Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“Gifted?” Nikki said. “Forgive my boldness, but isn’t that just a little naive? Most of humanity sees mental illness as a curse.”

“Exactly. That’s the whole point, now isn’t it? We cater to no more than thirty-six residents at any given time, and we are very careful about who joins us. No criminal records. They or their loved ones must be able to afford our room and board as well as the nurturing and medical care we give them. They must exhibit a high level of intelligence, indicated by a string of basic tests we administer ourselves. Currently, over half have tested with IQs that classify them as geniuses. Most are extraordinarily creative. To the world, they are crazy. In our minds, they are truly gifted individuals. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Nikki raised her brow. “Put like that… I see your point. Why only the intelligent?”

“Ah, why? Yes, of course, why.”

Allison stepped off the walkway and headed toward the trunk of the larger maple, nodding at a young man who stared at them from a park bench. His plaid shirt was buttoned all the way up. “Hello, Sam. How are you this morning?”

“Two hundred seventy-three thousand,” he said. “Plus or minus three hundred.”

“Wonderful.”

“Fewer leaves today. The wind. Yes, good, I’m good, Allison Johnson.”

Allison sighed. “Not that I didn’t wish we could take them all. Those considered mentally ill have been treated like refuse for far too long. First incarcerated in asylums, then in prisons. Reduced to shells of humanity through Thorazine in the fifties, now refused medication and left to fend for themselves until they prove a danger to others. In which case, they’re thrown behind bars. They say at least one-third of all people in prison today are so-called mentally ill. I’m not talking about early-onset disorders like autism or retardation. Strictly psychosis, which presents itself later. It’s quite widespread. Do you know what percentage of the world’s population suffers from some form of schizophrenia?”

“Nearly one out of a hundred,” Nikki said.

“Point seven percent, to be precise. In our country, nearly three million people suffer from chronic mental illness of some kind. In Colorado alone, we estimate seventy thousand untreated cases at any given time. Caring for the mentally ill is far too expensive and in the opinion of most, the illness is untreatable anyway. You can load them up with dopamine suppressors and send them away in a fog, but you can’t treat the illness. It’s like blinding the person who sees too much, or putting the person with a broken leg to sleep so they don’t stumble and fall. To date, only the mind itself can treat the mind. And that, FBI, is where we come in.”

“Their intelligence offsets their illness,” Nikki offered.

“Close, but not quite. Take Flower, whom you met outside. She has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder-both bipolar and psychotic, a thought disorder that sometimes presents in the flight of ideas you heard. Sometimes amusing, always fascinating. If Flower had typical intelligence, her gifting, as we like to call it, would make life very difficult for her. Without drugs and a caring family she might end up on the street, homeless like so many others in similar straits. But she is extremely intelligent, and her mind has the capacity to deal with her unusual skills. We coach her, help her deal with her gifting so that she not only copes, but can share her gift with the world.”

“Sculpting hedges.”

“Oh, that’s the least of Flower’s many talents. Many of the world’s greatest contributors find themselves in this group. John Nash, the schizophrenic professor from the movie A Beautiful Mind, is well known. But many have had mental illnesses. Abraham Lincoln, Virginia Woolf, Beethoven, Leo Tolstoy, Isaac Newton, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens… you get the idea. At the Center for Wellness and Intelligence, we provide an environment that allows the John Nashes of the world to be themselves. Acceptance, facilitation, and very carefully regulated medication on a case-by-case basis.”

Brad took another appraising glance about him. The whole thing seemed too good to be true.

“I understand this used to be a convent,” Nikki said. “Are you still religious?”

“Religious? We do receive some supplemental funding from the Catholic Church, if that’s what you mean. But we’re not officially tied to any organization. The center is privately owned and run. The brainchild of Morton Anderson, a wealthy businessman. His son, Ethan, was thrown in prison at age twenty-one after a psychotic break compelled him to enter a home of a congressman and dress up in his wife’s clothes. They found him eating a candlelight dinner by himself, dressed as a woman. Before the episode, he was preparing to graduate summa cum laude from the University of Colorado. As they say, there is a fine line between insanity and genius.”

“And you’re suggesting that in some cases, no line,” Brad said.

“Of course. Unfortunately, the world has taken some of the greatest minds God has given us and locked them up in cages. Most very brilliant or creative people seem strange to ordinary people. Geniuses are almost always outcasts. The intelligent are bullied on the playground. They see the world differently and are shunned for it. They nearly all turn out to be lonely at the least, locked up at the worst. It’s human nature to encourage the status quo and shun those who see life differently.”

Allison sat on a bench and folded her hands on her lap. “That being said, several of our staff, including myself, were once nuns. So, back to your killer. How can I be of assistance?”

Brad eased down beside her, leaving Nikki to study the residents, who’d become bored with them and resumed their prior activities. A man in a blue-striped bathrobe was playing some sort of hopscotch game, enunciating each hop with a “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.”

The man stopped and pointed at the sky. “And that’s what I’m saying, you bunkered, commonwealth moron! I know when the sky is falling and I know how high I can jump!” Then a hop and a “Hup.” This was the man they’d heard from the parking lot.

“Assuming we’re dealing with an intelligent serial killer who is mentally ill,” Brad said, “and considering his choice of wording, we need to look at the possibility that he is somehow connected to the center.”

“You’re looking for a resident who may have left us and gone off to commit these brutal acts.”

“Something like that.”

“A psychotic male who suffers from delusions of grandeur. Someone with a propensity for violence, is that it?”

“Yes.”

Allison frowned, thinking. Brad noticed that even with a frown, she seemed to be smiling. “Hundreds have come and gone in our seven years here. Most residents leave within six months. Some have stayed longer. A handful have been here since the beginning. I can think of only seven or eight who ever showed any violent tendencies.”

“What about those who might have demonstrated a tendency for regression?” Nikki said.

“Well, that’s just it. Follow-up is voluntary, naturally, and the illness can grow over time. It’s difficult to predict without…”

She blinked and faced Brad, eyes bright.

“Detective work, huh? I think you might like to meet Roudy.”

“I’m sorry, Roudy?”

Allison stood, delighted by her own idea. “Of course! Roudy is one of our residents. He is quite the detective. And he’s been here since the beginning. He remembers everything about every resident who’s entered our gates.”

Nikki caught his eye and nodded. “Okay. Sounds promising.”

Brad wasn’t sure just how promising, for Allison seemed more fascinated with subjects in her field of study than in cracking the case. But he could see no harm in the notion.