternity records were sealed, but because of a clerical error the couple would later find out that Randall’s biological father was a University of Georgia Medical School student named Cassidy O’Meara. Apparently O’Meara had helped cover his expenses by making deposits to the University Hospital’s sperm bank. He en
tered medical school in 1987 and died of a drug overdose during an internship in 1991.

  We still have much to learn about heredity and intelligence, but far less was known in 1995. During the 20th century, Intelligence Quotient (IQ) was measured almost exclusively on the basis of the brain’s ability to process verbal and numerical information. Today we also gauge intelligence from other elements, including interpersonal skills, musical ability, artistic talent, emotional awareness, and kinesthetic sense. But then as now, although standard deviations (one-sigma) were the norm, variations of twice the standard (two-sigma) were scarce and three-sigma events were very rare.

  In 1995, most scientists believed that intelligence was determined almost entirely by a child’s environment and the intelligence of the parents. We now know that certain combinations of parents can produce exceptional deviations in the expected intelligence levels of their children. The Armstrongs’ experience offers compelling anecdotal evidence of this.

  Less than a year after Randall was born, Ed and Liza Armstrong were back at Concord Hospital requesting the same donor. Leonard Charles Armstrong was delivered on July 10, 1991, the day before Liza’s 44th birthday and about 19 months after Randall was born. Although O’Meara’s other offspring may have tended to be very bright, none have approached the intelligence levels of Randall and Leonard Armstrong. It is possible that the genetics of the two biological parents complemented each other in just the right way to generate two consecutive five-sigma events.

  At first Liza and Ed had no idea what to expect from their children. Three years earlier, when Liza had mentioned to one of her partners that two-year-old Randall was putting together puzzles marked “for ages five to eight,” and memorizing stories read to him at bedtime, she was met with only mild ovation. “Aren’t kids amazing?” her colleague exclaimed. “My little girl always corrects my mistakes when I read her favorite stories. You can’t get much by them.”