good shape."
"Have you counseled anyone in the past few years who was recruited off the Pepperdine campus?"
He thought for a moment, finger pressed against his beard, then nodded. "About a year and a half ago, a family contacted me. Their son was a cult castaway, living on the streets. His parents enlisted my help, but he was too far gone. A schizophrenic mess."
"Where is he now?"
"I'd imagine still in the Neuropsychiatric Institute, busy with the voices he's tuning in through his dental work."
"Where's the institute?"
"Right here -- UCLA Med Center. I helped get him admitted."
"I'd like to speak with him today if that's possible. Could you help me?"
"If he's still there, I'm sure I could. Though I didn't do much, his family feels indebted to me. I don't know what good it will do you. He's nearly catatonic -- not your usual cult survivor. More a cult victim."
"I'd appreciate that very much."
Bederman flipped through an old-school Rolodex, its cards written in code, then punched a number into the phone and spoke briefly with the charge nurse. He hung up and regarded Tim. "Even if you can locate this girl, there is a very specific skill set you'll need at your disposal. You'll need incredible patience. She won't have access to the thoughts and feelings you'll expect her to. If you push, you'll cause her to retreat further or melt down altogether. If you try to reason with her, she'll likely fight the process with meditation or thought stopping."
"I'm not planning on reasoning with her."
Bederman rocked forward in his chair, arms resting on his blotter, his voice warning of impending outrage. "What do you mean? How do you plan on getting her out?"
"By any means necessary."
"Oh, no, no, no. Abducting her would be a grave mistake. You law-enforcement types have three approaches -- force, force, and more force." Bederman seemed unnerved by Tim's silence. "You can't show someone that coercion is wrong by coercing her in the opposite direction."
"She's clearly not thinking for herself. What if a recovery operation is the only way to get her the help she needs?"
"It's never the only way." He'd come up out of his chair with the exclamation; he took a moment to ease himself back down.
"What matters is getting her out."
"It's not that simple. The process by which a person gets out from under the cult's dominance is essential. She'll be crippled by implanted phobias about leaving. You might wreck her in the process of trying to save her." Bederman cocked a snowy eyebrow. "Force may work when tracking down crooks in stocking caps, but it doesn't stand a chance when you're up against mind control, psychological coercion, phobias. Take it from me, Deputy. You can very easily, very quickly get in over your head here."
Chapter five
The institute's bleached tile, white walls, and the antiseptic chill of fluorescent overheads all contributed to the serene mood. Tim drifted down a corridor past a bank of windows looking in on a cluster of people in gowns, twisting, bending, and extending their arms in slow motion, a sculpture garden coming sluggishly to life. A social worker with sharp, attractive features and shiny black hair met him at the reception console, wielding an immense visitors' log. After he signed in, she led him to her office, where she called Ernie Tramine's father and confirmed approval for the visit.
"Ernie hasn't spoken in weeks. I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish." Her voice was pleasant and observational.
"It's part of an investigation." Tim immediately regretted sounding like an uptight TV cop; her polite interest in his badge at reception had made him feel like a kid showing off a tin sheriff star.
"Take a seat behind my desk. I'll bring Ernie right in."
The office's single window overlooked a treetop canopy six stories below. A prepackaged Zen garden on the desktop tirelessly cycled water. Tim sank into Ms. Liu's chair, which tilted accommodatingly under his weight. He pushed "redial" on her
"Have you counseled anyone in the past few years who was recruited off the Pepperdine campus?"
He thought for a moment, finger pressed against his beard, then nodded. "About a year and a half ago, a family contacted me. Their son was a cult castaway, living on the streets. His parents enlisted my help, but he was too far gone. A schizophrenic mess."
"Where is he now?"
"I'd imagine still in the Neuropsychiatric Institute, busy with the voices he's tuning in through his dental work."
"Where's the institute?"
"Right here -- UCLA Med Center. I helped get him admitted."
"I'd like to speak with him today if that's possible. Could you help me?"
"If he's still there, I'm sure I could. Though I didn't do much, his family feels indebted to me. I don't know what good it will do you. He's nearly catatonic -- not your usual cult survivor. More a cult victim."
"I'd appreciate that very much."
Bederman flipped through an old-school Rolodex, its cards written in code, then punched a number into the phone and spoke briefly with the charge nurse. He hung up and regarded Tim. "Even if you can locate this girl, there is a very specific skill set you'll need at your disposal. You'll need incredible patience. She won't have access to the thoughts and feelings you'll expect her to. If you push, you'll cause her to retreat further or melt down altogether. If you try to reason with her, she'll likely fight the process with meditation or thought stopping."
"I'm not planning on reasoning with her."
Bederman rocked forward in his chair, arms resting on his blotter, his voice warning of impending outrage. "What do you mean? How do you plan on getting her out?"
"By any means necessary."
"Oh, no, no, no. Abducting her would be a grave mistake. You law-enforcement types have three approaches -- force, force, and more force." Bederman seemed unnerved by Tim's silence. "You can't show someone that coercion is wrong by coercing her in the opposite direction."
"She's clearly not thinking for herself. What if a recovery operation is the only way to get her the help she needs?"
"It's never the only way." He'd come up out of his chair with the exclamation; he took a moment to ease himself back down.
"What matters is getting her out."
"It's not that simple. The process by which a person gets out from under the cult's dominance is essential. She'll be crippled by implanted phobias about leaving. You might wreck her in the process of trying to save her." Bederman cocked a snowy eyebrow. "Force may work when tracking down crooks in stocking caps, but it doesn't stand a chance when you're up against mind control, psychological coercion, phobias. Take it from me, Deputy. You can very easily, very quickly get in over your head here."
Chapter five
The institute's bleached tile, white walls, and the antiseptic chill of fluorescent overheads all contributed to the serene mood. Tim drifted down a corridor past a bank of windows looking in on a cluster of people in gowns, twisting, bending, and extending their arms in slow motion, a sculpture garden coming sluggishly to life. A social worker with sharp, attractive features and shiny black hair met him at the reception console, wielding an immense visitors' log. After he signed in, she led him to her office, where she called Ernie Tramine's father and confirmed approval for the visit.
"Ernie hasn't spoken in weeks. I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish." Her voice was pleasant and observational.
"It's part of an investigation." Tim immediately regretted sounding like an uptight TV cop; her polite interest in his badge at reception had made him feel like a kid showing off a tin sheriff star.
"Take a seat behind my desk. I'll bring Ernie right in."
The office's single window overlooked a treetop canopy six stories below. A prepackaged Zen garden on the desktop tirelessly cycled water. Tim sank into Ms. Liu's chair, which tilted accommodatingly under his weight. He pushed "redial" on her
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