Eddie sat up at the mention of drugs.
“Honest, Joyce, I ain’t foolin’ around with drugs. I’m through with that stuff.”
“I didn’t say you were using drugs, Eddie,” Joyce said, laying her hand gently on his forearm. “I’m close enough to you to know that.”
She said the last in a low voice and they both felt suddenly shy and very close.
“It’s just that there is selling going on here all the time and someday Carl is going to get busted and they’ll take you along with him, because you got a record.”
Eddie knew that he was in love with her then. He held her hand hard.
“Look, Joyce, you have to have faith in me. I just know I’m gonna stay clean this time. I’ve been feelin’ it ever since I got paroled. I can handle anything that comes up here and now that I met you-well, that’s the biggest reason why I ain’t goin’ back to the joint.”
Joyce could not think of anything to say. They just looked at each other. Then they were holding each other and kissing. Eddie realized that Joyce was crying.
“Hey,” he said, wiping away the tears.
Joyce sniffed and blew her nose. She looked at her watch.
“I gotta change. My shift starts in ten minutes.”
“That’s okay. Take an extra five.”
“I can’t, Eddie. Carl will get mad and I’ll get in trouble.”
Eddie laughed and puffed out his chest.
“You take that five. Carl is out of town for a few days and I’m the boss.”
The waiting room at the State Penitentiary was tiled in green and lined with cheap, leather-covered couches that were made in the prison as part of its rehabilitation program. Bobby did not know it, but he was sitting on the handiwork of a timid bookkeeper who had solved his marital problems by roasting his wife and her lover alive.
Two guards stood behind a circular counter in the center of the room, answering inquiries. Bobby glanced at the clock on the far wall. The visiting hour would start in two minutes. He wriggled nervously in his seat and looked at an attractive Negro woman who was talking quietly to a small boy, explaining that he would have to stay with grandma while she saw daddy, because little boys were not allowed inside the prison.
One of the guards left the counter and moved to the side of a doorway that led down a ramp to the prison area. A line formed and the guard searched purses and made everyone empty their pockets.
There was a gate with bars at the end of the ramp. The guard signaled to another guard who sat at a desk in a celllike room and the gate rolled aside with a metallic groan. The visitors walked down another hallway and were shown into a large visiting room. There were more prison-made sofas and several chairs. They were set up facing each other across wooden coffee tables. Automatic soft drink, coffee and candy vending machines stood watch from a corner of the room. The color scheme was the same antiseptic green that was used where cream was not throughout the prison.
Bobby found a pair of chairs in a corner and watched the doorway nervously. A prisoner stood at the entrance and looked around. It took Bobby a few seconds before he realized that the prisoner was his brother. He had put on weight and he seemed thicker, especially in the face. He wondered how he looked to his brother.
Billy spotted him and waved. When he strode across the visiting room, it was with a swagger. His handshake was firm and he showed no embarrassment at the prison clothes he was wearing.
“You’re still as ugly as ever,” he said, a grin spreading across his still handsome features.
“I should be. I look like you,” Bobby said, but the levity in his answer was forced and Billy sensed it.
“Momma didn’t tell you, huh?”
“She wasn’t much of a correspondent.”
“Well, it wasn’t her fault. I told her not to. I figured you’d have enough to worry about in Nam and I didn’t want you worrying about something you couldn’t do anything about.”
“What, uh, what happened? I mean, I only got hazy details from Mom.”
Billy shrugged his shoulders.
“Things just didn’t work out. I had a job that paid peanuts and no prospects. Johnny Laturno said, ‘Let’s hit a liquor store’ and I went along. The clerk was an old guy. We didn’t think he’d give us any trouble, but he decided to play hero and I hurt him pretty bad.”
“What did you do?” Bobby asked. The question was almost rhetorical. He had been with Billy during enough rumbles to know what had happened.
“I stabbed him.” He shrugged. “It was his fault. I told him to be cool and nothing would happen. He just didn’t look like much so we forgot about him for a minute. Next thing, he tries to hit Johnny with a bottle. What else could I do?”
“Yeah, well…”
“Look, I don’t want you worrying about me. It ain’t so bad here. I’ll be out in a few years. And I got enough friends in here so I’m not messed with. But look. Tell me about you. Mom said something about college. What’s that all about?”
“I’m starting next week. It’s something I thought about toward the end of my hitch. I never really gave school a chance and I want to better myself. I don’t want to pump gas my whole life. When I was in the army, I started thinking about things. Not anything in particular. Just a lot of things. I realized that there was so much I didn’t know, so I decided to give college a try.”
Billy slapped Bobby on the back and grinned again.
“I’m proud of you. Really. You always had the brains in the family. I know you’ll do great. Hey, maybe you’ll be a lawyer and you can get me outta this dump.”
They laughed and Bobby could feel himself relaxing. It was the same old Billy after all.
“What are you gonna study?”
“I don’t know. I’ll just take general studies until I figure it out.”
“I hear business is good. That’s where the money is.”
“Yeah, well I’ll see.”
They sat back again and Bobby tried to think of something to say. Billy looked around. The other people in the room were huddled together, talking in low tones. Trying to preserve their rationed moments of intimacy.
“Say, do you want a Coke or something?” Billy asked. “I can get it from the machines.”
“No thanks. I ate before I drove down.”
“Yeah. Uh, well, how was the ride?”
“Okay. Boring. It’s just the Interstate.”
They looked at each other again. There did not seem to be anything left to talk about.
“How was the army?”
“Not good. I’m glad it’s over.”
“You see much action?”
“A little. I really don’t like to talk about it. Do you ever hear from any of the guys?” Bobby asked to change the subject.
“A few visited me when I first was sent down, but I haven’t seen any of them in a while. Most of the guys wandered off after high school.”
Bobby glanced at his watch and Billy saw him.
“Say, if I’m keeping you, let me know.”
“No, it isn’t that,” Bobby said guiltily. “I have to be back, that’s all. I promised to help Mom around the house and I wanted to buy some stuff for my apartment.”
“You’re not staying at the house?”
“After the army, I wanted some privacy.”
Billy smiled and motioned around with his hand.
“I can understand that.”
Bobby stood up.
“Look, I’ll be down to see you again next week. I’ll bring Mom.”
Billy stood up too. They shook hands.
“That’d be great. So…Take it easy. And let me know how you do in school, huh?”
“Sure. I’ll let you know. Take care.”
The hour was up, anyway, but he felt guilty when he left. Scared, too. It was a cliché, but it could have been him. He knew it. So did Billy, and Bobby wondered if his brother resented his freedom and his new life.
The walk from the visitor’s area to the parking lot wa
s tree-lined. The autumn winds were working changes on the yellow-brown leaves. It was beautiful enough to depress Bobby.
“Esther, I brought someone to talk to you.”
Esther looked over Dr. Tucker’s shoulder at the tall man who was standing by the door to her hospital room. Something about him frightened her. Why should she be afraid of him? She was too tired to think about it, so she lowered her head on the pillow.
“Esther, do you remember me?” the tall man asked.
She must have shut her eyes, because the tall man was towering over her bed instead of standing by the door. She could not remember him moving.
“She is still a bit sedated,” Dr. Tucker said. His voice was a faint echo.
“My name is Roy Shindler. I talked to you a few years ago when I was investigating the deaths of Richie Walters and Elaine Murray. Do you remember that?”
She was remembering now. Very slowly. He was older and his hair had thinned, but it was that detective. The one who…And suddenly she was afraid.
“I remember you,” she said in a small voice.
Dr. Tucker saw the fear on his patient’s face and looked quizzically at Shindler. Shindler ignored him.
“There isn’t any reason to worry, Esther. I know that I upset you the last time we talked, but it was unintentional. I really mean that.”
“What do you want?” Esther asked warily. She was holding tight to the sheet that was drawn up around her neck and memories, mirrored in her wide eyes, were pressing her deep into the bed, like an animal seeking protection in the shelter of its cave.
There it was again, thought Shindler. He did not think of her as human. He remembered his impressions of her on the two prior occasions they had met. It was always the feeling of the hunter when he traps his quarry. To him, she would always be an animal.
“When Dr. Tucker saw you yesterday, you had a little talk with him. Do you remember what you talked about?”
She looked at Dr. Tucker, then back to Shindler. She seemed confused.
“I don’t remember talking to Dr. Tucker yesterday.”
Shindler looked at Dr. Tucker.
“It’s possible,” Dr. Tucker said. “She’s had a very traumatic experience. The effects of the medication may have contributed.”
“Esther, yesterday, you told Dr. Tucker you saw someone hit someone until they killed him. Do you remember that?”
She opened her mouth and her eyes widened again.
“I saw…Oh, no. I never…”
“You did say that, Esther. I was there.”
She looked pleadingly at Dr. Tucker.
“Please. I couldn’t have said that. I never saw anyone killed. I told you that. You know I didn’t have anything to do with Richie’s death.”
“No one says you did, Esther. But, if you did see this terrible thing happen, it might have frightened you so much that you don’t remember.”
“No. I never saw it. Please, Dr. Tucker.”
She was crying and pleading. Dr. Tucker hurried to her bedside.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. She’s too upset. Wait for me in the hall, please.”
Shindler closed the door behind him and took a cigarette out of his pocket. The door opened and he turned around.
“Sorry I had to push you out, but she was starting to become hysterical.”
Shindler brushed the comment aside with his free hand.
“It was my fault. I should have realized that she was getting upset.”
They started walking down the corridor toward the doctor’s office.
“This business about not remembering. Do you believe her?”
The doctor looked at Shindler with surprise.
“Oh, yes. Quite possible. Mrs. Pegalosi could be suffering from amnesia. Certain types of people will repress a very threatening experience that they wish not to be identified with or not to have as a part of their life. The conscious mind is not even aware that the material is repressed in some cases. If she witnessed…Well, you know what it would have been like for anyone, let alone a girl as insecure as this one, to see that murder.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. Shindler puffed erratically on his cigarette.
“Damn it, she knows, Doctor. She knows. And I have got to find a way to make her talk.”
“I’m afraid that might be difficult.”
“Why? She remembered yesterday.”
“Yes, under very unusual circumstances. She was exhausted, medicated and she had just tried to commit suicide. In her weakened state, her ability to repress would be weakened. Her subconscious would be less on guard. It’s much like being drunk. Most drunks become garrulous and talk about things they might not under ordinary circumstances.”
“Is there any way to bring her back again? Some medical method?”
Dr. Tucker was silent for a moment.
“Memory is an interesting area that is receiving a great deal of attention. We really don’t know how it works.
“There are two types of memory: long-term and short-term. Short-term is probably an electrical event within the brain and it may not be long-lasting. It’s the sort of thing that happens when you drive to the beach and pass many things along the way. You see trees and farmhouses and so forth, and you can remember them for a short time, but it’s unlikely that your brain will record these permanently since they don’t have any emotional connotation.
“Long-term memory is probably a basic chemical or anatomical change which may persist as long as the brain cells function, that is for as long as you live. It seems to be more greatly impressed in the mind if it is associated with some emotional stimulus. Long-term memory is stored like books in a library, so, if Esther saw the murder, the memory is probably there. The question is how to get rid of the subconscious guardians that are suppressing the memory.
“I would like to give you the name of a friend of mine who might be able to help you. He is a psychiatrist and an expert in the use of hypnosis. That is a technique that is often used in the treatment of amnesia. Why don’t you get in touch with him and see what he can do for you?”
3
“Franz Anton Mesmer was a Viennese physician who believed that the planets influenced the human body. In 1776, he wrote a paper stating that this action occurred through the instrumentality of a universal fluid in which all bodies were immersed. The fluid, which was invisible, had properties like a magnet and could be withdrawn by the human will from one point and concentrated on another. Mesmer theorized that an inharmonious distribution of these fluids throughout the body produced disease. Health could be attained by establishing harmony of the magnetic fluids. Mesmer believed that a force, which he called ‘animal magnetism,’ emanated from his hands directly into the patient, thereby enabling him to adjust the internal imbalances in the fluids and to eradicate disease in the patient.”
Shindler eased himself quietly into a seat in the last row of the University auditorium and settled back to listen as Dr. Arthur Hollander lectured on “The History of Hypnotism.” Dr. Hollander was a portly white-haired gentleman who reminded Shindler of Santa Claus. His lecture never stayed on the podium. It moved back and forth across the stage punctuated by short jabs of the professor’s pudgy fingers or framed in the grandiose sweep of his ever-moving arms.
“Unfortunately for Mesmer, he effected a startling and rapid cure in a young girl suffering from an imposing array of physical symptoms through the use of magnets the very first time he put his theory into practice. Thus buoyed by success, Mesmer embarked on a career aimed at convincing the medical community of the soundness of his theory.”
Dr. Hollander took a sip of water from a glass that rested on his podium. Shindler scanned the assembly of attentive students and concluded that the professor had them appropriately mesmerized.
“The Vienna medical fraternity viewed Mesmer as a charlatan and he was forced to flee to Paris, where, in 1781, he founded a clinic. Mesmerism became a popular fad among the wealthy. Eventually,
Mesmer was discredited by a commission appointed by the French Government and he retired to Switzerland, an embittered man.
“While Mesmer was being sidetracked by his theories, one of his disciples, Marquis de Puysegur, observed that the ‘magnetized’ subject could hear only what the ‘magnetizer’ said and was oblivious to everything else, that he accepted suggestions without question and that he could recall nothing of the events of the trance into which he was put when restored to normal consciousness. De Puysegur called this condition ‘artificial somnambulism’ and explained that a subject in this condition could accomplish incredible feats like reading sealed messages, suffering needles to be jabbed into his skin and permitting, without flinching, the application of a red hot poker to his body.”
The bell rang, ending the period, and several students hurried to the front of the lecture hall to talk with Dr. Hollander. Shindler walked to the front in a leisurely manner and waited until the last of this enthusiastic group had left. Dr. Hollander was gathering up his notes when he noticed Shindler.
“I enjoyed your lecture, Doctor.”
“Thank you. I try to be entertaining and I am always gratified when I succeed. I don’t believe I have seen you before. Are you a student?”
Shindler fumbled for his badge and managed to flip it open.
“I’m with the Portsmouth Police, Dr. Hollander. My name is Roy Shindler.”
Hollander looked intrigued.
“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said with a puckish smile.
Shindler laughed.
“No, you’re clean as far as I know. Dr. George Tucker gave me your name.”
“George. Certainly. Well, I am mystified. How can I help you?”
“Is there someplace we can talk? This is a bit complicated and it may take a while. It concerns a murder case and we may need your specialized knowledge of hypnosis to help us solve it.”
Hollander looked surprised, flattered and flustered all at once.
“I’ll do what I can, of course. I’ve never worked with the police before and I don’t know what I can do for you, but if you think…Say, I know a quiet pub near here. If that is okay. You fellows can drink on duty, can’t you?”
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