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“Yes. Cameron went on to develop theories of society, placing people into two categories. The weak and the strong.”

Thus human courts acquit the strong,

And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.

Mary Hague-Yearl had reappeared with several books. She opened one to a black-and-white photograph and placed it in front of Beauvoir.

“That,” she said as she thrust her forefinger onto the face, “is Ewen Cameron.”

A slender, middle-aged man with gray hair and glasses smiled up at him.

Trustworthy. Benign. Caring. He looked like something out of central casting.

Marcus Welby, M.D.

The line under the photo said Dr. Cameron had been the President of the American Psychiatric Association. The Canadian Psychiatric Association.

The World Psychiatric Association.

“But it was his work with the CIA, here at McGill, that made his name,” said Myrna.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir looked up. “The Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Yes. This was back in the fifties and sixties. The height of the Cold War. He was hired by the CIA and others, including the Canadian government, to study brainwashing. How to do it. How to undo it. And to do that, he needed not just animals but human subjects.”

“Prisoners?” asked Jean-Guy.

It was a repugnant, immoral practice that had apparently continued long after it was declared illegal.

“No,” said Reine-Marie. “They were men and women from across Canada who came to him for help. Most had minor complaints, like we all do at times. Insomnia, headaches, anxiety. Some for depression. Young mothers with postpartum. It was a great thing, to be seen by the eminent Ewen Cameron. They had no idea what they were in for.”

“What did he do?” Beauvoir looked down and met those kindly gray eyes. What did you do?

“It was called MKUltra,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl. “Sounds almost laughable now. Like bad science fiction. You’ll find the details in those pages . . .” She motioned to the stacks of paper she’d brought over. “We also have the testimony of some of his victims.”

Not patients. Not clients.

Victims.

“They were guinea pigs,” said Myrna. “He used drugs like LSD. He tied them up and shot electricity through them. He used sleep deprivation. He put them into comas, sometimes for months—”

“My God,” said Beauvoir. “And no one stopped him?”

“No. No one even questioned him,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl.

“But he tortured them,” said Jean-Guy, unable to comprehend.

“Yes,” said Reine-Marie. “Ewen Cameron took men and women who’d come to him for help and he tortured them. Here. At the Allan Memorial Institute. At McGill University. For years. In full view. And no one stopped him.”

“Apparently the CIA was pleased with the results,” said Myrna. “They turned his findings into psychological torture methods they still use today.”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Jean-Guy.

He dropped his eyes to the smiling father figure in the photograph. And had it confirmed, yet again, that most monsters looked exactly like that.

They didn’t hide in dark alcoves. The distinguished monsters sat among them. Secure in the knowledge that no one would condemn them, even if they knew.

“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman,” said Mary Hague-Yearl, following his thoughts and his eyes to the photograph.