A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(44)

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Lady, I ain’t sure of nothing ’cept death. But I stand by one thing.”

Keesing leaned back and ran a mangled hand down his beard.

“That dude was crazy as a bag of rats.”





15


With the conversation still fresh in my mind, I dictated notes onto my phone, then headed out. I was wending toward NC-198 when the lyrics of Les Cowboys Fringants exploded from my mobile.

“Monsieur le detective,” I answered, sounding more chipper than I felt.

“Madame … l’anthropol—” A hissing echo garbled Ryan’s customary response.

“What’s up?” Shocked at how glad I was to hear his voice. It hadn’t been that long since we’d spoken.

“Bordeaux this morn— …”

“Any luck with the horse?”

“Neville remains AWOL. But I … wee garcon who …”

“This connection sucks,” I said.

“Want me to … back?”

“Not sure it would do any good. I’m driving through the boonies. And my phone is circling the drain.”

“Sounds like you’re … iving through Uzbekistan.”

“I might as well be.”

“… out so early on a Satur … ?”

“I can barely hear you.” Braking for a squirrel kamikaze-ing across the pavement. “I’ll explain later. For now, may I ask a favor?”

“Bien s?r, ma chou …”

“I want to know about Project MKUltra.”

“The LSD experi … McGill?” Static and distance blurred whatever surprise Ryan’s tone might have carried.

“Yes.”

“I know … done at the Allan Memorial Institute … Royal Victoria Hospital … funded by the CIA and the Canadian government …”

Ryan’s voice cut out abruptly, and a high metallic buzz took over the line.

“This is hopeless,” I said. “I’ll be back on the grid soon. Ring me when you have something?”

“I’ll need …”

A crackling screech. Then the line went dead.



* * *



I was crossing the patio when Les Cowboys crooned again. The thermometer now read 101°F.

“Good timing. I just hit the annex. Hold on.”

En route home, I’d stopped at my neighborhood Harris Teeter. Balancing my provisions on one knee, I fished out my key, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen. Air thirty degrees cooler puckered my skin.

“Is the birdcat happy to see you?” Ryan asked.

“No sign of him.” Placing the bags on the counter. “He hates hot weather.”

“He never goes outside.”

“I’ve explained that to him.”

“Got some info for you.” Ryan didn’t ask my reason for wanting it. I like that about him. “MKUltra was a nasty piece of work.”

I poured water from a Brita pitcher in the fridge. My personal crusade. I refuse to contribute to the 50 million plastic bottles discarded in the U.S. daily.

“The Montreal portion of the program, dubbed MKUltra subproject 68, was run by a Scottish-born doctor named Donald Ewen Cameron. The experiments were called mind-control studies. To my thinking, it was torture disguised as medical research.”

I finished drinking and began moving around the room, stowing produce in bins, cans in cabinets.

“I was a kid when this all came out,” Ryan continued. “The media latched on to the LSD angle, but apparently barbiturates and amphetamines were also in the mix. Patients were subjected to prolonged periods of sensory deprivation and induced sleep. Cameron believed in what he called repatterning and remothering the human mind.”

“What the flip does that mean?”

“Cameron thought mental illness resulted from learning incorrect ways of responding to the world. That these learned responses created brain pathways that led to repetitive abnormal behaviors. And of course, Mommy was to blame. I’m not a psychologist, but it sounds like a load of crap to me.”

“At best.” Finger-hooking my tee away from my chest. Thanks to the glorious AC, the damp cotton felt like cold, wet tissue pasted to my skin.

“Electroshock was used to depattern a patient. Not the usual three times weekly but twice daily. This was supposed to break all incorrect neural pathways caused by poor mothering.”

“Sounds like brainwashing.” I began to shiver. Maybe the cold. Maybe not.

“Indeed.”

I clicked to speaker, set down the phone, and peeled the damp shirt up and over my head. In the effort, I must have let out a grunt.

“What are you doing?”

“My top was sweaty, so I took it off.”

“Can you shoot me a selfie?”

“No.”

“Your bra must also be wet.”

“How did this so-called treatment work?”

“Is it that little black lacy number?”

“Ryan.” Faux stern. “Jesus, we’re talking about torture.”

“Right. To prepare for depatterning, a patient was put into a state of drug-induced sleep, usually for a period of ten days. After that, the electroshock therapy lasted for about two weeks. Some patients also required more extreme forms of sensory deprivation.”