Page 9 of Atlas
“Hmm, in broad terms yes. Do you have any experience in that area?”
I chewed on my inner cheek and moved in my seat. “I was never involved in a cult, but I have experience with people who have antisocial personality disorder.”
When I stopped talking, Diane encouraged me, “Can you expand on that? You see, what has Atlas and me curious is why a clinical psychologist from California would show an interest in research work here in Chicago.”
I looked at them both before admitting, “The truth is that I needed a fresh start. I loved my old job, but I couldn’t stay.”
“Why not?” Diane asked.
Damn, every time I had to talk about it, it felt like someone had stuffed barbwire down my throat.
“It’s not something that I like to talk about, but since it’s relevant for the work you do here, I’ll tell you. As you can see from my papers, I worked in the White Rose school district for almost four years. Working with children was always my dream, but about a year ago, we had a case with a young first-grade boy named Benjamin. He started mid-year, and his teacher got worried because he kept having bruises, and he showed signs of malnutrition and abuse. When I met the boy, I was shocked at how little he was for his age and how afraid he was to look me in the eye. He kept holding his hands across his stomach, so I suspected he might be sick and called in the nurse to examine him. When she pulled up his shirt, we both gasped. The little boy was black and blue, and so skinny that it was hard to look at him. The first thing we did was call social services, and then we fed him. He stuffed his mouth as if he was afraid that we would take away the food any minute. In the end, the parents lost custody, and Benjamin is now in foster care. The dad showed up at my office, threatening to kill me, so I got a restraining order on him. Still, things spiraled out of control, and about a month ago, I decided that I’m tired of looking over my shoulder and feeling scared. That’s why I’ve come across the country to build a new life here in Chicago.”
“What do you mean when you say things spiraled out of control?” Diane asked.
I fiddled with the rings on my fingers. “Oh, it’s been a year full of incidents like the tires on my car getting slashed, and vile things scratched onto the side. Notes were left on my door at home, telling me I should die for lying to social services. I reported it to the police, of course, but there were no fingerprints on the notes, and even though I’m convinced that it was the boy’s father, they couldn’t press charges without evidence. For three months, one thing after the other would happen. I received a box from the local bakery, and when I opened it, it was a cake full of crawling cockroaches.
Mr. Robertson and Diane were listening with serious faces. “Did they find the person who placed it there?”
“No. And things kept escalating; one day I came home and found rats in my apartment. The week after, the guy I was dating received an anonymous letter accusing me of cheating on him. It was just one thing after the other, and the last straw was another anonymous letter. This time to the superintendent of the school district accusing me of misconduct. Of course, she dismissed the accusation, but the mental torture had been going on for so long that I knew I needed to get out.”
“Did you confront the man you believed was behind this?” Mr. Robertson asked.
“Not in person. He’s prone to violence, and I wanted nothing to do with him. Confronting him would only make things worse. As you know, people like him are unlikely to change or see my point of view. It seemed wiser to move away.”
“Huh.” Mr. Robertson leaned back in his chair to study me. “So, you ran?”
I didn’t like the way he made it sound like I was weak. “I stayed for eleven long months after the harassment began, hoping the police would make it stop. You might call it running, but I would like to think of it as me taking back power in my life.”
“No, that makes sense,” Diane said in a soft voice. “Chicago will give you a fresh start, but what made you apply for this position?”
“The study sounded very interesting, and as I just explained, I have a personal interest in understanding the ways of antisocial behavior.”
Mr. Robertson tapped his pen on my application in front of him. “Maybe we should tell you a few more details about what it is we do here.”
“Yes, please.”
“This is a privately funded research institute. I’m the director, Diane is the supervisor here, and other than that we have a scientist named Brian working on different research projects. We’re looking for someone who can help us conduct studies on people, and analyze the results.”
“All right. And what’s the aim of the research?”
“To find answers, of course.”
“I meant, is there some product that is being developed to help heal antisocial behavior? Is that what we’re testing?”
“No, we’re not a pharmaceutical company.” Mr. Robertson pushed his glasses in place. He would have done well in a movie as a hot lawyer, stockbroker, or doctor. He had that academic quality to him while at the same time being fit and good-looking.
Stop focusing on his looks.
The door opened, and Brian’s head popped in. “Do you need me in here?”
We all turned to him, and Mr. Robertson spoke in a dry tone. “Thank you, Brian, but we’re fine.”
Diane stiffened. “You don’t have time to be in here. Your next group of test subjects are in the waiting room.”
“I know, but I can’t take them inside the test room when it stinks of vomit, can I? I’ve opened all the windows and told them we’re running behind schedule. I thought you would be delighted to hear that I cleaned up the puke, but just for the record, if it turns out that the woman was infectious with some raging zombie-virus that makes me sick too, I’m suing the company for exposure to hazardous materials while at work.”
Diane got up, and with an apologetic nod in my direction, she walked to the door. “Excuse me for a second.” The door clicked as it closed.
