"Yes."
"But don't press. You must not try to pressure yourself into remembering; you must try to catch those feelings when they come into your mind."
"Do you think I can't remember because I don't want to remember?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"Then I don't know, either."
"If I can remember something—anything—from my life, either before or after the injury to my head, will I remember all of it? Both lives?"
"I don't know."
"You said that my awakening in the park was caused by some kind of psychological shock?"
"That's speculative. But something caused you to come around; since there is no evidence of recent physical injury, we must assume that the stimulus was psychological trauma."
"Like . . . killing somebody?"
Trauma.
"But then, if I'd killed at least twenty-seven people before the last, why would the one killing have had such an effect on me?"
Ali said nothing as he gazed steadily at Bone with limpid, unblinking eyes.
"I feel that I'm a good person, Doctor," Bone continued quietly.
"Really?" Ali replied matter-of-factly. "And why is that?"
Bone poured himself a glass of water from a carafe on a table beside the bed, sipped at it. "You've been asking me how I feel, how I cope."
"I haven't asked you how you cope." Ali paused, cocked his head. "But, under the circumstances and considering the anxiety you tell me you feel, you seem to be coping quite well."
"I . . . I constantly feel like I'm some kind of ghost who's stranded in this body."
"But you're a friendly ghost, as it were."
"Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous."
"No. It does not sound ridiculous."
" I feel like a pair of eyes hanging inside a stranger's body and soul. I have no choice but to be here, and so I feel I have no choice but to defend this stranger as best I can while I search for . . . his . . . identity, and the truth about him."
"A most interesting formulation," Ali said. As before, his tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes gleamed with interest as he quickly took his memo pad out of his pocket and made a series of notes.
"The stranger's accused of being a mass murderer—"
"A serial murderer. There's a difference, and it might help you to know that as you search for this stranger's identity and formulate his defense."
"Will you tell me the difference?"
"The mass, or multiple, murderer usually kills all his victims in a single outburst of uncontrollable frustration and rage," Ali said as he glanced up from his notebook. "Often, his target may be only one person within the group of his victims, but his rage is so great that it spills over into the act of killing anyone else who may be around. This type of killer usually has a paranoid personality, and in that one instant this personality explodes across the threshold of rational thought. The explosion usually occurs after a series of rejections or personal defeats—loss of a job, divorce, that sort of thing."
"And the serial killer?"
Ali studied Bone for some time before speaking, and he answered with a question. "How do you feel sexually, Bone?"
Bone smiled thinly, momentarily disoriented by the sudden, and apparently arbitrary, change of subject. "I don't know what you mean," he said at last.
"Have you felt sexually aroused since awakening and discovering yourself inside the body of this stranger?"
"Are you kidding?"
"No," Ali replied evenly. "I am not kidding. Have you had any wet dreams?"
"No."
"Have you felt sexually aroused at any time?"
Bone remembered the feel of Anne's breasts touching his arm in the park, the thrill he had felt when she had come to visit him. He thought of his loneliness. Finally he said, "Yes."
"Has the object of this arousal been male or female?"
"Female."
"And has your sexual fantasy involving this person included an act of violence?"
Bone flushed as he stared into the impassive face of the psychiatrist who, for all the expression in his voice, might have been asking if he would like a glass of water; then he looked up at the television monitor on the wall.
"I'm not the police, Bone," Ali continued in the same even tone. "While it's true that everything we say and do is being recorded, it's also true that nothing you say to me can ever be used in a court of law. The tape of this session will not be made available to the police; if they wish to prove you guilty of the crimes they've accused you of, they must build their own case. We are engaged in a search for answers—for the 'truth about the stranger,' as I believe you put it. I took you, the ghost haunting the stranger, at your word. If you're no longer quite so sure you want that truth at this time, I'll get off the subject."
Bone shook his head. Then, feeling like a man about to plunge into unknown waters that could either burn or freeze him to death, he focused specifically on thoughts of making love to Anne. He fantasized doing as he pleased with her body—and then he tried to imagine how he would feel if he physically hurt her in the process. He experienced a wave of revulsion and remorse. He did not want to hurt Anne—only love her, please her and have her please him. There was no pain in this universe.
"No," he said at last.
"If you will, fantasize about making love to this person."
"I just did."
"Do you believe that you could get an erection just by thinking about her?"
Again, Bone smiled thinly. "I just did."
"And you experienced this erection without fantasizing acts of violence toward her?"
Bone sighed. "Yes, Doctor."
Ali studied him for some time, then made a series of notes. "The serial killer is a much more mysterious character," he said when he had finished writing. "We believe, judging from the latest research, that most serial killers are sexual sadists. A serial killer derives satisfaction from the abuse or mutilation of his victims. As often as not, this kind of individual has never experienced a normal sexual relationship with anyone. Killing, or the thought of killing, is the only stimulus that will provoke sexual arousal—and the arousal is very powerful.
"Unlike the mass murderer, whose profile can be quite clear and predictable, it is very difficult to draw a profile of a serial killer, except for the sexual angle—which is hidden from all observers who are not his victims. Even under the most expert examination, many of these individuals will display no evidence of overt psychopathology. Serial murderers usually evince absolutely no sense of guilt; they do not distinguish between people and objects. When they are not killing, they go about leading their lives, which in some cases can include extraordinary achievement. They are usually extremely clever, and can be most charming."
"Then the fact that I appeared harmless during the day doesn't mean that I wasn't murdering people at night."
"Precisely."
"And my loss of memory?"
"Uncharted territory. For now, I think your construction of a 'you' inside a stranger is healthy, and may prove useful to you. From listening to you and observing you, I would say that you don't display the single strongest characteristic of the serial killer—sexual aberration and hostility toward women."
"Unless I'm lying. You said that serial killers can be very clever."
"Unless you're lying. But I don't believe you are. However, the question remains as to whether your stranger was, or is, a serial killer. If he was, it seems he became one as a result of the same blow on the head that caused your initial, retrograde amnesia and disintegrated your personality. Another trauma, I believe, caused you to reintegrate, but with accompanying anterograde amnesia."
"Lieutenant Lightning said . . . Is it possible that I choose, in a way, not to remember because what the stranger did during that year is something just too horrible to cope with? Is it possible that, unconsciously, I prefer not remembering living as a man who, in a year, killed and beheaded at least twenty-eig
ht people?"
Ali shrugged. "Who knows? As I said, we are heading into uncharted territory. First, we must see if we can help you to recover your memory; then you may be able to answer your own question."
Bone licked his dry lips, sipped more water. "If the stranger did those things, then he has to be . . . punished."
"'Punishment' is not necessarily what the stranger who did those things might merit."
"Whatever—punishment or treatment; they would be dealing with a person who no longer exists."
Ali raised his eyebrows slightly, once again made a series of notes; he had filled more than half the pad with his large, scrawled handwriting.
"I'm glad I'm maintaining your interest," Bone continued wryly.
Ali looked up. "Does my manner offend you?"
"No. We both have the same interests: to find out the truth about the stranger, and to track his past."
The psychiatrist gave a slight nod of his head that might have indicated approval.
"I have to give him the benefit of the doubt, Doctor," Bone continued.
"But of course."
"The most damning evidence against him is the blood of the man and old woman who were killed last, which they found on the cuffs of his shirt and pants. Then there was the locket around his neck that had belonged to one of the victims, and the fact that he was found in a peculiar trance at a spot only a few blocks away from where the last two murders were committed. Have I left anything out?"
"From what I understand, that seems to just about cover it."
"But the detective never said there was any evidence linking me to the twenty-six other murders. Do you know of any?"
"I told you I'm not the police, Bone."
"All I'm asking is if you know if the police have any evidence linking this stranger of mine to the other beheading murders—or any crime at all."
"No, I don't know. But the police wouldn't necessarily provide me with that kind of information, Bone." Ali paused, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "The police tend to think of psychiatrists as the enemy—until they need one."
"But Lightning would have told me if they had other evidence," Bone said distantly, gazing out one of the mesh-covered windows just behind and over the psychiatrist's head. "He went out of his way to lay everything on me about the
blood and the locket in an attempt to get me to confess to the murders on the church steps, so it's only logical that he would have told me if the police had evidence linking me to the other murders. Do you agree?"
"I agree that what you say sounds logical," Ali replied evenly. "But the police, like all of us, do not always act logically."
"The stranger could have stolen the locket at some time before the murders—or even have taken it from the old woman's body."
"Or the locket could have been given to you," Ali said in the same neutral tone.
Bone slowly blinked, then looked hard into the other man's face—but he could read nothing there. "Thank you for saying that, Dr. Hakim."
"Don't thank me. It's simply logical that the locket could have been a gift. We do need to consider all the possibilities, don't we?"
Bone nodded. "The stranger was definitely at the site of the last two murders; the blood on his clothes proves that. But it doesn't prove that he killed those people. When you cut off somebody's head, blood must spurt all over the place. If the stranger had butchered that man and woman, why wasn't there blood all over his clothes?" Bone paused, hoping for a response. When Ali continued to merely stare at him, Bone leaned forward on the edge of the bed. "Tell me, Doctor: why wasn't there blood all over his clothes?"
"I told you I'm not the—"
"Pretend you are the police."
"I'd rather not," Ali replied drily. "You must remember that Lieutenant Lightning thinks you're a liar—as do the vast majority of my colleagues."
"Then pretend you're the police, and break down my lies."
Ali sighed, and for the first time his features displayed a hint of emotion—annoyance. "You were wearing a raincoat or some other kind of garment over your clothes, leaving only your cuffs exposed," he said curtly.
"Then what did I do with the raincoat? It wasn't on me at the park. I had nothing with me but the bone."
"You hid it somewhere, along with the murder weapon, before you went to the park. Perhaps the raincoat and murder weapon are hidden in the same place where you took the victims' heads, which have never been found either."
"Why didn't I leave the locket there too? I might not have realized I had blood on my cuffs, but I certainly would have realized that the locket could condemn me. Why didn't I leave it with the other things?"
"Because you didn't realize that it could be traced. Or you simply forgot about it."
"Why, after a year spent busily running around chopping off people's heads, would I suddenly go and squat down in a field in the rain for two days? And don't give me any crap about this being my way of getting the police to stop me; I'd already stopped, and without your intervention I'd have managed to stop myself permanently. So, if I'm the killer and I'm lying about my loss of memory, why would I go and do a crazy thing like that?"
"Precisely because you are crazy," Ali replied drily, his initial annoyance replaced by what might have been a trace of amusement. "Who can explain the things a crazy man does? We policemen can't explain why you did everything you did, but we sure as hell know you killed all those people, and we sure as hell wish you'd stop being a pain in the ass with all this amnesia nonsense and just tell us all about it."
Suddenly Bone felt light-headed and fatigued, yet exhilarated, like a man who has come to the end of a long journey, fearing the worst, and finds himself in a place of wonders he never expected. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. "It's not enough," he said, somewhat startled by his own discovery—and not a little afraid. "My God, it's not enough." He paused, gazed hard into the Pakistani psychiatrist's eyes. "It's possible I could get out of here, isn't it?"
"Not if the district attorney and police can help it," Ali replied evenly. "We have a legal practice in this state called preventive detention, and the district attorney is lining up a rather large group of psychiatrists to testify that you shouldn't be set free—even if the circumstantial evidence against you is suspect. On the other hand, Anne is lining up a rather large group of very good lawyers who are associated with the Coalition of the Homeless to argue that you should either be formally charged or let loose. A grand jury isn't likely to indict you on the basis of the present evidence against you—or so I've been told. Psychiatrists often make fools of themselves in court, and so my guess is that you will be freed."
Bone closed his eyes as he felt a new rush of euphoria, laced with fear. "What will you say in court, Doctor? What will be your recommendation?"
"I won't be appearing in court, Bone, because I won't be making a recommendation. I have always maintained that psychiatrists shouldn't try to predict behavior, especially in the courtroom. Fortunately, I don't need the appearance fee."
Bone opened his eyes, found that the other man was smiling faintly. He could think of nothing to say.
"How do you feel about the possibility of being free, Bone?"
"I feel a lot of things, Doctor," Bone replied quietly.
"What's your overriding feeling?"
"Right at this moment? Fear; anxiety."
Ali nodded with approval. "You understand, of course, that the other psychiatrists will recommend against your release because they believe you are lying about your loss of memory. I believe you, but I think we agree on something else; we simply don't know if you—your stranger—did the killings."
"We agree."
Ali wrote something in his memo pad, then tore out the sheet and handed it to Bone. "This is my telephone number, and the address of my office over on Lexington Avenue. I would like to set up regular appointments with you on Sunday mornings, if that will be convenient. I want to spend extensive time with you, and that's the only
day I have free."
"You really do think they're going to let me out, don't you?"
"As I said, I would like to meet with you on Sunday mornings at my office, if you are released."
"I'll be there."
"Also, I would like to hear from you immediately, any hour of the day, if you feel the need to talk to me. I emphasize 'any hour,' Bone. You'll rarely be able to get me directly, but as soon as you identify yourself, my answering service will forward the call to me. Call me at once if you begin to feel disoriented in ways other than can be expected. I think you understand what I mean."
"You mean that there's a possibility that my personality could begin to disintegrate again."
"I repeat: we're going into uncharted waters."
"You also mean that if I did kill those people, there's a chance I could start killing again."
"Same reply."
Bone looked away. "You'll hear from me if I begin to feel . . . strange. Or the police will."
Ali rose and walked to the door, which almost immediately buzzed and clicked open. "Anne is spending an enormous amount of time on your case, Bone," he said in a mild tone as he stood in the doorway. "I wouldn't be surprised to find that she's personally attracted to you."
There was a prolonged silence, and Bone sensed that the other man was waiting for a reply. Bone said nothing.
"Anne is a very special lady, Bone," Ali continued at last, and now there was a sharper edge to his voice. "Her toughness and professional competence are evident, yet she is very vulnerable. If she chose to commit to someone, that commitment would be total—and perhaps unwise. I am sharing a personal feeling with you, not a professional opinion."
"I understand."
"Do you understand why?"
"I think so," Bone replied softly.
"If you continue to choose to work with me, we will probably spend a considerable number of Sunday mornings together. The rest of the time you will be free to pursue your memories, the two lost lives of your stranger. You—the eyes I'm looking into—have indicated that you've experienced sexual arousal since awakening, and that it's been within normal parameters. I will not ask you who your fantasy subject was, because for professional purposes it's irrelevant—and because I think I know. But bear in mind that because you, the 'ghost,' has experienced normal sexual arousal doesn't mean that the stranger always did. You awakened in response to an unknown stimulus, and it's not inconceivable that an unknown stimulus could reverse the process."
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