Free Amnesia by G. H. Ephron Page B

“Mac and I went to high school together. Somerville High. Class of ’82. His dad was a cop. Dark blue blood — runs in families.”
    â€œYour families knew each other?”
    â€œWe were pretty close to the MacRaes. Once.”
    I had the distinct impression that there was more Annie wasn’t saying. “Run into him much lately?” I asked.
    â€œNow that you mention it, I saw him the other day when I went to pick up her medical records. I thought he was there on official business —” Annie paused. I knew we were both wondering why Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae was still hanging around Sylvia Jackson. The usual police investigation would have been wrapped long ago. “Sylvia Jackson does have that thing about her.”
    â€œHurricane?” I asked.
    â€œTropical storm,” Annie whispered. Then, seriously, “How do you work with someone like that?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œSomeone who’s so … sexually charged. It’s just there. All the time. You know, like an elephant in the living room that no one talks about. How do you keep yourself from being drawn in?”
    I smiled. It was just the kind of question people are curious about but very few will come right out and ask. But then, asking questions was what Annie did. “I guess I compartmentalize. You can’t ignore it. It’s there. You recognize it’s there. If you’re attracted, then that’s something to pull out and dissect. You say, okay, here’s this emotional dialogue going on at the same time that there’s a verbal and physical exchange. Part of it’s coming from the patient, but part of it is coming from inside you. It’s not that you shut down. You become hypersensitive. But instead of reacting, you start processing your own reactions.”
    â€œCompartmentalize.”

    â€œRight. I’m an expert at it.”
    Annie was staring at me. Appraising. “Sounds like a good skill.”
    Right, I thought. As long as it doesn’t become a habit.
    There was applause as a guy about my age strode up onto the stage. I wondered if I could get away with tight, low-slung blue jeans, a threadbare T-shirt, and that fringed leather vest. He conferred briefly with the lead guitar, blew tentatively into the mouthpiece of a harmonica, beat the air one, two, three, and the place started to rock.
    We didn’t talk again until the break between sets.
    â€œSo, was there anything in the police reports that struck you?” I asked.
    â€œJust that the beating was long and especially brutal,” Annie answered.
    â€œSuggests the killer knew Tony and didn’t like him. But why kill him in the house and then drive her to the cemetery before shooting her? Makes you wonder if it was planned out in advance.”
    â€œAll of the weapons were right there in the house, waiting to be grabbed.”
    â€œThe police didn’t find the gun. Do you think they used Sylvia Jackson’s gun?”
    â€œThey?” Annie looked at me, surprised. “What makes you say ‘they’?”
    I’d said it without even being aware that I was thinking it. “I guess it’s a lot easier to imagine what might have happened if you conjure up an accomplice.”
    â€œWhy would Sylvia Jackson accuse Stuart Jackson if he didn’t do it?”
    â€œPut yourself in her position. You wake up in the hospital. You’re grievously injured, emotionally a mess, and you can’t remember what happened to you. These caretakers and authority figures, these nice policemen, your anchors in a sea of confusion — they want you to remember. They make a suggestion
here, another one there. Was this what happened? Maybe it was like that? Well, it’s only natural to start borrowing their suggestions, building on that until you have a whole, plausible explanation. Not deliberately, but unconsciously you start stitching bits and pieces to the ragged