Amnesia (26 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
He was determined to double the length of time I'd spent testing Sylvia Jackson. Correcting him again would only be counterproductive. “No, sir.”
“But you
did
write down, specifically, verbatim, exactly what she said in response to your question concerning what happened preceding her injury. Correct?”
did
write down, specifically, verbatim, exactly what she said in response to your question concerning what happened preceding her injury. Correct?”
I swallowed. “That's correct.”
I had no time to ponder why this answer sounded suspect. Sherman was already on the move again. “In fact, taking this statement wasn't necessary at all for your evaluation of Sylvia Jackson, was it?” Sherman turned back to me, the lines above his eyebrows deepening into furrows. “Dr. Zak, would you agree that corroboration is the only way to tell whether someone accurately recalls an event?”
“Yes,” I said, “if that corroboration comes from someone who saw the same event.”
Sherman looked toward the jury, nonchalant. “You mean, if someone had been in the house, for instance, and had walked in on the murder while it was taking place â”
My mouth hung open and I felt color rising from my collar. Of course, he knew all about my wife's murder. He hadn't been personally involved, but his office had prosecuted the case. I started to get up out of my chair. Chip was on his feet. “Objection.”
The judge looked surprised. “On what basis?”
Sherman shrugged. “Question withdrawn.”
The callous deliberateness with which he was trying to sabotage
me took my breath away. I dropped back into my seat.
me took my breath away. I dropped back into my seat.
Sherman put down his legal pad, crossed his arms in front of him. I barely heard the next question. “So the only way for you to corroborate what someone says they saw is if another person was there and tells you they saw the same thing?”
“Correct,” I said.
Sherman took a half turn toward the jury as he delivered a final shot. “So if I told you that it rained outside while you were in this courtroom, and you walked outside and saw the sky was clouded over and there were puddles out there and the grass was wet, it wouldn't be enough corroboration for you, I take it?”
I took a deep breath and smothered the urge to vault out of the witness box and wring Monty's neck. He dangled the absurd question in front of me like bait and I rose to it, just as he must have hoped I would. “No. A sprinkler truck might have come by.”
My salt-and-pepper friend tittered in an otherwise stone-quiet courtroom.
“A sprinkler truck,” Sherman repeated and glanced at the jury.
“Mr. Sherman, do you have any more questions for this witness?” the judge asked.
“I do, Your Honor.”
“In that case, since it's already late,” the judge banged his gavel, “court is recessed until Monday at nine.”
I left the courtroom feeling I'd been sucker-punched.
“We're going to get a drink down the street,” Chip said as we were leaving the courthouse. “Join us?”
I got waylaid by a reporter in the lobby. By the time I got to the tavern, Chip was standing alone at the bar. “Where's ⦔ I started to ask when Annie emerged from the gloomy inner reaches of the room. Transformed into herself, she'd changed into jeans and her aviator's jacket. Her hair, sprung loose, curled around her face.
“Phew,” she sighed, sinking into the stool beside me and draping a zippered garment bag across the bar, “that's much better. That outfit makes my teeth itch.”
“I didn't know teeth could itch,” Chip said.
“That's what my dad used to say about wearing a tie,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
The beer arrived. Chip raised his glass. “To a fair verdict.”
“A fair verdict,” I said and tapped mine against his.
We all drank. I barely tasted the beer.
“Sorry about that sprinkler truck,” I said. “It just slipped out.”
“Peter,” Chip said, “he took a cheap shot. Any reasonable person would have reacted.”
“Look, I told you I wasn't doing this kind of work anymore. Now I've gone and screwed up your case.”
“It ain't over till it's over,” Annie said. “One sprinkler truck isn't going to wash away the lack of evidence.”
Chip and Annie started to discuss the day's proceedings. Annie dissected the jury's response to the defense case, juror by juror. I tuned out and replayed Sherman's words, “You mean, if someone had been in the house â” It was, as Chip said, a cheap shot. Cheap and potentially lethal. Nothing was the way it had been before Kate was killed. I went to work, I treated my patients, I kibitzed with Kwan, I went home â it looked the same. But sameness was an illusion. Like a house Kate and I had once looked at. It seemed sturdy, but when you took a knife to the foundation, the punky wood gave way like balsa. I had a vulnerability that D.A.s could attack with impunity without the jury even suspecting that something was up.
Just then, my pocket buzzed like an angry bumblebee. I'd turned it from beep to buzz â it's not cool to have your pocket beep while you're testifying. I got up to find a phone. Annie offered me her cell phone.
“Something wrong with your beer?” she asked, noticing that I hadn't touched it.
I pushed the beer away. “I guess my stomach's a little queasy.”
I dialed the hospital. Kwan picked up.
“It's Peter. What's up?”
“Maria Whitson's split.”
“How?”
“She must have followed someone out through an exit. When she didn't show up for dinner, we went looking for her. She's not in the building.”
I WAS already out on the street, looking up and down, trying to recall where I'd parked my car, when I remembered. It was in the shop. I returned to the bar where Annie and Chip were still nursing their drinks.
“What happened? Decide to finish your beer after all?” Chip asked.
“My damned car is being fixed,” I complained. “I'm going to have to call a cab. I need to get to the hospital right away.”
“I'll drive you,” Annie offered.
“Would you? I'd appreciate that. We don't often lose patients.”
“Who'd you lose?”
“A young woman. And now I'm kicking myself because I noticed that she was acting oddly this morning and I didn't take the time to find out what was up. We were managing so many other crises.”
“You think she's in danger?”
“She's attempted suicide before. I don't
think
that's what she's up to. But why split? We were releasing her in a few days. Maybe she's still somewhere on the grounds. I feel responsible. She's my patient and I wasn't paying attention.”
think
that's what she's up to. But why split? We were releasing her in a few days. Maybe she's still somewhere on the grounds. I feel responsible. She's my patient and I wasn't paying attention.”
Annie tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter, grabbed her garment bag, threw her coat over her shoulders, and headed out. Her Jeep was parked in a lot down the street. I held on as we bounced over the potholes that have achieved landmark status in East Cambridge. The rush-hour traffic slowed her down only slightly as she dodged and weaved with the nonchalance of a veteran cabby.
We pulled onto the rolling hospital campus and I showed Annie where to park. “This place always reminds me of a country club,” she commented as we hurried up the hill to the unit.
Kwan was on the phone at the nurses' station. “I'll call you back,” he said, “keep looking.” He hung up and turned to me. His face was tense. Uncharacteristically, his tie was loosened at the neck. “That was hospital security. They're searching the grounds. Nothing yet. But there are so many nooks and crannies in this place, it could take awhile.”
“They've alerted the police?” I asked. Kwan nodded.
Gloria came rushing in from the hall. “I checked her room. Her clothes are still there. Her toothbrush. As far as I can tell, everything except her purse and what she was wearing.”
“How long has she been gone?” I asked.
Gloria answered, “She was here when the nurse passed out meds at three. Then didn't show up for dinner.”
Dinner on the unit was at 5:30 P.M. It was already after six. A lot could happen in three hours.
“This morning she seemed jumpy,” I said. “I asked her why she wasn't participating in any of the morning activities. Then I got distracted.” Gloria put her hands on her hips and eyed me. “I know, I know. I should have been paying attention. But there was an awful lot going on around here.”
Gloria rubbed her forehead and sighed. “At least you talked to her. I didn't even notice what she was up to. All I know is Maria ate lunch and went back to her room. If I'd been doing my job, this never would have happened.”
“Often you can tell a lot about someone's state of mind,
where they thought they were going, by what they take with them and what they leave behind,” Annie offered. The three of us looked over at her. I started to say something and then stopped myself. It's not ethical to talk about a patient in front of an outsider. On the other hand, Annie was a trained investigator.
where they thought they were going, by what they take with them and what they leave behind,” Annie offered. The three of us looked over at her. I started to say something and then stopped myself. It's not ethical to talk about a patient in front of an outsider. On the other hand, Annie was a trained investigator.
I quickly introduced Annie to Kwan and Gloria. “Annie is a private investigator,” I explained. “I'm working with her on a case.”
“I know sharing information about a patient probably makes you all uncomfortable,” Annie said, “but I couldn't help overhearing. Maybe I can help.” Annie took the silence as permission to continue. “Someone who's just looking for a hole to crawl into and die probably isn't going to bother to take her purse along. On the other hand ⦔
The phone at the desk rang and Kwan picked it up.
“Why don't you check out her room,” Gloria suggested. “You might notice something I missed. I'm going upstairs to check the rest of the building one more time. Maybe she's taking a nap in someone's office.”
Annie and I went down to Maria Whitson's room. Her bed was made but rumpled, as if she'd been sitting on it. Her mother's photograph album lay open on the bed. I looked in the closet. Her clothes were there, neatly folded or hung. The morning paper was on the bathroom floor. I picked it up. There was a story on the front page about the Jackson trial â “Assault Victim's Memory to Be Questioned.”
“This is your patient?” Annie asked. She'd picked up the open photograph album.
I glanced at the wedding picture. “That's her,” I said and crouched down to peer under the bed.
“Peter, look closely and tell me what you see.”
I looked at the page Annie held open. Slim and radiant, her hair done up elaborately with tendrils curling about her face, Maria Whitson beamed on the arm of a dark, handsome, muscular
young man, a young man she had since ousted from her life. “Holy shit,” I whispered, staring at the familiar face, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The handsome young man who stood beside Maria, uncomfortable in his rented tux, was Sylvia Jackson's guardian angel, Angelo di Benedetti.
young man, a young man she had since ousted from her life. “Holy shit,” I whispered, staring at the familiar face, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The handsome young man who stood beside Maria, uncomfortable in his rented tux, was Sylvia Jackson's guardian angel, Angelo di Benedetti.
“Isn't Angelo's alibi his ex-wife?” Annie asked.
I nodded.
“And Angelo is Tony's nephew by ex-marriage, right?”
I nodded again.
“Then that makes your patientâ”
“âTony Ruggiero's niece. Sylvia's Tony and Maria's Uncle Nino are the same person.” I said the words slowly, running them through my brain like a blind person feeling an unfamiliar feature in a familiar face.
“Wait a minute,” Annie said. “Let me get this straight. You're treating a patient who's related to our murder victim?”
“But I had no idea ⦔
“Of course you had no idea. You would have disqualified yourself from the start. Once Sherman gets wind of this, he could file for a mistrial.”
I tried to digest what was happening. As Annie had instantly realized, the connection meant I had a conflict of interest. My opinions were tainted. But there was more to it than that. Pieces of information were flying around in my head and I was struggling to connect the dots.
Some pieces of paper that must have been tucked into the photograph album fluttered to the floor. I reached down and picked them up. “Would you look at this,” I murmured. There was the newspaper clipping from two months earlier: “Jackson Case to Hear Memory Expert.” Also, a Xerox of the feature article that had been written about me, whole sections of text highlighted in yellow. And finally, a copy of a newspaper clipping â I winced at the words, “Slasher Kills Cambridge Artist.”
Annie said, “It's almost as if she wanted you to find these.” It was what I'd been thinking, too.
“I wonder ⦔ I started, and picked up the phone and dialed the hospital operator. “Can you connect me with Dr. Baldridge?” I waited. When I got Baldridge's answering service, I said, “I need to talk to him. Right now.”
“He's in group,” the drone on the other end of the line told me.
“This is urgent. I know there's an emergency code. Please, use it.”
“I'm sorry. I have strict instructions ⦔
“If I don't hear back from him in ten minutes, I'm going to come over there and interrupt the group myself. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
Dr. Baldridge called back two minutes later. “What's the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Why did you refer Maria Whitson to the Neuropsych Unit?”
“You interrupt me, get me out of group to ask meâ”
“Believe me, it's a matter of great urgency.”
“Aren't you being a bit melodramatic?”
“Maria Whitson has disappeared. It's very important that I understand exactly the circumstances surrounding her admission.”
“Disappeared? Can't you people ⦔ Baldridge sputtered. “Let's see, Maria Whitson”âI had the distinct impression he was trying to recall who she was. “I referred her to you because I knew you'd be able to ⦔
“You referred her on your own? It was your idea?”
There was silence. “She did mention that she'd read about you.”
“So she asked you to refer her to me, specifically?”
“Well, with you being an expert on head trauma and all, I concurred.” There was a pause. “It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? I wasn't able to treat her any further. Well, of course, I might have done so anyway, given the problems she was having, and of course ⦔ He blustered on. I hung up and swore under my breath.
“What was that all about?” Annie asked.
“Would have been pretty amazing, I take on a murder case and a week later, the niece of the murdered victim shows up on the unit.” I stared at the phone. “It was no coincidence. It was engineered.”
I was still staring at the phone when it rang. Annie and I looked at each other. I picked it up. “Hello?”
It was Kwan, calling from down the hall. “One of the security guards saw a blond woman out jogging on the grounds this afternoon. It was still light. Then, he noticed her again later, outside the gate talking to someone in a car. He had the impression they were having a vigorous discussion. Maybe an argument. They went at it for a few minutes. Then she got into the car and it took off. Says he can show us the tire tracks. I guess the guy was in a hurry.”
“Did he get a plate number? Make of car? Description of the driver?” I sounded like my friend, Sergeant MacRae.
“No plate number. Couldn't see the man she was talking to.”
“But he had the impression that it was a man?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
I hung up the phone and told Annie. “Did he think she went voluntarily?” Annie asked.
“Well, he didn't get out and force her into the car.”
A high-pitched ring sounded. It wasn't coming from Maria's bedside phone. The sound came again. The orange plastic pitcher alongside the regular phone was ringing. I opened the top. The sound came again, louder. I lifted a cell phone from its hiding place, flipped it opened, turned it on, and held it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said.
There was no sound. Then a click.
“Anybody there?” Annie asked.
I shook my head. I wondered, once again, why Maria Whitson felt she needed to keep this phone hidden. Then, I remembered something from walk rounds, the first day we admitted
her. When I started to pour her a cup of water from this pitcher, she became agitated. Was the cell phone hidden here from day one? It was a disturbing thought. Which led to another disturbing thought. Had she been tormenting my mother with middle-of-the-night phone calls intended to disrupt my sleep, calls that she didn't want showing up in the hospital phone records?
her. When I started to pour her a cup of water from this pitcher, she became agitated. Was the cell phone hidden here from day one? It was a disturbing thought. Which led to another disturbing thought. Had she been tormenting my mother with middle-of-the-night phone calls intended to disrupt my sleep, calls that she didn't want showing up in the hospital phone records?
I pressed the redial button and waited. There were seven beeps in quick succession. As I'd expected, a local call. The phone rang once. Twice. Still no answer. Three rings. I waited. Four rings. I kept expecting to hear my mother's voice at the other end. Instead, the phone rang again. And again. Still no one picked up, not even an answering machine. I was about to give up after the seventh ring when there was a click, a pause, the sound of someone exhaling, and a familiar, breathy voice, “ ⦠Hello?”
I started to say something when I heard a man's voice yelling in the background. I couldn't make out the words. Then the phone went dead. I pressed redial again. Seven beeps. And a rapid busy signal.
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