“So it’s a mental illness,” Amaia said.
“Yes, or it could be physical in origin. Both have been documented. Cotard’s syndrome is a harsh and frightening disease, both for the patient and for those who witness it.”
“What could have caused it?” Amaia asked. “Is it hereditary?”
“No, it’s extremely rare. As for the possible causes, I was hoping you might be able to enlighten us. If we knew where she’s been and in what conditions—and her family background—we could try to establish whether others in her family suffer from mental illness, hereditary or otherwise.”
“Otherwise?” she asked.
“Toxicological. In some of the documented cases, the delusion may have been triggered by exposure to poisonous substances.”
“Self-ingested or administered?” Bull asked. “Is it possible to induce this state?”
The neurologist couldn’t hide a grin. “You mean, could she have been ‘zombified’?”
Bull refused to be put off. “I’m from Louisiana too.”
“We haven’t been able to take a blood sample yet because she’s lost so much blood. Maybe she’s been drugged, but as for ‘zombification,’ well, there’s not enough in the literature to establish that it’s even possible.”
“Or to disprove it either. Right?”
His colleague the psychiatrist intervened. “A great deal has been written, but virtually none of it is based on science. Neurological damage isn’t the only explanation, and I believe we can’t dismiss the idea that toxins are affecting her behavior. But certainly not to this extent. As physicians, we’re obliged to rule out that possibility, at least for now. Although . . .”
“Although?”
“There’s evidence of severe lesions of the corneas. I’d say she’s almost blind. We’ll have an ophthalmologist examine her, of course. And there are other traces of what appear to be old chemical burns. I’d hazard a guess she might have been addicted to drugs sometime in the past. Either that, or she was subjected to some kind of prolonged treatment. Her arms bear track marks, probable injection sites, skin abscesses, and signs she was bound or immobilized for long periods.”
Bull was clearly affected by the psychiatrist’s report. “You said you were able to communicate with her, at least a little. What did she tell you?”
The psychiatrist studied Bull for some time. “In normal circumstances I wouldn’t reveal it, but you’re from the police, and I have the impression this woman could be the victim of a crime. I think you should see this.”
The doctor pressed a switch that raised the thin slats of the blinds that kept the padded room dark. He aimed a flashlight beam at the patient. The woman did not react at all. He raised his hand to a small plastic box fixed to the plate glass and lifted its cover to reveal a two-way speaker. “We found that she reacts more readily to a voice than to an actual human presence. This is an intercom like those used to monitor infants.” He pressed the button. “Médora.”
The figure huddled in the corner showed no sign of having heard him. She remained still.
“Médora.”
Nothing. The physician closed the cover of the intercom. “Denial of one’s identity is a common symptom of this delusion. Her vision is affected by the abrasions on her corneas, but she may also have a neurological inability to recognize faces, to recall them, or even to identify them as human.” He lifted the intercom cover. “How are you?”
The first sound they heard was a sharp gasp; the second was gargling from a phlegm-choked throat. Amaia felt the hairs on her neck rise.
Through her mop of hair, they saw cracked lips covered with sores. Air burst between her lips but otherwise there was no movement.
“I’mm . . . mm . . . mm . . . deeeeaad.” The voice could have been either male or female.
“Do you know where you are?”
“I’mm . . .mm . . . deeeeaad,” the patient whispered.
“Do you know what happened?”
“Deeeeaad.” The voice rose from deep inside her through apparently immobile lips. It had a disturbing, diseased tone.
“Where were you before?”
The patient’s body swayed as she transferred her weight from one leg to the other. She seemed about to tumble over, but she stayed on her feet.
“The graaaaave.”
Bill leaned over. “Ask her if she remembers where she was before she died.”
“Where were you before the grave?” the psychiatrist asked.
Silence. And then a sudden whimper, as if she were going to cry. “I died.”
“What happened then?”
“The graaave.”
“And then?”
“Sa . . . me . . . di.” She wheezed.
“What?” The doctor turned to them. “Did you hear that?”
Bull joined him at the window. “May I?”
The doctor hesitated. Bull gave an inquiring look to the neurologist across the room, who nodded his approval.
Bull’s deep voice resounded on both sides of the plate glass. “Médora Lirette!”
The huddled woman seemed to shiver slightly. Amaia thought she was inclining her head as if to hear better.
“Médora Lirette. What did Samedi do to you?”
“Samediii . . . killed me . . . and tooook me from my graaave.”
Bull sighed in exasperation. “Who is Samedi?”
The woman turned from the corner where she’d taken refuge, broke into a run, crossed the little room, and slammed into the glass right in front of them. They recoiled in shock. The horribly dry skin of her face was pressed to the glass, and those lips covered with sores left dark smears where the pustules had broken. Amaia was convinced she caught a sharp whiff of the swamp.
“She can’t see us,” the neurologist told them.
As if to contradict him, those dead eyes scanned the room, stopping to focus on each of them. Médora shut them after that and stood as if turned to stone. She didn’t move her lips, but a great groan broke from somewhere in her gut. She trembled.
A clear, childish voice took them by surprise. “He got mon petit bon ange.”
“Who’s that?” Bull insisted.
The woman stood stock still and opened her eyes. Her gaze seemed to pierce the glass window that separated her from Bull. After another moment, without even the slightest twitch of expression, she released a distorted sound, a scream that erupted from the depths of her soul. Again, they heard the childish voice, the cry of a desperate little girl. Amaia was convinced, impossibly, that a different woman was imprisoned somewhere deep inside this pitiful creature.
“Le Grand . . .”
48
PROMISES
Superdome, New Orleans
After finding Seletha was comatose, Nana and Bobby had undertaken a frantic search along the interior tunnels of the stadium, trying to get to the Red Cross aid station. Their search was an agonizing journey because of the number of people driven into the corridors by the torrents of rain drenching the stadium bleachers, the difficulty of forcing Seletha’s wheelchair through the crowd, and Nana’s dependence on her cane. Bobby stopped every few steps to try to keep his mother’s head upright, but each time, she slumped forward, chin on chest, emitting only guttural sounds.