Delusion Read Online Free PDF Page B

was twenty-six when we met,” he said. Six words. This was the richest response he’d given me in the hour since I’d started the evaluation.
    For at least the fifth time since he’d come into the bare, windowless cubicle, Nick glanced furtively about. He twisted around and checked the wall and floor behind him. Then he
turned back. As he shifted in his seat, the chains from leg irons dragged on the floor.
    I’d started off, as I always did with someone I evaluated, by telling him that I was there to help the team prepare his defense. I was reminded, once again, of the unique relationship between forensic psychologist and prisoner. My time is limited and my goals quite specific: to find exculpatory evidence. Typically, defendants are highly motivated to give me what they think I want, which often has its own problems.
    But Nick seemed oblivious to that script. I’d begun with a mental status exam, hoping to ease his way into answering with the relatively innocuous questions. But even these encountered resistance. From the way he crossed his arms and avoided eye contact, to his terse responses, the message was clear: He didn’t trust. I needed him to lower his defenses enough to get our conversation to flow before I took him back through the crime.
    As I’d expected, Nick knew exactly where he was and why. He didn’t seem suicidal. He also admitted that he didn’t feel safe. Under the circumstances, that could be considered normal. There were no frank hallucinations or delusions.
    I began to probe his relationship with his wife. “You had a happy marriage?”
    â€œI loved my wife,” Nick said. He focused on the oatmeal-colored Formica tabletop. “We had our occasional problems.”
    â€œAnything in particular?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œYou said you were having problems.”
    â€œYou know, problems. Everybody has problems.”
    â€œSure. I know everyone has problems. How bad were yours?” It felt like pulling teeth.
    â€œWe saw someone, couple of times,” he said, still evading the question.

    â€œA marriage counselor?” I asked. Nick nodded. “What did you talk to her about?”
    â€œNot her. Him.” Nick swallowed and stared off into space. “Do I have to talk about it? Why don’t you ask him?”
    â€œMay I? I’d like very much to do that,” I said.
    I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d balked when I took him up on the offer, but he didn’t. He said, “Dr. Richard Teitlebaum. He’s in Newton.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. I wondered if this was the DR. T on their kitchen calendar.
    I turned to a fresh sheet of paper and quickly wrote a paragraph that would release Dr. Teitlebaum to talk to me, and vice versa. I pivoted it and handed Nick the pen.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œHe’ll need to see that you’ve given him your permission to talk to me.”
    He read what I’d written, turned the page over and inspected the back. Then he gave me a guarded look and drew a diagonal line across the blank side—ensuring, I suppose, that I couldn’t add anything. He turned it back over and signed.
    â€œYou ever see anyone else to talk to?” I asked. “On your own?”
    â€œA shrink?” Nick shook his head. “I only went to Teitlebaum because it was important to Lisa.”
    â€œAnd you tried to do the things that your wife wanted you to?”
    Nick picked at a curling corner of the Formica top until a little piece broke off. “I loved my wife.”
    The room had turned stuffy. I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of my chair. Nick’s glance fell to my belt. He leaped up, the chair crashing over behind him. “What the hell is that? You’re taping this!” He was staring bug-eyed at the pager the guard had given me.
    â€œWhoa, time-out,” I said, unhooking the gadget. “It’s a panic