“Weird label,” Charbonneau said.
“The syndrome’s name came from a hostage situation in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1973. Three women and a man were held for six days by two ex-cons robbing a bank. The hostages came to believe the robbers were protecting them from the police. Following their release, one of the women became engaged to one of the captors, another started a defense fund.”
“The defining characteristic is to react to a threatening circumstance with passivity,” Ryan said.
“Lie down and take it.” Charbonneau shook his head.
“It goes beyond that,” I said. “Persons with Stockholm syndrome come to bond with their captors, even identify with them. They may act grateful or even loving toward them.”
“Under what circumstances does this syndrome develop?” Claudel asked.
“Psychologists agree there are four factors that must be present.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “One, the victim feels his or her survival is threatened by the captor, and believes the captor will carry through on the threat. Two, the victim is given small kindnesses, at the captor’s whim.”
“Like letting the poor bastard live,” Charbonneau interjected.
“Could be. Could be brief respites from torture, short periods of freedom, a decent meal, a bath.”
“Three, the victim is completely isolated from perspectives other than those of the captor. And four, the victim is convinced, rightly or wrongly, that there is no way to escape.”
Neither Charbonneau nor Claudel said a word.
“Cameron Hooker was a master at this game,” I said. “He kept Stan entombed in a coffin under his bed and usually took her out simply to brutalize her. But now and then he’d allow her periods of freedom. At times she was permitted to jog, to work in the garden, to attend church. Once Hooker even drove her to Riverside to visit her family.”
“Why wouldn’t she just split?” Charbonneau jabbed a hand through his hair, sending the crown vertical.
“Hooker also had Stan convinced he owned her.”
“Owned her?” Charbonneau.
“He showed her a cooked-up contract and told her he’d purchased her as a slave from an outfit called the Company. He told her she was under constant surveillance, that if she tried to escape members of the Company would hunt her down and kill her, along with members of her family.”
“You’ve got it,” I said. “Some of the most damaging defense testimony focused on a love letter Stan wrote to Hooker.”
Charbonneau looked appalled.
“Elizabeth Smart was held by crazies for almost a year,” I said. “At times she could hear searchers calling out to her, even recognized her own uncle’s voice on one occasion. She never really tried to escape.”
“Smart was a fourteen-year-old kid,” Charbonneau said.
“Remember Patty Hearst?” Ryan asked. “Symbionese Liberation Army grabbed her and kept her locked in a closet. She ended up robbing a bank with her captors.”
“That was political.” Charbonneau shot to his feet and started pacing the room. “This Hooker had to be some kind of psychotic mutant. People don’t go around snatching up girls and stashing them in boxes.”
“The phenomenon may be more common than we know,” I said.
Charbonneau stopped pacing. He and Claudel looked at me.
“In 2003, John Jamelske pleaded guilty to holding five women as sex slaves in a concrete bunker he’d constructed under his backyard.”
“Right down the road,” Claudel said, at last switching to English. “Syracuse, New York.”
“Oh, man.” Charbonneau again did the hair thing. “Remember Lake and Ng?”
Leonard Lake and Charles Ng were a pair of pathological misogynists who built a torture chamber on a remote ranch in Calaveras County, California. At least two women were videotaped while being tormented by the pair. The tape was labeled
“Whatever happened to those assholes?” Claudel’s voice dripped with disgust.
“Lake was collared for shoplifting and offed himself with a couple of cyanide capsules. Ng was nailed in Calgary, then fought extradition to the U.S. for about a decade, right, Doc?”
“It took six years of legal wrangling, but Ng was finally returned to California for trial. In 1998, a jury found him guilty of murdering three women, seven men, and two babies.”
“Enough.” The chill had gone from Claudel’s voice. “You believe Menard brought his freak show to Montreal?”
“According to Rose Fisher, Louise Parent phoned to tell me she’d seen Menard twice with young girls. We found three buried in a basement under space he rented.”
“You think Menard transported Angie Robinson from Corning, California, to Montreal?”
“Angie or her body.”
“And that he abducted and subjugated Anique Pomerleau?”
