Gilmour nodded gravely. ‘What kind of man do you think we’re looking for, Jake?’
‘My guess?’ Jake shrugged. ‘Well, this is no disorganised asocial we’re dealing with, I can tell you that much. He’s a cunning, methodical, calculating killer for whom homicide is an end in itself. That is, on its own, highly unusual. Most serial killing is driven by lust. But this man is inspired by nothing other than his own sense of mission. It means he has no obvious weakness, and that makes him very dangerous.’
Gilmour sighed. ‘All right, Jake, you’ve made your point. You’ll get your press conference, if I have to go down on my knees to that bitch.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘One more question, Jake.’
‘Sir?’
‘Exactly who was this fellow, Wittgenstein?’
The psychiatrist who remembered counselling a VMN-negative codenamed Wittgenstein was Doctor Tony Chen. Like Sergeant Chung, he was another immigrant from Hong Kong, only a little older and better-mannered. He seemed pleased to cooperate with Jake’s inquiry, even one which involved raiding his own subconscious mind.
‘I don’t remember too much about the guy,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve counselled quite a few VMNs since then. After a while, it’s difficult to separate them. Especially the ones who don’t come back for regular counselling. Wittgenstein didn’t; that much I can remember.’ He rolled up his sleeve. ‘All right, let’s do it.’
Doctor Carrie Cleobury, the Lombroso Program’s Head of Psychiatry, took charge of her colleague’s hypnosis in her office at the Institute, accompanied by Professor Gleitmann and Jake. Having injected Chen with a drug to help him to relax, she told him that she would induce trance with the aid of both stroboscopic light and a metronome.
‘This has the advantage of combining auditory and visual fixation,’ she said to Jake. ‘I find it the most effective technique.’
Jake, who herself held an M.Sc in Psychology, was already well aware of this, but she remained silent on the subject, reasoning that she preferred having Doctor Cleobury working for her rather than against her.
Chen sat in an armchair facing the light, and waiting for the drug to take effect. After a minute or two he nodded at Doctor Cleobury who switched on the light machine and set the metronome in motion, adjusting the speed until it matched the flashing of the light. Then she began her induction talk. She had a pleasant voice, calm and self-assured, with just the trace of an Irish accent.
‘Keep looking into the light and think of nothing but the light... In a little while your eyelids will begin to feel heavy and you will feel drowsy... and relaxed, as your eyelids become heavier and heavier...’
Light and shadow flickered on Chen’s broad Oriental face like the wings of a great moth, and as the minutes passed, his breathing grew more regular and profound.
‘... you will want to close your eyes soon, because they are becoming so heavy and you feel so drowsy...’
Chen’s small nostrils flared, his mouth slackened a little as his eyes grew so narrow that it was soon impossible to tell whether they were open or closed.
‘... and now, as your eyelids close, you will relax, deeper and deeper... and your head will fall forward... and you will be pleasantly, comfortably relaxed...’
His head swayed and then dipped inexorably towards his chest. Cleobury continued with a series of suggestions, gradually narrowing Chen’s conscious mind and removing any distractions that might have inhibited the impact of what she was saying. She turned off the light, but her voice kept the same even reassuring tone, as if she was coaxing a cat to come to her.
‘And with every breath you take, you will become still more deeply relaxed... deeper and still deeper...’
Jake noticed a slight quivering of Chen’s eyelids and a twitching around his mouth. As his respiratory movement slowed it was clear he was entering a light trance.
‘Pay attention to my voice. Nothing else seems to matter, just the sound of my voice. There’s nothing else to disturb you now. There is only my voice.’
The first part of Doctor Cleobury’s induction talk had been made in a slow, even tempo as if she had been reciting a prayer in church, but now her voice became more incisive and calmly assertive. And her suggestions of relaxation involved larger and more complex muscle groups. When at last she was satisfied that her colleague’s body was completely relaxed, Doctor Cleobury turned off the metronome and set about deepening Chen’s trance through the use of fantasy.
‘Tony,’ she said. ‘Tony, I want you to use your imagination now. I want you to picture yourself standing in an elevator. If you look up you can picture the floor counter. We’re on the tenth floor right now, but in a moment I am going to operate the elevator and send you down to the ground. And with each floor we pass, the elevator will take you into a deeper sleep. Deeper with each count I make. Keep your eyes on the counter. I’m starting now...’
She began to count backwards from ten, and when she reached zero, and the ground floor of Chen’s imagination, she told him to step out of the elevator and to remain there, ‘in this deep, deep state.’
Chen’s jaw was now resting on the upper part of his clavicle. At the same time there was a perceptible rigidity about his arms and torso, like a convict in the electric chair awaiting the switch to be thrown.
‘You will remain comfortable in this deep, deeply relaxed state,’ said Doctor Cleobury. ‘I am now going to give you some simple instructions. I won’t ask you to do anything you will not wish to do. Please nod your head so that I will know you understand what I am saying.’
Chen’s head stiffened and then nodded.
‘Lift your head, Tony, and open your eyes.’
As he obeyed her instruction, Doctor Cleobury stepped forward and, with a pencil torch, checked Chen’s eyes for light sensitivity. He bore the light shining directly into his pupil without so much as blinking, and Doctor Cleobury nodded at Jake to turn on her discrecorder.
‘It is towards the end of last year, Tony. November 22nd, to be precise. A patient testing VMN-negative has been sent in to see you for counselling. You’re holding his computer card in your hands. The codename at the top right-hand corner of the file card is “Ludwig Wittgenstein”. Tell me if you can see it.’
Chen breathed deeply and then nodded.
‘I want to hear your voice, Tony. Speak to me.’
Some words emptied from Chen’s slackened mouth. Jake understood none of them.
‘English, Tony. We’re speaking English now. Tell me if you can see the name.’
He frowned as his subconscious bent itself to Doctor Cleobury’s suggestion. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see it.’
‘Now I want you to look at the man who is sitting opposite you. The man codenamed Wittgenstein. Do you see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you see him clearly?’
‘Clearly yes, I see him.’
Jake’s heart leaped at the thought of what Chen’s unconscious mind was looking at: the face of the killer himself. The possibility that she might obtain his description in this way might even make a subject for a future paper.
‘Can you describe the man to us?’
Chen grunted.
‘Tell us about Wittgenstein, Tony.’
Chen smiled. ‘He is a very logical, passionate sort of man. Argumentative, but intelligent.’
‘What about his physical appearance? Can you tell us something about that please?’
‘To look at — ?’ Chen’s frown deepened. ‘Medium to tall in height. Brown, wavy hair. Large, quick blue eyes. Thoughtful brow: I mean, his forehead constantly bends itself to thought. Sharply featured. The nose is a little hooked. And the mouth, a bit petulant, perhaps a bit effeminate, as if he looks in the mirror a great deal. Lean-looking, but not fit: it’s not exercise but lack of food that keeps him slim. Intense...’ He was silent for several seconds.