Mad Love
By Czolgolz (copyright 1999)

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Being a psychiatrist isn't easy, and being a female one is even harder. Not only do I have to put up with the thousand stresses and inconveniences of being a doctor, but I have to put up with sexism and stereotypes as well. After my first year as an intern, I was ready to bite the head of the next patient who addressed me as ‘nurse.'

But it's a job I love, and I'll never leave it. I have a well-respected practice, and I can honestly say that I've helped a lot of people. Of course, there have been nights when I considered giving it all up. The most memorable of those happened three years ago.

I was thirty-one at the time, still trying to pay off medical school loans. I was working at the state psychiatric hospital. It was a poor, state-funded facility, where they send all the mentally ill who are a danger to themselves or others, and have no money. As you can imagine, it wasn't the most cheery place to work.

I remember almost every detail of the night they brought Darren in. It was the same night Jerry R. Was released. Jerry, an intermittent bar brawler and head case, stood before me in his new suit, waiting for the duty nurse to finish typing his release.

"Well, doc, I guess this is it."

"Good lucky, Mr. R. Congratulations on getting out."

He snorted. "Please, we both know I'm only getting out do to budgetary cuts." I denied it, but it was true. Jerry wasn't too terribly violent; we had to release him against medical orders. We needed the bed.

"Well, see you round, doc. Listen, maybe you want to get a cup of coffee with me some time?" he said, a little less-guardedly than usual.

"I better not."

"Why?" he said, with mock anger. "Just cuz I'm a former mental patient with no job, money, or place to live? You'll never land a husband that way, doc." He signed his release papers, and walked out the front door without a glance back.

I sat down on one of the vinyl chairs in the grungy lobby and sulked. Jerry was the third patient who'd asked me out that week. I hated to think it, but being pretty was a definite disadvantage in this field. Male patients were less likely to open up to me than they were to hit on me. No one took me seriously. Maybe if I were to gain some weight or cut my long black hair real short…

I glanced through the ancient magazines on table. Someone had left yesterday's paper there, and I glanced through it.

More depressing news, mostly dealing with ‘Tom Sawyer.' In case you don't remember, ‘Tom Sawyer' was the name the local papers gave to the serial murderer who stalked this city a few years ago. His method of action was simple and gory. He'd tie women up to a hotel bed, gag them, and with a handsaw, cut them clean in half. Three women had perished in that gruesome manner recently, a forth was still missing. The police released comments to the media every hour, to cover up the fact that they had made almost no progress.

Dr. Patel, the chief of staff, came shuffling through, preoccupied about some case or another. I wondered when the last time he slept was. He glanced at me, and squinted, as if trying to place my face amid the hundreds of patients and dozens of staff members he had to deal with. Finally, his eyebrows flashed upwards in recognition.

"Ah, Dr. Smith. How are you this afternoon?" It was eight in the morning. He had probably worked another sixteen-hour shift.

"I'm fine. Now how many times do I have to tell you to call me Felicia?" With most people I clung to my title as a defense measure, I rather liked the sexagenarian physician.

"Ah, of course. Listen, Dr. Felicia, I have a rather interesting case for you."

Uh oh. That probably meant another homeless schizophrenic. ‘Wild and wooly' we called them in private. "Who is it?" I asked with enthusiasm I didn't feel.

"It's a suspect in the Tom Sawyer murders. I read his file; quite frankly I'd be surprised if he wasn't guilty. The cops want you to talk to him, put him at ease. Don't put words in his mouth, but try to see if you can get him to admit to something. They'd really like to close this case."

I tried to hide my loathing. Every time I read an account of ‘Tom Sawyer's' vile crimes, I'd say a prayer that something horrible would happen to him. Like he'd get eaten alive by ants or boiled in oil or something. The last thing I wanted to do was to play nursemaid to the murderer, trying to get him to trust me enough to confess. But, like lawyers can't choose their clients, doctors can't choose their patients.

The suspect was drug in later that day, but I didn't stop by to see him. He would have been heavily sedated for transport, so I used the opportunity to explore his file.

Name: Darren Henderson

Sex: Male

Age: 26

Marital status: single

Attached was a photo of a semi-attractive blonde guy. I read through his records. He was a loner, worked construction, no kids, no serious criminal offenses. Skimming down, I read about his possible connection to the murders and why he was a suspect.

The next day I went to visit him, to feel out what kind of person he was. He lurked morosely at the back of his cell, unshaven, despondent. Lying back on his cot, he stared at the stained wall, unnoticing or myself or the guard who stood outside the barred door.

I had to approach carefully. If I came on too abruptly, he'd end up angry and uncommunicative. If I tried to be his friend, however, he'd not take me seriously. And if I attempted to be emotionless and clinical, he might simply clam up.

Before I could decide how to approach him, he broke the silence. "I didn't do it." Not angrily, not emotionally, just the dead-on statement of a fact. "I didn't do it."

I motioned for the guard to unlock the cell and leave us in private. The guard moved a few paces down the hall, but stayed within earshot.

Gingerly, I took a seat in the cast iron chair, the only furniture in the cell besides the cot and wash basin. "What didn't you do?" I asked him. It was obvious what he was referring to, but I hoped to get him talking. If he was guilty, he might show it. If he was delusional, he might trip over his own hallucinations. The more he talked, the more I could understand what was going on his mind.

"What do you think I mean?" he asked numbly, still staring at the bare, concrete wall. "Those murders. I didn't kill all those women."

"So why do the police think that you did?" True psychiatrist fashion, ‘why do you think?'

"I was taking a late night walk in the neighborhood where they found that last girl. They brought me in for questioning."

I glanced through his police file. "They've formally accused you of multiple homicide. They'd need more evidence than you being in the same place."

He ran his hand over his forehead. "They found some saws in my trunk. The same kind the murderer used, apparently. But I work construction! I have a lot of tools! They found a utility knife too, that doesn't make me Jack the Ripper!"

So far, he was speaking in a coherent, reasonable fashion. He might very well have been telling the truth, but there was not guarantee. Many psychotics sound perfectly normal.

I decided to confront him with the most damning evidence the police had uncovered. "Does the website ‘The Illusion Archive' mean anything to you?" He started, then recovered. "Should it?" he asked warily.

"Yes, it should. When the cops searched your apartment, they found it bookmarked on your computer." Along with about fifteen Weird Al Yankovic fan pages, I read with amusement.

"It's a page for fans of stage magic. What about it?" I could tell he was beginning to get nervous.

"There are a lot of pictures there. Pictures of pretty young women being sawn in half."

For the first time since I entered, he looked me in the eye. "And what of it? Name one magician who doesn't saw his assistant in half. It's one of the oldest tricks in magic."

I pulled a printout from his file. "What's this?"

He glanced at it, then looked away. "It's a story I wrote. Always wanted to be an author."

"It's about a construction worker named Darren who saws a girl in half. It has nothing to do with stage magic."

"So what? So what? The woman in the story is perfectly fine at the end; no damage whatsoever!"

I continued to press. "And how about these?" I handed him several color copies of pictures they had taken off his hard drive. "About two dozen pictures here, all of sexy young women sawn in half…or just their legs."

Darren stood up, but didn't more towards me. "I admit it. I find that magic trick very erotic. But so do a lot of people. Read anything on The Illusion Archive! You'd be surprised how common a fantasy that is!"

"Why do you find women sawn in half erotic?" I asked. Despite the murders, I found this subject intriguing. I had never heard of men who were turned on by that sort of thing.

"I dunno. Most of the guys on the site are foot fetishists, or leg men. Me, I just like the idea of a woman being dissected, then reunited without harm. It wouldn't be erotic if she was hurt." His voice was getting desperate.

"What about what you said in your diary?"

Darren sat down again and held his head in his hands. "They found that?"

I pulled it from the file and read from it "‘Tonight I have realized my wildest dreams. I have separated a woman from her legs…' It goes on like that."

He shot up. "That was only a fantasy! It wasn't true!" The guard stuck his head around the corner.

"In your diary? Please." I got up to leave.

"You've got to believe me!" He moved towards me, but the guard stopped him. "It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" I could still hear him screamed as I moved down the hall. "It wasn't meeeeee!"

I sat in my office that night, typing the Mr. Henderson's preliminary report. To be honest, things didn't look good for him. All those fantasies about sawing women in half? There was only so much you could chalk up to coincidence.

I always felt guilty when I wrote reports like the one I was about to. Though it would contain nothing but my initial impressions, I knew that many more would follow. If he went to prison, it would be based, at least in part, on my word. Oh well, if he was guilty, then he had it coming.

In order to put off the inevitable, I wandered to the staff washroom to throw some water on my face. I glanced at my reflection, at the bags under my eyes, the premature wrinkles, the lack of makeup. This career was making me old before my time. On the other hand, I still had my lithe figure, my pretty smile, and pert little breasts; I wasn't an old maid just yet.

I bent over and bathed my face in cold water. When I stood up, my knees nearly gave out in horror. Behind me, in the mirror, stood Darren. And he had a gun pointed at the back of my head.

"If you scream," he said, with deadly calm, "I will kill you."

I couldn't scream, I could barely stand up. When I first started working at the hospital, they had warned me of the possibility of being attacked. It had always seemed remote…until now.

"How…how did you get out?" I stammered.

"Before I worked construction, I was a locksmith. The lock on my door dates from before the war." Damn lack of funds. "From there is was a simple matter of sneaking into the locker room and swiping some rent a cop's piece as he showered. You really ought to have a talk with them about such deplorable breaches in security."

"Look, Mr. Henderson," I babbled, biding my time, "you're only making things worse for yourself."

"Am I? You think I'm guilty. The police think I'm guilty. The press thinks I'm guilty. I don't have a chance in hell. They're going to send me to the gas chamber. I have nothing to loose and everything to gain."

"What do you want from me?" My mind was racing. He was cool and collected, which was both good and bad. Good, because he was less likely to do something regrettable (like shoot me). Bad, because it wouldn't be as easy to convince him to give up. Last year, a nurse had been held hostage by a patient with a homemade knife. He was so panicked that Dr. Patel had convinced him to surrender within fifteen minutes. Henderson, on the other hand, knew exactly what the risks were.

Henderson placed his hand on my shoulder and the gun to the back of my neck. "I want you to lead me out of here. No tricks, no wasting time. Just some back exit where I can escape."

"The only way out of here is through the front entrance. You'll never make it."

Darren shook his head. "I'm a desperate man, doctor. And desperate men do desperate things. I suggest you don't toy with me."

I gulped, and gestured for him to follow me. Luck wasn't with me, as I guided him down a hall, into a service corridor, behind the kitchen, and out a delivery entrance by the Dumpster. No one saw us.

"Okay. You're free. You can take the gun off me."

Henderson didn't act like he heard me. "I need transportation."

"You can take my car."

"Too obvious. An ambulance. They'd never stop an ambulance." He yanked me around to the side lot where the hospital vehicles were parked. "And I know for the fact they leave the keys in them, so don't even try to trick me in that respect." He roughly shoved me into the passenger's door of the nearest one, then forced me into the driver's seat.

Leveling the gun at my kidney, he said "You will drive me to the destination I tell you. You will drive five miles an hour under the posted speed limit. Do not flash the sirens or the lights. I don't intend for you to come to any harm, but if you try to make the situation known to any other motorists, I'll fire." He poked me in the ribs with the pistol. "Understood?" I nodded.

I cursed whoever was supposed to be manning the empty security checkpoint at the exit to the hospital grounds. Darren kept us off the main roads until we were well out of the city. Soon we were driving past the city limits, around darkened little towns.

"Turn here," he stated, and we took off along an overgrown gravel drive. He motioned me to stop in front of what appeared to be an abandoned industrial structure. After telling me to get out, he followed me.

I began to cry. I couldn't help it. I prayed he wasn't going to do what I feared he was. "Hey, calm down," he said, seemingly touched. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then let me go! You've made your escape, why do you want to keep me?"

"I'm not safe. They'll have every cop in the county after me. I'll just be caught again. I need you to help prove my innocence."

"I'll do anything! Just don't hurt me!" This wasn't merely feminine panic. Henderson seemed susceptible to my displays of emotion; maybe if I played the damsel in distress enough, he'd let me free.

Henderson pulled up a piece of fence that surrounded the building. "You first." I crawled through; he followed close behind.

As we approached the building, I could read a faded sign in front: ‘Abyss Polymers.'

Darren tossed a rock through a window near the entrance, reached through, and opened the door. "I used to work here," he explained, as he ushered me inside. "They had to shut down due to some bad investments of the parent company." I wondered why he was telling me his life's story, but didn't complain. As long as he was talking about factory work, I'd be safe.

I glanced around the factory. It was about the size of an aircraft hanger, all one room. Though there were no lights, the full moon shed enough light to see by. Silhouettes of machinery stood scattered throughout the complex.

"What did you make here?" I asked, trying to keep the dialogue going.

"Plastic car parts," he replied, as he rummaged through a tool bench. "Grills for Hondas, gearshifts for Fords, and air conditioning vents for all kinds of cars." He never took his eyes off me, or lowered the gun. Finally, he found what he had been searching for.

"Some things never change," he grinned, as he pulled a padlock from the drawer. He then pushed two medium sized worktables together and motioned me to lay down on top. I complied, leaving the crack between the two tables at the small of my back. Darren then grabbed a length of chain from the shop area, and wound it around my wrists. He then pulled it taught so that my arms were extended over my head. Finally, he ran the chain under the tables, wrapped it around my ankles, and secured it with the lock.

Darren put down the gun; I was now incapable of resisting. I cursed myself for not driving the ambulance into another car, or doing something to escape while I still had the chance. I had been relying on my psychoanalytical skills to talk my way out of this mess; big mistake. Now I was tied down, helpless, just like all of Tom Sawyer's other victims. I'd join them soon, unless I could think of a way out.

"Darren, why are you doing this?" I asked, plaintively.

He leaned against a large plastic mold and looked at me, kindly. "For what it's worth, doctor, I'm sorry. I wish I didn't have to do this to you. But I have to show you I'm innocent."

"Innocent? You kidnap me and tie me up like Tom Sawyer did, and want me to believe you're innocent? Untie me, then we'll talk."

"Doc, you know what the evidence looks like. Listen…" he sighed. "You were right. Sawing women in half is more than a fantasy with me. Much more." So he admitted it.

"I've sawn sixteen women in half in my life. But not the ones in the news. Every women I sawed let me do it, willingly. And when I was finished, I put them back together and they were fine. I don't know who the murderer is, but it's not me. Once I've sawn you in two, you'll realize that. I mean, since I can do this without hurting anyone, why would I need to mutilate anyone? I'd never hurt anyone, and I regret that I have to do this to you. But it's the only way. You'll see."

So he was crazy. As a psychiatrist, I hated to use that work, but it was the truth. He was nuts. He honestly believed he could bisect someone harmlessly. And I was about to be next.

"Listen to me, Darren! You'll kill me if you try this! We'll get you help! It'll be okay!"

Darren shook his head. "You'll be fine. Just relax." He pulled up my shirt to my ribs, then stifled a smile when he saw the ring through my navel.

"I'll scream!" I screamed.

"No one can hear you." He draped a canvas tarp over my midsection. "It's easier the first time, if you don't watch."

Henderson pulled out a large handsaw, exactly the type used by Tom Sawyer. "Nooooo! No! Please, no!" I was hysterical.

"It'll all be over soon," he said, gently, and began to saw.

I closed my eyes. So this was the way it ended. I felt the blade chew through the tarp, then bite into my flesh. Funny, I didn't feel any pain. There were medical reasons for this of course, but I was too preoccupied to remember them. The ripping of the saw continued downwards. I could feel it's smooth surface slide between my ribs and stomach. The teeth cut further and further downwards, into my sides. Soon, he would destroy so much tissue that I'd die of shock. I relaxed, waiting for oblivion to overtake me…

But it didn't. The silent saw continued downwards. I could no longer feel it in my stomach; its top had already passed into my inside. Despite my assurance that I was about to die, the doctor part of my brain kicked in. Darren would have already cut through my liver, stomach, and part of my kidneys. And yet I felt no pain, no weakness, no numbness…in fact, I could still move my toes.

The saw was cutting through my spine now. I felt the top of the blade pass through, and descend between the two tables. I heard Darren put the saw down.

Maybe I was dead, I thought, as I felt him undo the chains. That was the only explanation. As soon as I opened my eyes I'd see my mutilated corpse, as my spirit floated above me. Strange that I still felt alive, and could move my body. I heard a screeching noise as Darren pulled the lower table away from the top one. Then I felt him move the two halves of the divided tarp, so that they were now covering the severed ends of my body.

Darren gently patted my cheek. "Doctor? Doctor, you can open your eyes. It's all over."

Maybe I wasn't dead. Maybe when I opened my eyes, the whole thing would have been my imagination. It sure felt like he had cut clear through me, but perhaps I was wrong. I opened my eyes. Then I screamed.

I was still laying on the table, unchained now, with the torn tarp draped over my rips. And that was all. There was nothing below. Where my sternum ended, I ended. There was no sign of my stomach, pelvis, or legs. I put my hand where my belly used to be. Nothing. I almost touched the stump where I'd been severed, but could force myself to. Strange there was no blood.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I was going to faint. "Where are…where are…?" I gasped. Darren gestured to my right. There, parallel to my table, was the lower table. And on top, was my lower half.

My legs lay there, about two feet away, draped with the other half of the canvas. They were unquestionably my feet. I moved them, they moved. Clearly not possible. It must be done with mirrors somehow. I reached out to touch them, fully expecting my hand to pass through them like an illusion. Instead, I felt the pressure of my fingers on the bottoms of my toes.

"You see," continued Darren. "Nothing to worry about. You're just fine."

"Put me back together! Put me together! Putmetogetherputmetogetherputmetogether….!"

Quickly, Darren moved the lower table back in place. He ran his hands over my torso. I felt a tingling sensation. "Okay, you're fine now."

I jumped up, half expecting to fall to pieces. No, I was whole. One piece. Not a mark. The severed tarp was the only sign of what had just happened.

Darren moved towards me, a desperate look in his eyes. "You see? You see, don't you, doc? It wasn't me! I don't need to hurt anyone to make my fantasies a reality! Just like with you, no one I've sawn has come to harm! I don't know who the murderer is, but it's not me! I'm sorry I had to do that to you, but it proves my case, right? You believe me, don't you?"

I looked at him. Unarmed, paranoid, and scared. He had just laid everything on the line to prove he wasn't a murderer. If he hadn't succeeded in kidnapping me, then I'd still think he was the killer.

I counted backwards from ten to get the fear out of my voice. "Give me the gun," I commanded. He nodded, glumly, and handed it to me, butt first. I flicked open the chamber and spun the cylinder. It wasn't loaded. Darren pulled the bullets out of his pocket and handed them to me as well. "I was afraid it'd go off accidentally," he explained.

I stuck the gun in my belt. "I'm going to call the hospital," I told him, sternly. "Don't you dare even think of leaving." I quickly left him, and sat in the cab of the ambulance. Jesus! I refused to let myself dwell on what had happened. I had to check in with the hospital to let them know I was all right.

I picked up the radio. "Hello? This is Dr. Smith. Anyone read me?"

"Dr. Smith?" came the static filled reply. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Thank God," said the dispatcher, with real relief. "Henderson's escaped. We were afraid that he…"

"He's with me. He's going to give himself up. I'll take him back to the hospital."

"Don't bother."

"Excuse me?"
"Funny story. Seems some cops were doing a prostitution sting. One of the ‘johns' took an undercover policewoman to a hotel, tied her up…then took out a saw."

"My God!"

"Lucky thing she was wired."

"So that guy is the real Tom Sawyer?"

"Was. Apparently he tried to make a break for it, and ended up getting shot a few times. Good riddance. They found some photos on his person that link him to the other murders."

"So that means that Henderson…"

"Innocent as a babe. You might as well stick him in a taxi."

I turned off the radio and wandered back to the factory. Darren was lying on the table, staring blankly at the ceiling. "I once did a wheelie in a forklift all the way across the floor here." He mumbled. I stood over him. "They caught the real Tom Sawyer."

He jumped up, a deranged look of joy on his face. "Then that proves I'm innocent, right? I can go, can't I?"

I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against a roof support. True, he was much bigger than me, but he didn't resist. "You are most certainly NOT free to go. You held me at gunpoint, you kidnapped me, and you attacked me with a deadly weapon. You will not leave my custody until I give the word. Understood?" Numbly, he nodded.

I grabbed him by the shoulder and hustled him into the back of the ambulance. Forcing him to lay on the stretcher, I rolled up his sleeve, and jabbed a hypodermic from the surgical kit into his arm. The sedative took effect within a few seconds and he passed out.

When he came to, he was stretched out on my sofa. I, in the meantime, had taken his unconsciousness as an opportunity to shower and change my clothes.

"Where am I?" he mumbled groggily.

"At my house. Would you like a drink?"

He nodded. "Do you have any whiskey?"

I poured him a shot and he downed it in one gulp. "Doctor…"

"Shh." I handed him some papers.

"What's this?"

"It's your release papers. The hospital just faxed them over."

"So I'm free to go?"

"Yes. The police have issued a press release clearing you of all involvement with the murders. You could probably sue them for false arrest, though if you take my advice, that's a headache you don't need right now."

He rubbed his temples. "So could you call me a taxi?"

"In a minute. First, there's something I'd like to discuss with you." I poured myself a screwdriver.

"Darren, when I was about five years old, I saw a magician on television saw a woman in half. From that moment on, I've never been able to stop thinking about that. I don't know why it got to me, but ever since kindergarten, I've had this fantasy about having a big magician stick me in a box and cut me in two. You can imagine how heartbroken I was when I realized it was an impossible dream. So as I grew older, I tried to think about it less and less. But I couldn't help myself. Every time a magic show came on TV my eyes would be glued to the screen. All except those ‘secrets of magic revealed' shows."

"Don't you hate those?" said Darren, with a sort of smile.

"And how! At any rate, tonight, after I realized I wasn't going to die…well, you can imagine what I felt. Like all my fantasies could become realities." Darren tried to say something, but I shushed him again.

"Darren, is it possible…I mean, could you do that again?"

"Yes…and more. Decapitations, zigzag, mismade…"

I took him by the hand and lead him to my basement. I think the wide selection of swords, knives, saws, and magic equipment shocked even him.

"It's a good thing the cops never came here," he joked. "They'd have thought you were Tom Sawyer."

I stretched out across the classic ‘thin model' of the sawing in half trick. "Darren…would you?"

He took my hand and kissed it. "My pleasure."

"Just be gentle," I said as he situated me in the box, "I'm still rather new at this."

"Don't worry, doctor. You're in good hands." He locked the lid.

"Please," I said as he picked up the saw, "call me Felicia."