In Laymon's Terms

“Please...why are you doing this to me?” he asked with a sob. He struggled to turn away, but the restraints held him firmly to the chair.

Doctor Locke peered through his steepled fingers at the simple brown book he habitually carried around. “How many personalities do you have, Mister Lewis? Do you remember?”

“Thirteen.” And he knew all of them intimately.

“You have fourteen, Mister Lewis.”

At least, for the past fifteen years he thought he knew all of them.

“Fourteen distinct personalities,” Locke said, picking up his book and tapping its edge on the desk. “Including Jude, who we need to talk to. Jude the killer. That’s why we’re showing you this picture.”

Adam cried heavily. He tried to suppress the memory of that day, coming to and finding himself bathed in blood, with an unfamiliar knife in one hand and gobbets of flesh in the other. Ellen lay on the floor at his feet...and in the kitchen sink...and on the counter...and on the table. The photo brought it all back.

“There is no Jude!” It had become a mantra for him. He said it over and over: in his lawyer’s interviews, in the initial psychiatric evaluations, even on the witness stand. But the police talked to Jude.

And recorded him.

They recorded his confession, complete with his savoring of every gruesome detail of his actions. It made the insanity plea an unshakeable defense, guaranteeing Adam an extended stay at St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital.

Locke sighed. He turned the cover of his book toward Adam. “Do you know what this is?” Adam shook his head and sniffled. “This is the American Psychiatric Association’s fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or simply the DSM IV. It’s the Bible of psychology, if you will. It tells me you have a problem, Mister Lewis. A serious problem your medications can no longer control. And that is why we have to talk to Jude.”

“There is no Jude,” Adam whispered. “There is no Jude...”

“Look at the picture, Mister Lewis!” Locke shouted, jabbing a finger angrily at the photo. “Look at it! Do you want this to happen again? Do you want to harm another innocent woman? You fed her fucking toes to the dog, for Christ’s sake!”

Adam threw his head back as the sudden shock took its toll on his mind, just as Locke hoped. Though his eyes were still moist and his face red, an entirely new expression unfurled on Adam Lewis’s face.

Jude grinned like a shark, his eyes narrow and cold. “Doctor Locke. So nice to see you again. How’s the orderly doing?”

“He’s fine but he’s tendered his resignation.”

“That’s too bad. I rather liked his voice. His scream was divine.”

Locke shrugged, refusing to play along. He would not allow himself to be manipulated again. “It happens. So tell me about yourself, Jude. What makes you tick?”

“I’m not exactly sure, Doc. That’s why I zipped Ellen open. To see what makes us all tick.”

“I see. Did you—”

“You got a smoke, Doc?”

“Mister Lewis doesn’t smoke.”

“That’s his problem.”

Locke drummed his fingers on his book. “Very well. I’ll trade you. One cigarette for five cooperative answers.”

Jude tilted his head, considering. “Okay, Doc. Deal.”

Locke pulled a pack of Marlboros from his center desk drawer. It struck him that he only ever offered a cigarette to Adam. Therefore, Jude must be aware of the other personalities’ experiences. Not uncommon in patients with multiple personality disorder, but interesting to note for the future. He leaned across the desk to place a cigarette between Jude’s lips and light it for him. “I’m sorry, but you understand we will not be able to release your arms. One of the orderlies will help you with the ashes.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.” He dragged hard on the cigarette.

“Now tell me, Jude. How long have you been aware of Mister Lewis’s other personalities?”

“Too fucking long, Doc.” Again, a long, hard drag. One of the two orderlies standing near the door walked over.

“You agreed to cooperate, Jude. How long?”

The orderly reached for the cigarette, and Jude turned his head sharply and thrust his chin forward. He puffed as he did so, and the flaring embers sizzled into the orderly’s palm. The orderly cried out and leapt away, while the other ran forward and stamped out the cigarette.

Locke jumped out of his seat. “Get him out of here! Now!”

Jude roared with laughter as they dragged him out of the room.

After several attempts at conversation, the surly orderly with the bandaged hand finally told Adam that St. Dymphna was the patron saint of the mentally afflicted. Hearing that, Adam sincerely doubted she would approve of the asylum’s deplorable conditions. Underfunded and understaffed, the place was overloaded with the products of an ever more unforgiving and uncaring society. The halls were dirty, much of the staff did little more than stand around and collect a paycheck, and patients were often forgotten for hours at a time.