Katie:A Novel of Autism

By Ken Blaisdell

Katie Hale would be the perfect scapegoat for murder. She is a 17-year-old girl with severe autism and a complete inability to communicate. But there is a lot more to Katie than most people think, and as her story evolves, we see her go from being the obvious villain, to an apparent victim, and eventually to an unlikely hero.

In the opening chapters it is obvious from her blood splattered clothes, hands, and face that Katie has had some kind of horrific mental breakdown, and has stabbed Sandy, her live-in au pair, to death. But the small town’s deputy chief of police, a strong-willed, intelligent young woman named Marty Price, begins to detect flaws in the “obvious,” and goes from being Katie’s arresting officer to being her staunchest advocate, trying to keep her out of a state mental institution by figuring out who really killed Sandy, and why. But is her allegiance misplaced?

As Marty ties up the loose ends of her investigation to present a nice neat package to the DA showing that Katie could not have committed the murder, she uncovers several pieces of evidence—such as Katie’s fingerprints on the murder weapon—that point directly back at Katie, and she realizes that her first homicide investigation is going to be a lot more complex than she at first imagined. Is Katie being elaborately set up by someone, or did she really do it? Could she have killed Sandy believing she was protecting someone else?

In the course of the investigation, Marty’s all too common misunderstanding of severe autism being a form of "mental retardation" are corrected not only by Katie’s mother, but also through Marty’s personal and endearing interactions with Katie herself. An entirely different world opens up between the two when Marty discovers that Katie is able to converse by typing through a controversial process known as facilitated communication, and she comes to the humbling realization that not only is Katie not "retarded," but that she is in fact an interesting, intelligent, and often clever young lady who just happens to be trapped in a cruelly malfunctioning body.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Blaisdell
• Release date: May 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984925704

Book preview

Introduction:

My name is Chelsea McDermott. I am the person on whom the character Marty Price is based in the following story. I am a police inspector in the small town that is fictionalized here as Weston Falls. I am also the deputy chief of police. My adopted home town has a population of about 2,500, so the four full-time police officers, four part-timers, and half dozen volunteers can usually handle the load pretty easily.

I’m not a native of this wonderful little community, but I wish I had grown up here. I’ve only been a resident for a little over four years, but I already feel more at home here than I did living in Phoenix for the other 28 years of my life. I enjoy the rural setting, the wooded hills, the narrow winding roads, and I love the rational pace of life here—although it did take me a while to get my mental transmission out of high gear after leaving the city. Most of all, though, I love the people here. I love the people, because I am able to know the people.

Phoenix became a tract-housing boomtown after World War II, with planned communities laid out in neatly surveyed rows and columns with arrow-straight roads heading either north-south or east-west. Between all of the cookie-cutter houses, that the developers seemed to know they were putting too close together, they erected six-foot high stockade fences, so the occupants could enjoy the illusion of privacy while living shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors. The fence-building practice has not changed since the 40’s, except that they were mostly wood then, and are mostly cement block, now.

Over time, however, the artificial privacy evolved into virtual isolation. The result is that, today, few people in Phoenix ever get to know much about their neighbors beyond their names, and they almost never get involved in one another’s lives. Even buying Girl Scout Cookies takes place in front of the local supermarket or between parents at the office. Door to door selling by the neighborhood troop has gone the way of homemade Halloween treats.

In contrast, fences here, where they do exist, are either to keep livestock in a field, or rabbits out of a garden, or they’re decorative rows of white painted pickets, erections of rough-hewn split wood rails, or two hundred year old borders of precisely stacked fieldstones. These are the fences that Frost spoke of when he wrote, Good fences make good neighbors. These are the fences over which gossip is shared, sports rivalries are discussed, and political points are argued among people who loan each other cups of sugar, help to till one another’s backyard gardens, leave the keys in their cars, and rarely lock the door to their house. I love it!

Before the end of my first week with the police department here, I was involved in a missing persons case. A young girl of 13 had disappeared, and when our dispatcher, Hilda, radioed the call to me, my first thought was "Probably a runaway; where’s the nearest bus station?" Then I learned that the teenager, the character Katie Hale in the story you’re about to read, had been missing for only about a half hour when her parents called the police. I figured that they were either obsessively controlling, or ridiculously paranoid. I was wrong in all of those assumptions.

Katie, I soon learned, was what would be generically referred to as a special-needs child. Specifically, she had severe autism; a condition that I knew very little about, at the time.

When I arrived on scene, my new boss, a native who had been chief of police for eighteen years, explained the urgency of the situation. He told me that Katie, although 13, had the common sense and ability to reason of a two year old, and virtually no concept of danger. He was not being cruel or insensitive; he was just painting a quick and vivid picture.

Wandering off, Katie could easily forget how to get home, and just keep wandering farther and farther away. She had difficulty interacting with others, so she would not seek help from a stranger to find her way home, but even if she did, it would likely be fruitless, because Katie could not speak, nor could she use sign language or any other type of communication. She was, indeed, like a lost two year old, but with the physical ability to go a long way, quickly. Adding to all that was the sickeningly real possibility that Katie, a cute, physically budding, and very vulnerable teenaged girl, could easily be abducted if she crossed paths with the wrong individual. Even in my sleepy little town, those things could happen.

I joined the posse of friends and neighbors that were searching the yards, buildings, and woods around her home. The rest of the department took the town’s two patrol cars or their own cars, and fanned out in all directions. When I left my chief he was on the phone with the State Police requesting a helicopter.

Following the tenets of my detective training, I sought out Katie’s mother to get an understanding of why her daughter might have run away. That, I knew, could yield a clue as to where she was heading. (Once again, I would be wrong.)

Betty Hale, a woman with a degree of patience that would make the biblical character Job seem intolerant and reactionary, explained to me as we searched every nook and cranny of the basement, that most kids with autism who wander actually do so when they’re feeling happy and focused. They weren’t running away, but were simply exploring or going to a favorite place ... even if they didn’t know where that place was. Some did wander to escape a stressful situation, of course, but Betty didn’t believe that was true in this case. When she had last seen Katie about 45 minutes previously, she had been in her bedroom, wearing her headphones, happily listening to the music on her iPod.

I asked where Katie’s favorite places were, and Betty listed half a dozen spots including the attic above the garage, the neighbor’s potting shed, and behind the stacked cordwood at the side of the house. She then assured me that multiple people, including herself and her husband, had already checked all of those places.

Betty then brought my detecting to an abrupt end by saying to me, I respect what you’re trying to do; trying to figure out what Katie was thinking when she left, but please trust me that you can’t. She doesn’t think like you and I do. You may as well try to come up with what the next roll of the dice will be by looking at the last number that came up on the roulette wheel. She’s just that random. We’re only going to find her by physically looking for her. With that, she looked down at my feet, and said, Good. You’re wearing boots. We’re going to look in the woods across the street, now. It can be swampy in there.

As I walked with Betty out the gravel driveway, I watched a squirrel run across the yard and under the Hale family car; a four door BMW.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I swore I saw movement inside the car. I stopped and stared at the back window. I saw it again. A hand arcing through the air, passing by the window, and then disappearing again. I shouted to Betty as I ran toward the car.

Inside, Katie lay on the back seat, still listening to her headphones, and sailing her hand through the air pretending to be who-knows-what. I opened the door, and she looked at me curiously. Then she sat up, squeezed past me out of the car, and ran toward the house, right past her mother.

Betty reached for her, but she made a kind of grunting yell, swiveled like a running back avoiding a tackle, and was inside the house in seconds. She didn’t appear hurt or even in distress in any way.

Later, Betty speculated that Katie might have gotten into the car because they had talked about driving out to a local orchard and picking apples on the weekend. With no concept of time, when Katie was ready to go she went out and got in the car. Because Betty had the child locks set on the back doors, Katie couldn’t get back out. Not recognizing that she should panic, she apparently laid across the seat while waiting to go, and kept herself occupied by flipping through old magazines while the rest of the world panicked on her behalf.

That was my introduction to Katie Hale, but it was certainly not our last encounter. I was involved in another search for her about eight months later, where she turned up hiding in the back of a linen closet, having never left the house at all. I would also run into her and her parents in town at the grocery store or somewhere, and I’d always see her at the fall carnival that was held annually on the town common. I was always friendly and said hi to her, but I was never really sure if she remembered me from one time to the next. On my side of that coin, however, Katie was impossible to forget.

The incident that is related in the following novel is wonderfully accurate in detail even though all of the names and places have been fictionalized. While the story itself is well written and intriguing (even to someone who knows the ending because she actually lived through it), I think Mr. Blaisdell has also done a remarkable job of conveying what life is like for a family, and even a small town, when there is a very special child like Katie in the center of it.

Chelsea Marty Price McDermott

Chapter One

Weston Falls

Hale Residence

Saturday, July 3

The stomping and moans from the other bedroom pulled Betty from a deep sleep. She let out a sigh as she looked at the clock. 5:15. It had been a long time since Katie had woken them up with a meltdown like this. Betty had assumed—hoped—that she had outgrown it. Apparently not.

I thought she was over that, Dave grumbled from the other side of the bed. Sounds like she’s making up for lost time, he added, referring to how long the racket was lasting and how loud it was.

Where the heck is Sandy? Betty asked. Sandy was the live-in au pair who took care of Katie, and who was usually quick to respond when Katie acted out.

Katie was a seventeen year old girl with severe autism. She didn’t speak, except in grunts that those close to her were able to decipher as her limited vocabulary, but when she was frustrated, she would let out long loud moans, stomp one foot on the floor, and flap her arms.

After more than a minute of Katie’s stomping and moaning, Dave said, You think you should go check on her? Whatever’s wrong, Sandy doesn’t seem to be able to calm her down.

"One of us should go," Betty said as she flipped the sheet back.

Dave rolled his eyes at the why is it always me; she’s your daughter, too inference in his wife’s tone. It was an old and unending point of contention.

A few moments later, Dave heard his wife scream, Oh my God! Dave! Get in here! As he leapt from the bed, he heard her exclaim, again, "Oh my God!"

Dave rushed into Sandy’s bedroom to find his wife with her arms wrapped tightly around Katie, struggling to restrain her. Katie was small for her age, but what there was of her was all muscle, and when she was agitated, she could be very strong.

Jesus Christ! Is she all right? What the hell happened? Dave said as he hurried to help his wife. There was blood on Katie’s hands and on the flowered nightgown she wore. Where is she cut? he asked as he tried to grasp Katie’s flailing hands.

Sandy! Dave shouted, Get the hell up and help us! What’s wrong with you?

It’s not Katie’s blood, Betty shouted over her daughter’s wailing. It’s Sandy’s. I think she’s dead.

"What?" Dave exclaimed as he spun around to look at the bed tucked into a nook in the corner of the room.

On the bed, perfectly still amid the noise and ruckus, lay the pretty 22 year old. There were splotches and smears of blood all over her naked body, each emanating from what appeared to be a stab wound. Dave didn’t stop to count them, but there had to be at least 20.

Jesus Christ! Dave said, Katie! Did you do this? Did you hurt Sandy?

Katie made no apparent response to her father’s question, but just continued struggling in Betty’s arms.

Turning Katie away from Sandy, Betty said to Dave, Let’s get her grounded. Push down on her shoulders.

With Dave’s hands pushing down on her, and her mother’s embrace also pushing her downward, Katie’s struggling lessened little by little.

Finally, Betty lied in as calm a voice as she could manage, It’s okay, sweetie. Everything’s going to be okay. Let’s do your yoga, okay, honey? She nodded to Dave, and said to Katie, Come on sweetheart, Daddy will help you. Deep breaths, here we go.

Dave took Katie’s hands and brought them together, palm to palm, in front of her face. As Betty coached, Deep breaths, Katie, take deep breaths, Dave guided her hands in a vertical line in front of her; part of the classic yoga Dhyana meditation move.

Dave repeated the move several times as Betty coached, and eventually, after a dozen repetitions guided by Dave’s hands, Katie was finally relaxed enough that she would continue by herself, following only her mother’s calming voice.

Dave nodded his head, indicating that they should take her out of the room, and the two of them led her back to her own bedroom.

So as not to spark a reaction from Katie, Dave whispered in Betty’s ear, I’m going to check on Sandy.

In the hallway, Dave met Katie’s older brother, Paul. Paul was 28 and lived in Miami, but had come up for a week’s vacation that would end with the long, Fourth of July weekend.

I could hear Katie all the way from the basement, Paul said to his father. What the heck is going on?

It looks like Katie killed Sandy, Dave replied.

"What? You’re shitting me! How?"

It looks like she flipped out and stabbed her in her sleep, Dave said as the two hurried into Sandy’s room.

Holy shit! Paul exclaimed when he saw Sandy on the bed. Are you sure she’s dead?

She hasn’t moved since we found her, Dave said as he put his fingertips on her wrist. The two stood in silence for 10 or 15 seconds, then Dave said, I can’t feel anything.

Christ, Paul said quietly.

Katie, Katie, Katie, what have you done? Dave murmured wearily.

Standing next to the bed, Paul looked around the room, and said, Where’s the knife? Did you take it from Katie?

Your mom got in here first; I don’t know, Dave answered.

Paul reached down and lifted the corner of the sheet that lay heaped on the floor at the foot of the bed. Here it is, he said.

Don’t touch anything! Dave snapped. Just leave everything alone until the police get here.

You’ve called 9-1-1? Paul said, still holding the sheet up and examining the knife.

No. We had to get Katie calmed down before she hurt herself or somebody else.

It’s from the kitchen, Paul said, still looking at the knife.

I would imagine, Dave said a bit sarcastically. Where else would Katie get a knife? Now, leave it alone. Put the sheet down, and let’s get out of here. I don’t want to screw up any evidence.

Evidence? Paul repeated. "You think they’ll need to investigate this? I mean, you guys caught her red handed—literally—didn’t you? What’s to investigate?

Don’t be crass! Dave snapped. Then, punctuating his words with his index finger, he added, And don’t you say anything like that in front of your mother! Now, let’s go.

In the hallway, they saw Betty standing in Katie’s doorway.

Is she ...?

Dave just nodded.

Oh, God, she said, unsteadily leaning against the door frame. She began to sob, new tears running down her already wet cheeks.

Dave reached out and took her in his arms. I know, honey. I know, he said as he cradled her head to his shoulder.

As Dave comforted his wife, Paul placed his hand on his father’s shoulder, and said quietly, I’ll go make the call.

Dave just nodded, and Paul left them alone.

After a minute or so, Betty’s sobbing had stopped, but she still clung to her husband.

How is she? Dave asked. She’s quiet. Did the yoga help?

Not much. I gave her some Benadryl and got her to put on her vest and her headphones, Betty sniffed. Hopefully, she’ll be able to fall asleep for a little bit.

Betty was silent for a while, taking deep breaths to keep from crying again. Finally, she said to Dave, "I can’t believe this. I just don’t understand. How could she do this? Why? She loved Sandy."

I don’t get it either, Dave agreed, holding his wife. But who knows what triggers some of the things that Katie does? Maybe she was sleepwalking like that time she went next door in the middle of the night, and we found her sleeping with the Murphy’s dog.

She was eight years old when that happened, Betty countered, breaking their embrace. Her maternal defensiveness was unmistakable in her tone as she added, She never did anything like that again, and she certainly didn’t kill the dog.

The reason the episode may never have been repeated, Dave knew, was because they had put alarms on all of the doors right afterward, but he decided not to press the point and agitate his wife any further.

You’re right, he said. I’m just making guesses, and I shouldn’t be doing that. I really don’t have any idea why she might have done it. He put his hands on the sides of Betty’s face, and brushed the tears away with his thumbs. I’m sorry, honey.

He gently slid his hands down her arms until he was holding her hands in his. Feeling something on her hands, he instinctively looked down, and Betty’s gaze followed his.

Her hands were stained with dried blood. Sandy’s blood that had transferred from Katie while she and her mother were struggling.

Oh my God! she exclaimed, pulling her hands away. I have to go wash this off. Did I get any on you?

He turned his hands over and they noticed a few speckles of blood between the fingers of his right hand.

Then Betty noticed the transferred blood on her nightgown. Oh my God, she repeated. I have to get this off and get in the shower before I’m sick.

Um ... do you think you should do that? he said hesitantly.

What? Take a shower? Why in the world not?

Paul’s called 9-1-1, he said. Bob will probably be here in a few minutes. I’m just thinking that maybe he’ll want to see everything exactly as it was.

I’m supposed to sit around with poor Sandy’s blood all over me until the police get here? And then what? Pose for pictures?

I don’t know how these things work, sweetheart, he said in a calm tone. I don’t know how much evidence they’ll want to collect. If we start cleaning up before they get here, it might just confuse things.

Confuse what? she said. "Who did it? I think that’s pretty obvious. The question is why did she do it, and I don’t think seeing Sandy’s blood on my hands is going to help them figure that out."

You’re probably right, honey. It probably won’t make any difference, he said. But then he added, But it will only be a few more minutes I’m sure, and then there will never be any question.

A question of what? Do you seriously believe that they’re going to suspect that I might have killed Sandy because I washed her blood off my hands?

He looked at her for a long moment before answering. "I’d be more concerned that you’d try to make them think that so you could protect Katie."

The statement took her aback, and she stood looking at her husband with her mouth slightly agape. She was surprised not because the idea was so preposterous, but because the thought had actually crossed her mind.

If I thought it could work, she admitted, I probably would.

I’m glad you realize that it couldn’t, he said, taking her in his arms, again. "I’m sure that whatever comes next won’t be easy, not for us, and certainly not for Katie. But if there’s anyone in the world who can get Katie through this—get us through this—it’s you. You’re a miracle worker when it comes to Katie.

Holding her, he went on, I know we’ve had our differences about her needs and about how to handle her in the past, but we’re going to have to be completely together on this. If Katie senses any uncertainty, any wavering on our part, who knows how far she could regress.

What do you think will happen to her? Betty asked, holding tightly to Dave.

If he didn’t already know it from being married to her for 29 years, the anxiety in his wife’s voice left no doubt in his mind that, if she could, she would trade places with Katie in a heartbeat.

I don’t know, Dave said. She’s a minor and she’s obviously not competent to stand trial, and Bob and Marty have known her for years. But they may not have much choice as far as how the law works. They may have to hold her until she can be examined and released back into our custody.

Do you think they’ll let me stay with her if they take her? she asked, her voice trembling. I don’t know what she’d do if she was locked up in a cell all by herself.

Just then, they heard the doorbell ring, and then Paul’s voice saying, This way. She’s upstairs.

Dave hugged his wife hard and gave her a kiss. I love you, he said. We’ll get through this.

Chapter Two

Weston Falls

Hale Residence

Saturday, July 3

Dave and Betty turned to see Pete McGuire, the small police department’s only certified paramedic, coming up the stairs two at a time, followed by the town’s deputy chief of police, Marty Price, and then Paul.

First door on the left, Paul called out as Pete hit the top step.

Pete ran into the room, with Marty right on his heels. Paul, Betty, and Dave congregated at the doorway.

They watched as Pete placed his stethoscope over Sandy’s heart, while at the same time placing the back of his gloved hand against her cheek. After fifteen seconds or so, Pete stood up, took the stethoscope from his ears, and slowly shook his head.

He looked down at Sandy for several moments, and then turned to Marty. I was just talking to her last night at the grocery store. She was getting stuff for a cookout tomorrow. She told me to drop by ... His voice trailed off as he looked down at her again.

You okay? Marty asked him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Just kind of a shock is all. I deal with accidents all the time, but this is the first murder victim I’ve ever seen, and it’s somebody I know. It’s just hard believing it’s real, you know?

Betty began to cry again, and turned from the doorway, leaving the others there.

I’m sorry, Pete, Marty said. I didn’t realize you knew each other that well.

It’s not like we dated or anything, he said. It’s just ... like I said, a shock.

Leading Pete toward the doorway, she said, The state M.E. is on the way. We should stay out of the room until he signs off in here. Motioning toward Dave and Paul, she said, Let’s all wait someplace else until he gets here, okay? Pulling the door closed behind her, Marty looked down the hallway. Where’s Betty? she asked Dave.

In our bedroom, I think, he said, leading the way.

Marty touched his arm to stop him. You mind if I talk with her alone for a few minutes? she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she said to Pete, Will you go downstairs with Dave and Paul, and will all of you do me a favor, and not talk about what happened this morning until I’m there?

I want to be there when you talk to Betty, Dave said. As you can imagine, she’s taking this pretty hard.

I’m sure she is, Dave, Marty said. I’ll try not to upset her, but I really need to interview each of you separately.

"Interview us separately? Dave bristled. You think there’s some kind of conspiracy going on here?"

Of course not, Marty said, a bit surprised at his reaction. But you’re all witnesses. I just need to get your statements in your own words. If you listen to each other it can influence your own recollections. It’s just how it’s done, Dave. Nobody’s under any suspicion.

He stared at her for a long few moments before replying. "All right. But don’t upset her! And do not try to ‘interview’ Katie without me there. Is that clear?"

I understand, Dave, she said, allowing him the sense of control that he apparently needed to feel.

As the police department’s only state-accredited inspector, and as the first officer on the scene of an obvious homicide, she knew that she was authorized by law and department protocol to call the shots. But she also knew that the less threatened—the more at ease—everyone felt, the easier her job would be. Marty had known Dave since she moved to town just over four years ago, and she understood his alpha-male personality. She had no problem allowing him the illusion of control if it made things go more smoothly. Besides, she had no intention of trying to talk to Katie without her parents there, anyway. She’d known Katie just as long as Dave and Betty, and she knew she couldn’t hope to communicate with her without help, if she could even do it then.

As the trio of men went downstairs, Marty went to Betty’s bedroom doorway. The door was open, but Marty stood to the side without looking in, and announced herself.

Betty? It’s Marty. Is it okay if I come in?

There was a pause before she heard Betty reply quietly, Yeah, Marty. Come on in.

Betty sat on the edge of her bed, and she looked awful. Her short hair was disarrayed, sticking up here and there and matted flat in other places. Marty imagined that it was unchanged from the way it had been when Betty’s head left the pillow a half hour ago. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying, and her face was wet with fresh tears.

Her nightgown had several dark stains on it—most likely blood, Marty thought, and her hands, clasped together in her lap, had the same stains on them. On the back of her left hand Marty saw what looked like three fingers of a handprint in dried blood.

Betty didn’t look up when Marty entered the room; she just stared into space, occasionally blinking, spilling the tears from her eyes.

Okay if I sit down? Marty asked, pointing to a chair at Betty’s dressing table.

Betty nodded almost imperceptibly, and, barely above a whisper, answered, Sure.

Marty slid the chair over in front of Betty and sat down. Are you okay to talk to me for a few minutes? she asked.

I guess, Betty said.

As Marty pressed a small button on the pen in her breast pocket, she said, I’m going to record our conversation, Betty, so I can put it into my report later, okay?

I don’t get it, Betty said, almost as if talking to herself. Katie loved Sandy. It just doesn’t make any sense.

Where is Katie? Marty asked, realizing that she had neither seen nor heard her since she arrived. Is she all right?

Betty blinked, and for the first time, she looked up and focused her eyes on Marty’s face. Marty got the impression that she was almost surprised to find her sitting there.

She’s sleeping, Betty said. I had to give her some Benadryl. She paused a moment and then added, I haven’t had to do that except at bedtime in a year. It just doesn’t make any sense, she repeated.

"I don’t know