THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST, Page 2

  She shrugged. “I’m just not sure yet.” And with that, she left hoping never to have to see Cheryl Morgan again.

  Much to the dismay of the public, the court found Cheryl Morgan not guilty by reason of insanity. Even though the D.A. dismissed Abby and her reports which concluded that the defendant was in fact criminally insane at the time she committed the murders, the defense under Jodi Bauer, found another expert witness to testify to the same effect. None of the crimes were premeditated, nor was there enough evidence to show intent, so she should therefore not be held responsible for the killings.

  Bauer knew how strong a case they had and didn't have much difficulty convincing Ted Morgan, the defendant's husband and father of the victims, to persuade Cheryl to reject the D.A.'s late offer for a plea bargain.

  Unlike Rusty Yates, former husband of Andrea Yates, the Texas mother who drowned her five children, Ted Morgan remained married to his wife, though Cheryl had been committed to the Spring Valley Institute out in El Centro.

  For the next two years, Abby kept in touch with him for updates because she had developed a deep-seated fascination for Cheryl’s condition. She also communicated with Cheryl’s doctors over this period of time. Apparently, given the proper therapy and medication—which she never had prior to the tragedy—she was doing remarkably well. Hers doctor would soon clear her for release and reintegration into society.

  Ever since the court declared Cheryl not guilty and sent her to Spring Valley, Abby had become somewhat obsessed with the strange manifestations of her mental illness.

  In other case studies resembling Cheryl's, Abby found several commonalities: acute personality shifts, vocal modulation, and emotional manipulation of people around the subject—some leading to self-inflicted fatalities.

  Among those similarities, one peculiar factor showed up in the files of more than two of the fifteen she’d examined: Questionable paranormal theories. At first she thought of Sergeant Grimes and her ridiculous voodoo conjectures. But over time, alone in her La Jolla apartment, staring out into the surging moonlit waves, she wondered, Are you truly open-minded, Abby?

  To prove to herself she was, the very next day she delved into the N.O.S. (Not otherwise specified) subfolders of the following subjects: Marc Lucian, Josephine Damon, and Marley Fitch, each of whose N.O.S. subfolders contained over five pages of documented activity prior to their suicides. None of them had turned violent towards others as Cheryl had, but they did exhibit the same symptoms along with some unexplained phenomenon. Oddly enough, each of these ancillary reports had been filed by members of the clergy, Catholic, Pentecostal, and Southern Baptist.

  Ms. Damon had repeatedly cut her wrists, but despite the bleeding which should have killed her each time, she survived. Mr. Lucian was reported to have put a Jesuit priest in the E.R. because he had somehow caused glass picture frames and vases to fly around the room and hurtle at Father McGhee’s head. Five stitches were required.

  But the strangest of all was Ms. Fitch. She exhibited vocal modulation (in chorus) and radical shifts in personalities. Two of her home care attendants committed suicide within the year before she took her own life.

  Abby had not been able to reach any of the clergymen who had worked with these subjects, but did notice the word “exorcism” noted on two of the N.O.S. reports—Lucian’s and Fitch’s.

  It was then that she closed the files.

  Exorcism indeed.

  She hadn’t been to church since she left for college, but even then, this was something she never quite understood. Though she knew many Bible stories, and even memorized many of the scriptures as a child, the stories of demons were always too frightening for her. She always avoided them. Always.

  Nevertheless, in the interest of complete openness to possibilities, she decided to email several of her colleagues and peers about the idea of a spiritual component in these cases.

  Now, given that each of them had at least one or two PhD’s each, the tone of their responses surprised her.

  Dr. Keith Madden: Are you out of your frikkin’ mind? (pardon the expression).

  Dr. Yelena Svetlanova: If you think the answer lies in devils and occultism, you should turn in your degree and stop by the local Shaman-Mart. I hear they’re having a half price sale on crystals, rattles, and drums.

  Kenneth Thomas, PhD: Psychologist, heal thyself!

  Only one person replied with a modicum of decency. Freidrich Koehler, professor at UCSD, renowned for his studies on unclassified psychological phenomena. Besides being the most respected authority in his field, he had been her doctoral advisor and mentor.

  He simply wrote back: Come see me tomorrow, 8:00AM, BYOC (Bring your own coffee.)

  Koehler’s office was a living, breathing contradiction. On first glance, it looked like a tornado had struck, hurling books and papers into absolute disarray all over. But upon careful observation, and by his insistence, there was order in the apparent chaos.

  White froth from his latte lingered on his unkempt mustache, beneath which a smile emerged. Never one to waste time on trivialities such as grooming, the professor‘s appearance had always evoked images of a hybrid between Johannes Brahms and Albert Einstein. When he spoke, his shrill voice with a weighty German accent only solidified the impression. Today was no exception. “Well, well. Abigail Lee, what a pleasure. What’s it been, fifteen years?”

  “Nine.” Seated on the far left side of a worn, red leather couch, Abby reached over to the end table to set her travel mug of Oolong tea down, but there were too many piles of papers held together only by large black binder clips.

  “Ah-ah!” Not the manuscripts!” Koehler set his mug down, got up from his desk, slipped his hand beneath the papers and lifted them with the delicate hands of a brain surgeon. He then turned to the left, squinted at a mountain of papers—some bound in clips, others loose—and dropped them into the heap.

  Abby grinned. “Was that the order or the chaos?

  “Apparent chaos.” He sat back down and pushed aside the pile of papers in the center of his desk, like Moses parting the red sea. “Now, let’s get to the point, shall we? What is at the heart of your question?”

  “I wouldn’t have come to you if….” Forming the words in her mind, Abby’s cheeks and ears began to warm. By now, she’d ostracized herself among her peers. Had the professor joined in the chorus of ridicule, she would have abandoned this pursuit with her tail between her legs. “Oh, it’s so far-fetched!”

  Koehler folded his hand together and leaned forward. His bushy grey eyebrows arched up and his eyes brightened with anticipation. “Out with it, already. I haven’t got all day.”

  “Did you look at the case studies I emailed you?”

  “Yes. Intriguing analysis.” Then his face became awash with concern. He lowered his voice and peered over the rims of his gold wireframe glasses. “You didn’t share your thoughts with your peers, did you?”

  All at once, Abby was the young doctoral student, sinking into her chair under the scrutiny of her professor. “Yes. A few.”

  “With whom, might I ask?”

  “Madden, Svetlanova, Thom—”

  “Ach! You didn’t!”

  Innocently, Abby nodded.

  “I hope they are not in any position of influence or power in your current career.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your personal life?”

  “Thankfully, not.”

  “Gut! Sehr Gut! However, you have most likely lost their respect.”

  She lowered her gaze in concession. Then, to Koehler, she looked with hope. “But not yours, Professor?”

  “Nein.” A paternal smile/frown. “Now, sans fear and self-consciousness. Tell me what you are thinking.”

  With a deep breath, she sat up tall and went over each of her case studies, their commonalities and references to exorcism. Koehler never said a word, just shut his eyes, listening, nodding, hemming and hawing.

  “So, what I want to know is, could it be that
there is some possibility of paranormal involvement?” Abby swallowed hard, almost regretting the question.

  Koehler opened his eyes, gazed straight into hers. “Traditionally, matters of science and religion do not mingle well.”

  This was it. He had heard her out, indulged her because of his patience. But now, he would make his pronouncement and Abby would lose the confidence of the last person who seemed to respect her professionally.

  “Let me ask you something, my dear Abigail.”

  “Yes?”

  “How much faith have you in science—all its theories, laws and concepts?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Ah-ah! Wait! Before you answer rashly, consider the question carefully. I asked how much faith do you have in science. Faith. Because whether you are the Pope, or Nietzsche, it all comes down to faith.”

  “I don’t understand. What about you? ”

  Judging by the surprised smile on his face, the professor must have been pleasantly surprised by the challenge. “I thought you would have known by now. I am—”

  Somewhere, the phone rang, muffled no doubt by piles of papers, periodicals or God only knew what, under which it must be buried. He grumbled in German and held up a finger. “A moment, please.”

  Digging through his piles of ordered chaos, the professor threw loose sheets into the air, kicked aside a mountain of textbooks and finally blurted out, “Ach!”

  The phone’s ring, and old-fashioned physical bell, grew instantly louder when he exhumed the handset, its curly black wire pulling taut. “Guten tag.” He continued to speak in German in hushed tones, but said little besides, “Jah, Jah, and nein.”

  Finally, he returned. “My daughter Helga in Leipzig. Her son is in what you Americans call the terrible two’s. She usually does all the talking, and then figures it out for herself.”

  “I see.” He probably wished Abby would do the same. “So, professor. Are you a man of faith?”

  He stood, one hand holding the lapel of his brown tweed blazer and puffed out his chest. “But of course.”

  “Lutheran, Catholic?”

  “I’m a devout atheist.”

  “Devout?”

  “Oh jah. I daresay I have as much faith in my beliefs as the most rabid zealot, and the most learned theologian. Perhaps more.”

  “But, you’re an atheist.”

  “It’s all a choice, if one is to be perfectly honest. Because we cannot know anything with absolute certainty. We can only believe. So we must choose judiciously. I choose to believe there is no God, no heaven, no Hell.” He wagged his eyes mischievously. “Und I damned well better be right, eh?”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  He came over and sat on the far end of the couch opposite of Abby, then spoke into the open space between them. “Faith is not what you profess to believe. Rather, it is that which you believe enough to live by, and act upon. That said, far be it from me to influence you one way or another. I have great respect for people of all faiths, and fully concede that in the final analysis, I could be wrong.”

  “A bold statement for someone as self-assured as you.”

  “I’m only being honest with myself. Nevertheless, whatever faith I chose, I must live with conviction and refuse to doubt. That is, after all, the essence of it, nein? So, what do you believe?”

  Abby thought about it quietly for a while. She believed in science, but she was not entirely ready to abandon her childhood beliefs, even though they had been irrelevant to her until recently. “I’m just not sure if science necessarily excludes things of a spiritual nature. There’s not enough definitive proof for one to discount the other. But if I, like my colleagues, dismiss the very notion of demons and exorcisms without fully examining them, am I anything more than a flat-earther?”

  Koehler stood up. The leather coach squeaked dully. He extended his hand, which she took, stood and shook—a gesture which meant the session was over. “Doctor Lee, I believe you have found your answer.”

  The peculiarities of Cheryl Morgan’s case and the others in the N.O.S. files soon became an all encompassing pursuit for information, now that Abby felt free to investigate. But she had driven herself so hard, that when she saw her doctor for her annual check-up, he ordered her to take her first vacation in over five years.

  “To put it bluntly,” he had said, “Take a week off or you’ll kill yourself.” Today was the first day of her vacation and dammit, she was going to enjoy it.

  Or die trying.

  Do nothing, go nowhere, study nothing, just relax and enjoy the view of the beach from her deck—something she never took enough time to do (such a shame.) Now, as seagulls sang their plaintive songs, while the tall verdant fronds of Queen Palms swayed in the cool afternoon breeze, she sat back, bathed in the sun, shut her eyes and told herself it was more than okay to enjoy some “me” time.

  There was nothing more liberating than sipping Oolong Tea in her patio chair, bare feet up on the teakwood bistro table, reading the New York Times on her shiny new Kindle, and for all intents and purposes, disconnected from work.

  Nothing could remove her from this much needed serenity.

  Except her iPhone buzzing like an angry hornet in her robe pocket.

  “Oh, come on.”

  The caller ID read: BLOCKED.

  As it continued to buzz, she thought about answering it. But that would defeat the purpose of her vacation at home, wouldn’t it? She pressed the ignore button and relegated it to voicemail. “There. All better.” If it was important, they’d leave a message—which she would consider returning after she checked it.

  A few seconds later, the new voicemail alert chimed.

  No. I’ll check you later.

  Tonight.

  Maybe.

  In the headlines: President Obama passes legislation for yet another stimulus package, 7.2 Earthquake rocks Tijuana, and finally...concert reviews. Twelve year old prodigy pianist, Austin Lee debuts with New York Philharmonic. Her favorite nephew from Philadelphia, in the New York Times! Eagerly, Abby scrolled to see if the critics loved him or…

  The iPhone buzzed again.

  Again: BLOCKED

  Annoyed, she sent it to voicemail again. This time she wondered if it might really be important. With her thumb on the “slide to unlock” button, she almost relented and checked the voice mail.

  But this was the first day of her vacation. Start answering calls now and she might as well go into the office.

  Back to the review.

  AUSTIN LEE amazes audiences with

  Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 in Bb.

  Nice headline. She scrolled down to the first paragraph:

  When the dark-haired boy first sat down at the bench before the 9 foot Steinway concert grand in Avery Fischer Hall last night, it seemed the entire audience held their collective breath. Could this child of twelve pull off such a mature work as Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto?

  The Philharmonic began the concerto with its regal French Horn solo, and right away Mr. Lee, as student of Leon Fleisher at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, joined in duet with majestic, rising arpeggios, ushering in the fiery opening, which decades ago, his teacher made so famous in his recording with the Cleveland Orchestra under the baton of George Szell.

  Despite Mr. Lee’s slight frame, he feet barely reaching the pedals—

  Once again, the phone buzzed.

  For a moment, Abby felt tempted to launch it out over the patio into the Pacific, committing it to the depths. But when she thought of the five or six hundred dollars it would take to replace it, she refrained.

  The caller ID was blocked again.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered and took the call. “Hello?”

  “Doctor Lee?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “I’m sorry to call so many times, but you haven’t been answering.”

  “That’s because I’m on vacation. Now, who is this?”

  “I’m Fa
ther Thomas McGhee of St. Ignatius Church in Del Mar.”

  “McGhee?” The name sounded familiar.

  His voice, though deep and otherwise strong, became panicked. “Look, I wouldn’t have troubled you, but something’s happened and she’s been asking for you.”

  “Wait, slow down.” Abby stood, pulled the belt of her white terrycloth robe tighter around her waist and pressed her finger in her open ear so as to hear him over the rude cawing of a crow on the rails of a patio two apartments over. “What’s happened and who’s asking for me?”

  “He killed himself. We came back here and just found him…Dear Lord, I can’t believe this is happening again!”

  “Father McGhee, would you please calm down? What are you talking about!”

  “I’ve already called 911, but she’s beside herself, locked herself in a room.”

  By his tone of voice, she knew he must be in his mid to late sixties, too old and too frantic for a prank call. “All right, just take a few deep breaths, okay? Now try and answer my questions, I’ll ask them slowly.”

  He took the breath. “Okay.”

  “Now, first: Who just killed himself?”

  “Teddy! Oh my…it’s just awful. We found him hanging from the second floor balustrade out in the backyard.”

  “Teddy who?”

  “Teddy Morgan, I just can’t believe he’d—”

  “Wait, Teddy—?”

  “Cheryl Morgan’s husband!” It felt as though someone had poured a pitcher of ice water down her back. In the background, Cheryl began shrieking hysterically: No, no, no! Oh God, please, no!

  “Doctor Lee, could you please come on down here right now? I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself.”

  When Abby arrived at the house in Del Mar, she noticed a black and white police car and a red ambulance parked outside on the narrow single lane street. The squad cars beacon was still flashing blue and red.