Page 80 of A Madness So Discreet

“Wait until tomorrow to thank me,” he said, resting back into his chair again. “Much like Jenny Cantor at Christmastime, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

Grace resumed her seat the next day with Adelaide and Mr. Turner, rising with the sun in order to make sure they were assured a place in the courtroom. Dr. Thornhollow was right; now that Elizabeth’s testimony had brought a senator that much closer to the gallows, everyone wanted to be there when it was decided whether he would hang. The closeness of bodies was worse than the day before, those in the balcony pressed up against the railing, those in the back leaning against the walls when it became standing room only.

Dr. Thornhollow took the stand, his gaze never once going to Grace or his sister.

“I understand, Doctor, that you are formally trained in the science of phrenology, is that correct?” Pickering asked.

“Yes,” Thornhollow said, though Grace knew he was dying to correct the terminology to pseudoscience.

“If you would take a moment to explain to the jury in layman’s terms, please, what phrenology is, and how it works.”

Thornhollow turned to the jury, his speech precise as if teaching a class of toddlers. “The concept behind phrenology is that the human brain is divided into seven main sections, each with a broad scope such as domestic or intellectual. These sections are further divided into areas that represent different specific functions, like hope or friendship. The more each of these sections is used, the more it grows. Likewise, if a section is not used often, it can shrivel. These undulations of the brain cause the skull itself to change form, allowing a trained phrenologist such as myself to read the bumps on a person’s head to determine their emotional or intellectual leanings.”

“Very good,” Pickering said. “And you have had a chance to examine Mr. Mae, is that correct?”

“I have.”

“And what were your findings?”

“Mr. Mae had pronounced bumps in the areas associated with combativeness, destructiveness, and suavity.”

Adelaide leaned into Grace. “I bet he added that last bit for Elizabeth. If she couldn’t get it on record that your father is a sly son of a bitch, by God, he will.”

“Likewise,” Thornhollow continued, “there were definite concavities in the areas represented by benevolence and conscientiousness.”

“And in your professional opinion,” Pickering asked, “does this indicate that Mr. Mae would be capable of raping Elizabeth Martin and doing the same to Jenny Cantor, asphyxiating her, and blithely leaving her body in the snow?”

“Oh yes,” Thornhollow said, his voice heavy with conviction that hadn’t existed until then. “He’s capable of that and more.”

“Objection,” Atkinson said from his chair. “Unless Dr. Thornhollow would like to widen the umbrella of crimes my client has been pushed under by defining what he means by ‘and more’?”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“Dr. Thornhollow,” Pickering tried again. “In your opinion is Mr. Mae capable of the crimes he is accused of?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve irritated him,” Grace whispered to Adelaide. “His jaw muscle is ticking.”

“I saw,” her friend agreed. “He’ll never make a living at the poker tables, will he?”

“Furthermore,” Pickering continued, “in all your studies of the human brain, have you found that someone with proclivities such as Mr. Mae’s can ever be rehabilitated?”

Grace’s brow furrowed. “Why is he asking that?”

“He’s trying to tie up his argument for the death penalty,” Adelaide whispered. “If Melancthon says that not only did your father commit this crime but that he’s likely to do it again, the jury will almost have to recommend the gallows, senator or not.”

“Dr. Thornhollow, did you hear the question?” Pickering asked.

“Why is he not answering?” Grace asked, a lump of fear forming in her stomach.

Adelaide only shook her head, her own confusion evident.

“Dr. Thornhollow—”

“Yes, I heard you,” Thornhollow said, his voice biting. He swallowed hard, his eyes not leaving the jury. “In my professional opinion, Mr. Mae’s brain function is not only irreversible but is indicative of criminal insanity.”

Mr. Pickering froze, his mouth still half-open to pronounce his next question. At the defense table, Atkinson was scribbling madly. The courtroom milled, a heavy buzz of whispered conversation gaining steam as those who understood explained what had just happened to those who didn’t.