His intercom buzzed. “Michael. Dr. Cornflower is here to see you.”
“Send him in,” he said, rising.
Chris walked into the office.
“Chris,” Michael said, trying to get his mind back in the game. “Hello. Thank you for coming.”
Chris tucked a straggly strand of hair back into his messy ponytail. Today he was wearing a black tee shirt, a fringed suede vest, baggy cargo pants, and black plastic clogs. An expensive leather messenger bag hung across his body. He took it off and burrowed through it, pulling out a green folder, which he set on the desk. “I don’t think there’s any doubt that Keith is suffering from an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder and probably was in a disassociative state when he killed his wife.”
“And you’ll testify to that in court?”
Chris sat down, crossed one leg over the other. “I would.”
“In a suit?”
Chris smiled. “You’d be surprised how well I clean up, Michael.”
“Good. So tell me what I need to know,” Michael said, sitting down behind his desk again.
“I’ve included a detailed report that you can study, so I’ll just go with the highlights here. First let me explain how we diagnose. We start with questions designed to determine whether the patient witnessed or experienced an event involving serious injury or death. Some of the events in combat most likely to lead to PTSD are being attacked or ambushed, receiving incoming rocket or mortar fire, being shot at, being responsible for the death of a civilian or an enemy combatant, and seeing or handling seriously injured Americans or their remains. Obviously, many of these are heightened when one is talking about seeing a buddy die or get hurt. As you know, Keith’s unit saw some of the worst fighting in the war. The insurgent gunfire and mortar fire was almost nonstop. Sixty-four soldiers from his brigade died in his first year’s tour. What you don’t know is that Keith was often on ‘bagging’ duty, which means he was charged with picking up body parts. Friends’ body parts.”
“Jesus,” Michael murmured.
“I think the trip to the public market triggered him. The crowds and the movement made him hypervigilant, put him in attack mode. He started drinking to calm himself, but it didn’t work. When the homeless man approached, Keith reacted as he’d been trained. He attacked. He has no substantive memory of what happened at home, but I theorize that another trigger—a loud sound, a flash of light, something like that—caused him to flash back to the war. In this dissociative state, he reacted as he’d been trained—he defended himself and killed his wife.”
“In a dissociative state of this kind, can a person think rationally at all?”
“If you’re asking me if one can form intent, my answer is no. Further, it is my professional opinion that Keith Keller specifically was incapable of forming the intent to kill.”
Michael sat back, thinking.
“He’s a good man, Michael, a man who saw and experienced things his mind simply couldn’t handle. It would be a tragedy to compound his—and his family’s—tragedy by locking him away for life. He needs residential treatment.”
Michael opened his own file. “You know the Department of Veterans Affairs deemed that he had a ‘slight anxiety disorder.’ They did not diagnose PTSD.”
“The VA,” Chris said, shaking his head. “Don’t get me started on the government and its failings with regard to our soldiers. It’s criminal. The military tends to equate PTSD with weakness or cowardice. But they’re going to have to get on board, especially because troops are doing multiple tours. We need to make the VA and the government start addressing the needs of its soldiers at home. We need to shine a light on this and erase the stigma. This case is important, Michael. Maybe you can help another broken soldier and save some lives.”
“We haven’t found a case to date where PTSD was argued successfully.”
“There has to be a first time.” Chris smiled.
Michael nodded, looked out the window, where a steady rain was falling, in threads so thin they were like gray silk, blurring the sharp steel edges of the buildings. Like tears.
He understood suddenly what this case meant to him, why it mattered so much. “My wife,” he said slowly. “She lost a leg over there. One of her crew was killed. Her best friend is still in a coma. Anyway, Jolene just got home and she’s different. She was reserved with our kids—angry and edgy, really—and she adores them. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.”