"Yes, that is right, my dear." The detective's voice was that of a doting father who was proud of her daughter's intelligence. "You see, the princess was an excellent judge of people. I am sure that you know that, and there are a number of people not diagnosed with mental illness who can attest to that. In addition, her IQ was 181, putting her in the upper genius range and making it very unlikely that if a person other than her doctor were to attempt to give her a medication, unannounced, she would accept it. Therefore, if she was forced to take it by anyone other than her doctor, she would be extremely likely to put up some sort of resistance, which would have been obvious when doing an examination of her comatose body.
"By this reasoning and from the observations that it would be exponentially more difficult to develop a tablet with more than one or two grams of Aripiprazole than to inject a solution of it which was highly concentrated enough for the relatively small volume of a Intramuscular injection which evidence points to. This injection, which was not her normal medication—something that the princess would have known, as she has been able to continue her education while committed to St Augustine's and would know that her normal medication was only administrable in tablet form—would only have been acceptable if her doctor was the one to suggest and administer it.
"As a forensic psychologist, one whose knowledge in the field is generally believed to be among the most cutting-edge researchers, my testimony would be presented as that of an expert witness, and would have the same bearing as physical, hard evidence, like fingerprints and DNA. So not all hope is lost."
"There is one other thing," I said. "I was running over some calculations in my head and found some inconsistencies with what would make sense. What amount of Aripiprazole was used to kill the Princess? Was that on the police report?"
"Yes it was." It was my guardian speaking this time. "The report stated that at the time of the injection, twelve grams of Aripiprazole was administered to the Princess, as an overdose."
"And that is what doesn't make sense. As time goes on, when administering the drug, most patients have to gradually increase the dosage from the standard amount, and when they start showing clear signs of recovery, the dosage is gradually lessened until none is given. The princess had been given the largest dose of Aripiprazole for more than three years when this happened. A result of this would, I believe, be that the LD-50 of the drug would be increased dramatically—to the point where twelve grams would be much below the mark, and would 'only' render her comatose for a while, probably a good long while.
"The obvious conclusion from this would be that therefore, in all probability, the princess is, in fact, not dead, which could explain why an autopsy has not been released yet, which would prove what we are saying right now. Therefore, I think that we must find her before the end of my trial, which will probably take at least a few days. With her life as evidence, it should be much easier to prove our claims. Especially if she could be conscious."
I looked around, focusing my eyes especially at Janet, trying to discern from her expression what she thought of my assertions. "I know that you are seriously considering the fact that what I just said could be a combination of my grief and mental illness talking, Janet, but I assure you that what I say can be confirmed by hard science. Just ask your father or your younger sister if what I say has fact to base it upon, or if it is more likely just the ramblings of a grief-stricken mentally ill teenager." I smiled, but I knew even as I did that it did not contain any warmth, but would seem the smile of someone who had just proven a point to one that that person thought to be less intelligent than him or her.
Isaiah smiled, knowing what was behind the smile that I had given to Janet. He pointed to me, subtly, so as not to make the other two aware of what he was doing, and signed the numbers one, seven and six. He gestured at my brain, showing that he meant my Intelligence Quotient, which was apparently higher than I had ever expected it to be. He then made a similar gesture towards Janet, and signed the number 163, proving that what my smile had indicated was indeed true. I shook my head back at him, and indicated that it was not polite to talk about someone when he or she was unaware that he was doing so.
Janet looked at her father again. "You know, I do not think that I will even need to do a psychological profile of Miss Kingsley after all. This little discussion has given me enough information for me to make an informed report on whether or not she is mentally ill. I wonder, Miss Kinsley, what you would think of becoming a topic for a paper that I have just decided to write, which will outline the basis for a certain type of mental exceptionality. Don't you worry, I have no intention of ever writing a single word which is intellectually dishonest, or that will contradict your belief that you have no form of schizophrenia, and can indeed tell the difference between what is fantasy and reality. I don't believe that you even have ever had any of the common symptoms that are essential to the diagnosis, most notably hallucinations."
I said that I would think about whether or not I would be willing to be the subject of her research and she thanked me and left the room. Dr Taliette said, "I think that we may have just done it, Miss Terra. Now we just have to see if we can get our final bullet to fill the sixth chamber and if the jury board will agree with us. Don't worry about my payment just yet. I believe that I have an idea that you will like very much, but I have to work a bit more of the kinks out of it before I feel ready to share it with you. I will see you tomorrow."
With that, he too stepped out into the rest of the hospital, leaving me with my guardian and attorney. "Are you as confident as our investigator seems to be?" I asked him.
"Yes, and no," he replied and then elaborated. "I think that we just about all we need to prove your innocence to an unbiased person, but I doubt very much that the jury is going to be as unbiased as it should be. It is going to be a close call. I think that if you let Janet prove to the court that you are not schizophrenic, and if you could present your take on the evidence to the jury, I think that it could do nothing but help our case. I mean your take. Leave nothing out and speculate. Wow them with the deductive and inductive powers of your intellect. If they see that you can make enough perfectly logical trails that lead to murderers other than you, you probably could make them see the truth. There is not enough evidence to convict you, while there still may be enough to provide a conviction to someone other than you."
"Thank you so much Isaiah. I cannot put to words how grateful I am for everything that you and Derek have done for me. Tell little Lilith that I wish her well, and make sure she does not see my execution, if it comes to that." I got up, walked over to him, 'pulled' him to his feet—he got to them mostly on his own, I just encouraged him to stand—and squeezed him in as tight a bear hug as my bruised, burned, and cut arms could manage. "I'll see you tomorrow." I ushered him out the door and returned to my chair.
By this time, it was quarter to twelve, so I assumed that I would be served a lunch soon, after which I would be transferred to the "Tower of London" to await trail in the Old Bailey, the courthouse which had been the seat of any important trial for as long as anyone cared to remember. However, not all went as I expected, as the order of events that I had envisioned was wrong. About five minutes later, two large policemen entered the room. Each of them probably weighed more than twice my measly forty-nine kilograms.
"Miss, please put your hands behind you back." The taller of the two was the one who spoke, his voice showing me that he had already formed his conclusions about who was responsible for the attack on the princess, and that blame rested squarely upon my shoulders.
I nodded, and presented my hands for being manacled behind my back. I quietly let myself be led down the hall and out to the front exit, where no less than a dozen heavily armed police officers were waiting to escort their prisoner to the van which would be used to transport her to her next destination—the Tower of London. At the urging of the officer behind me, I stepped into the open door of the van and sat on the only chair in the back of the van. The officer strapped a safety-harness down over me so I wouldn't fall out of the chair if the van stopped suddenly or had any steep deceleration curve. Then he stepped out, closed the door, and entered the front of the van where he and the other officer drove me down the convoluted pathing that I could only imagine, having no windows to the outside world at a visible angle to where I sat.
When we arrived at the end of the route, at the Tower, my exit from the van was greeted by the thunderous sound of journalists all trying to get a single comment out of me. Knowing better than to supply the vultures with a piece of carrion for them to chew on, I ignored them and instead let myself be led into the prison building, where I endured a long and arduous security inspection where I was searched for drugs, weapons, surveillance equipment etc. Once the security department was satisfied, I was brought to a medical examiner, who conducted a in-depth physical exam, even though I had just spent around seventy-two hours in a hospital, where the least germ was sure to be have cleansed from my body. Once I cleared this stage of the process too, I finally was led to my cell. It was two-and-one-half metres square, with a steel bed on one side and a toilet on the other.
The police escort finally left me here, and I slumped into the bed ignoring how uncomfortable it was, how it seemed to inflame every injury that I had sustained, because the entire process had taken all of my energy away. I was asleep before the evening meal was served.