Proof

by Jordyn Redwood

  “I hate these late-night meetings,” Brett said.

  “It’s only five. What else do you have to do?”

  “Monday night football and a beer sound pretty good to me.”

  “It took us weeks to arrange this interview. I want to get this mysterious item Lilly is waiting for. We’re not backing out for football.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t just a glorified errand run for a woman you’re pining for?”

  “Let’s keep this professional,” Nathan warned and slammed the trunk with his free hand.

  “This is his home, too?” Brett asked.

  “That’s what they tell me. We’re supposed to be meeting him in his private quarters.”

  “This is a long way from the jailhouse.”

  “He was only held briefly for a minor felony that was later dismissed. He doesn’t have a record for any conviction.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’d want to meet this guy other than as a favor to Dr. Reeves. I mean the other Dr. Reeves … Lilly.”

  “That should be reason enough, helping her out. Plus, he has ties to another victim, as well.”

  “I’m looking forward to having a nice trip to Nevada next week to check up on that pink Escalade.”

  “We’re only there for one day. You can only do so much gambling.”

  “There’s more to do than just gambling.”

  “Remember, legal activities only.”

  “You think I would put my career at risk by doing something foolish?” Brett winked at Nathan. “I was thinking about seeing a show. Is the Blue Man Group still there?”

  “I have no idea. Come on.”

  They were greeted at the door by an older gentleman in a black tuxedo that was accented with an ivory bow tie and cummerbund.

  “Butlers actually exist?” Brett whispered, as he followed a few steps behind Nathan. Northwood’s style was the decor of choice. Straight ahead, over an impossibly large fireplace, was a stuffed buffalo head. A short walk into the foyer at the right was a recessed door. The servant punched in a security code, and the doors opened to an elevator. The ride was smooth and short.

  “Is Dr. Reeves a hunter?” Brett asked, stepping out of the elevator ahead of Nathan.

  “Not anymore. He says there’s more profit in raising them than hunting them.”

  “He raises buffalo?”

  “As well as some other wild game.”

  “Does that still make them wild, if they’re raised?” Brett mused. Their escort dismissed his comment with an annoyed rise of one eyebrow.

  “Follow me, please.”

  The living area was a sprawling suite with an open floor plan. To the left of the fireplace stood a library. Floor-to-ceiling, deep, built-in cherry-wood bookshelves towered over a full-length leather sofa. Facing the couch sat an equally ornate mahogany desk with carved pine boughs on each of the legs. Music played softly through invisible speakers. White plantation shutters relieved some of the cave-like feel from the dark wood and leather. There was a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains.

  “Mr. Reeves will join you shortly. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Scotch?”

  “Brett,” Nathan warned.

  “Make that coffee,” Brett replied, a bit of mischievous play in his eyes.

  “Coffee for me as well, thank you.”

  After a small bend at the waist, the butler left them, and Nathan perused the library. Below the shelves were cabinets. Testing a few, he found them locked. He identified a number of medical textbooks dealing with neuroscience, neurosurgery, and neurophysiology. One complete section of shelves held several black-and-white photos of a young girl. Nathan could appreciate a resemblance to Lilly and wondered if they were of her or a sibling.

  “She’s always been beautiful, hasn’t she?”

  Nathan straightened and turned to see Dr. Reeves standing behind him, holding a tray. He stood several inches taller than Nathan. His brown eyes were set deeply into his face, somewhat paled by the graying full beard and mustache. His clothes were casual khaki pants and a business shirt with the top three buttons open. Nathan picked up one of the black cups, holding it between both hands, letting the heat dissipate the stiffness in his tissues brought on by the cool autumn evening.

  “I’m Detective Sawyer. My partner, Detective Long.” Brett accepted a cup as well. The tray was set on the desk. “We’re here to speak to you in regard to two crime victims. This information will help us build a profile of the assailant.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. You’re speaking of Lilly and one of my patients, Celia Ramirez. Celia was generous enough to sign a release so I could discuss her case fully with you.”

  “These are pictures of Lilly?” Nathan motioned with his cup to the photo gallery.

  “I’ve never had any other children. At least that I know of.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.” Nathan and Brett seated themselves in the chairs at Reeves’s desk. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Lilly? The last time I saw her was the day I left her mother. My last memory is seeing her in my rearview mirror, arms outstretched, screaming for me to come back.” He took a seat in the black leather chair, gathering up a few stray pens on the desktop.

  Nathan smoothed his tongue over his teeth and counted to ten silently.

  “You haven’t tried since then to reconnect?” Brett asked.

  “Honestly, I felt I didn’t really have the right to. I consider myself responsible for her mother’s death. I know Lilly would never forgive me if she knew the truth. I knew it would come out if we ever met. It was safer to just stay away.”

  “Safer for whom?” Nathan pressed.

  “Myself, of course.”

  “I thought Lilly’s mother died of cancer.” Brett balanced his cup on his knee.

  “That’s what Lilly thinks as well. She actually died of kidney disease.”

  “How do you find yourself personally responsible for that?” Nathan asked.

  “I told Lilly’s mother that if she posted my bail I would go through the transplant operation and give her my kidney. I was a match, and we chose not to have Lilly tested. She was only five or six when this happened, obviously too young to give up an organ.” Placing the pens in the center desk drawer, he then pulled out a white, leather-bound journal. “Lilly’s mother posted the bond, but as soon as I was out of jail, I left them.”

  Heat rose in Nathan’s chest. “Why?”

  “I was a young, selfish, immature man. When Samantha got pregnant, we were both eighteen. After the pregnancy, she developed an aggressive autoimmune disease that essentially took out her kidneys. She was on dialysis within a year of Lilly’s birth. We weren’t making it financially. I began shoplifting things we could not afford to buy, which eventually led to my arrest.” He paused, smoothing his hand over the worn cover of the book before him. “Honestly, jail was like a vacation. Samantha was so ill that when I was home, all I did was take care of Lilly. I just couldn’t handle any of it. I’m not cut out to be a father.”

  Nathan set his cup aside and took a pen to make notes. He met Reeves’s eyes.

  Does he see my disdain?

  “How long after you left before Samantha died?”

  “It was a few years. They were able to maintain her on dialysis, but after so long, she couldn’t tolerate the treatments anymore. Her veins were shot. She just stopped going. It wasn’t long after that they found her dead.”

  “Where did you get all this information from if you haven’t been in touch with Lilly?”

  “Samantha had an older sister. She took Lilly in after her mother died. Savannah kept me well informed of how my actions had essentially killed her sister and left my daughter an orphan. Lilly lived with her until she was seventeen and was pretty much on her own after that.”

  “Why not reach out to Lilly then?” Nathan asked. Brett cleared his throat at the accusatory tone. A warning to Nathan to back off.

  �
��She was an adult. She could take care of herself.”

  “After she stopped living with Savannah, would that not have been an opportunity to reconnect?” Brett posed more casually.

  Dr. Reeves tapped his fingers on the desk. “I am a selfish man. At the time, I was in the middle of my neurosurgery internship. Honestly, I didn’t want Lilly to complicate things. She seemed to be doing fine on her own.”

  “How would you know that?” Nathan felt the sting of the question in his gut.

  “I’ve had people keeping tabs on her. For a while, I hired a private detective to give me monthly reports. When she was in med school, it became easier because I would get information through the grapevine.”

  “Do you think she’s been aware of this?” Nathan asked.

  “I’m not sure. I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Did you know that Lilly is, let’s just say, somewhat concerned about her safety?”

  “I know what the root of that is. It’s why I started this research.”

  “The more we know about the victims, the more we know about the perpetrator.”

  “When Lilly went to live with her aunt, Savannah was still married. They didn’t live in the safest part of the city. It was a known crack neighborhood. One night, someone strung out and needing a fix broke into their home, mistaking it for where he usually bought drugs. Lilly’s uncle was shot and killed.”

  Nathan had known violence his whole career, but when children got in the fray, it was hard to maintain a professional front. “How did Lilly and her aunt make it out?”

  “It was Lilly. Her uncle liked to shoot weapons as a hobby, and he taught Lilly along the way how to handle firearms. She got the weapon and shot the intruder. The man died.”

  Nathan held his breath as his mind reeled. He thought of Lilly, a young girl, the gun heavy in her hand as she raised it, her uncle’s blood already black on the walls. The emotional fortitude it took for her to press a sweat-slicked finger against the trigger usually developed far past her age at that time. Taking a life was devastating regardless of the circumstance.

  “You didn’t object to her uncle teaching her to shoot guns?” Brett asked.

  “It wasn’t my place. I’d officially relinquished my parental rights. A few weeks after the incident, I started getting daily calls from Savannah that Lilly was having horrible nightmares. She was having panic attacks during the day, not paying attention in school.”

  Nathan dried his palms on his pants. “Why did Savannah reach out to you?”

  “I think merely because I was a physician. It was clear to me that Lilly was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. At that time, there was only psychiatric therapy available. You could possibly place them on an antidepressant or antianxiety medication, but for Lilly, these turned her into a zombie during the day and didn’t really quell the nightmares at night. The therapies didn’t seem to hit at the heart of the issue.”

  “What would you consider that to be?”

  “When we are exposed to a traumatic event, there is a release of several types of hormones. You’ve heard of the fight-or-flight response?”

  “Of course.” Nathan flipped his notes back to Celia’s interview. He wanted to refresh his memory to compare with Reeves’s statements.

  “The purpose of these hormones is to help our bodies do one of these two things. Adrenaline increases our heart rate and primes our muscles for movement, allowing us to either run faster or be physically stronger in a fight. Some people theorize that today we often have to think our way out of frightening experiences. Let’s take a firefighter who is trapped inside a burning building. Physically, he can’t run or fight. He has to keep his wits about him and think out a solution. In our current culture, more often than not, we are trying to think of a way out of our traumatic event. This lack of physical exertion may lead to these stress hormones getting stuck in flood stage like water when there’s a breach in a dam. The constant flow of these hormones leads to a lot of the symptoms we see with PTSD—elevated heart rate, blood pressure. Hypersensitivity to the environment.”

  “Like someone who jumps at the slightest touch,” Nathan said.

  “Exactly. That triad is a perfect setup for someone to suffer from anxiety and panic attacks—these hormones getting stuck in the ‘on’ position. But the issue with PTSD is also the memory component: nightmares and flashbacks. A study done on rats looked at the role of memory and adrenaline and had quite interesting results.”

  “I always hate it when humans are compared to rats,” Brett lamented.

  “An animal lover?” Reeves asked.

  “Hardly. I think a lot of humans give rats a bad name.”

  “You’ll have to excuse him. It’s hard for him to leave his sarcastic side at home.”

  “Well, in some ways I might have to agree about humans giving rats a bad name. I don’t have to look very far for that.” He stood and approached the cabinet next to Nathan. “Mind if I drink?”

  “It’s your home, sir.”

  He poured whiskey into a tumbler and returned to his seat behind the desk. He downed half the liquid in one swig and wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and index finger.

  “The study done on rats looked at memory retention when they were given doses of adrenaline. Rats were placed in something like a child’s swimming pool.” He pulled a piece of paper and several colored markers from his desk and began diagramming.

  “A man after your own heart,” Brett chided, knocking Nathan in the ribs with his elbow.

  “In the middle of the pool is a floating piece of wood.” A brown rectangle was drawn in the center of a black circle. “What a rat will do is swim around the edge of the water.” Taking a blue marker, he made swirls around the interior of this child-like replica. “Until he finds the wood and climbs up onto it to keep himself from drowning.” Taking a red marker, Reeves swung his arm up and over, until he plopped it down into the center of the represented slab of wood. “Over subsequent days, the rat will learn that the block is in the middle of the pool and instead of first swimming in circles, he will swim directly to the wood.” After making several direct lines to the center, Reeves capped off the markers.

  “It’s a wagon wheel,” Brett mused.

  “How many days does that take?” Nathan asked.

  “In learning, memory retention is solidified based on daily practice. In the control group it was five days until the memory was formed, until the rat had learned that the wood was always in the middle of the pool.

  “In the research,” Reeves continued, “what they did next was administer two drugs; Epinephrine, which is essentially adrenaline, and Inderal, which is a drug that blocks the effects of epinephrine in the body. Rats that were given epi would swim to the wood plank an average of two days sooner than the control group. Rats that were given Inderal never learned the direct route to the wood. They would constantly swim in circles, repeating the same experience every day, not retaining what they had learned the day before. So they continued on in happenstance, swimming in circles until they stumbled upon their saving grace. Rats given adrenaline solidified the memory significantly earlier. It was curious that the rats given Inderal were not able to form the memory at all.”

  “And this helps humans how?”

  “For one, it shows that in PTSD, the surge of adrenaline locks the memory of the traumatic event clearly in the mind relatively quickly. It was thought that, like the rats, if people were given Inderal to block the effects of the adrenaline, they wouldn’t retain the memories and many of the symptoms associated with PTSD would nullify.”

  “This is where your research now lies.”

  “Yes, and Celia was one of my patients in a trial that looked at the effect of Inderal in PTSD.”

  “What have you been finding?”

  “We’ve found that, if we can identify the people who are more at risk for PTSD shortly after their traumatic experience and give them a short course of Inderal, they have a signific
ant reduction in the flashbacks and nightmares associated with the event. Many of the physical symptoms—fast heart rate, heightened senses—are reduced as well.”

  “So you wipe out their memories?”

  “No, definitely not, but the Inderal seems to prevent the memory from having such prominence, from being so easily recalled. In the case of Celia, she will always know that she was raped. She may just have more difficulty recalling specific details, sensations, and emotions that other victims will be able to recall with ease.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Doc,” Brett said.

  “How could you possibly say that? I know my daughter must be one of these rape victims if you’re here to speak with me about her as well. As a doctor, how can I not want to relieve her suffering?”

  Nathan placed a fisted hand on top of the desk. “How about as her father? I would think that would come first.”

  Brett’s mouth gaped open a few seconds before he followed Nathan’s comment. “From a police perspective, excellent recall of events is what puts people in jail. The more those memories are diminished, the harder it will be to rely on their testimony. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if a loony judge looked at this research and threw out the witness’s testimony because her memory could no longer be considered reliable.”

  Nathan stood up and backed away from the desk. The pressure in his chest caused his breath to funnel hard through his nostrils. “I think the other issue is that the traumatic event, sometimes in a very cruel fashion, makes us the people we are today. Do you think Lilly would have ever become a doctor if these other things hadn’t happened? Life is supposed to be hard; it builds strong people.”

  “There is a difference between strength and suffering. If you cannot function in your life because you are so disabled by these memories, what good is that? When we spoke, you said that I had something of Lilly’s that she wanted back. This is what she speaks of.” He slid a white journal forward. Grime had settled into the natural cracks of the leather, giving it a lacy appearance.