Free Time Release by Martin J Smith Page B

Under no circumstances would he ever directly suggest that the numbness in Sonny’s hands might be the result of repressed memories or posttraumatic stress. He knew better than to pursue that conversation, even though recent studies were profound. One in particular, a study of Cambodian refugees living in Long Beach, California, suggested a direct link between posttraumatic stress and hysterical blindness among older women who’d watched the Khmer Rouge butcher their husbands or children. After seeing the unthinkable, their eyes had simply stopped seeing.
    But Christensen couldn’t suggest anything that would lead Sonny in any particular direction. To initiate a discussion about Sonny’s childhood traumas could skew Sonny’s recollections, and the last thing Christensen needed was to be accused of luring Sonny into repression therapy. That was happening too often, with reckless therapists allowing false memories to take root and grow. Which is bad enough in the privacy of the therapist’s office, but even worse when the cops use those memories as the basis of a criminal prosecution.
    Upstairs, a door slammed with rattling force. Melissa was off the phone.
    â€œThank you,” he called.
    He did intend to plant
one
seed with Sonny, though. To gauge the young man’s suggestibility, he intended to work into their initial conversation a detailed description of a memorable moment from Sonny’s life. It would be emotional, vivid—and entirely fictional. Then he’d wait. If that false memory turned up in a subsequent conversation with Sonny, and if Sonny treated it as a real memory, Christensen intended to go no further. He would tell Downing that Sonny’s recovered memories would be too unreliable for meaningful therapy and, he assumed, utterly vulnerable to cross-examination, if it ever came to that. At that point, he would end his role in Downing’s investigation with a clear conscience.
    Christensen cleared his throat and dialed. The phone rang only once. “Hello, my name is Jim Christensen and I’m returning—”
    â€œYeah, hi.” A young man’s voice, gentle, a little unsure.
    â€œIs this Sonny Corbett?”
    â€œYou called back right away,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”
    Christensen tried to conjure an image from the sound of the voice. He saw a young Art Garfunkel. “Actually, I’ve been expecting your call since I talked to Grady Downing earlier this week. He told me about the numbness in your hands. I hear you’re a swimmer, and numbness has to be pretty awkward. Grady thought maybe I could help.”
    â€œIt’s weird is what it is,” the voice said. “Been to two or three doctors, plus my trainer. None of them can figure it out, because after a while the numbness just goes away until the next time. I told my trainer I was thinking about calling you. He said, ‘What the hell. We’ve tried everything
but
a shrink.’”
    Christensen laughed. “The last hope of lost causes. I’ll take it as a compliment. You must swim competitively, then?”
    â€œNot on a team or anything.”
    Christensen tried to make sense of that, then decided to push on. “So what’s it feel like?”
    â€œYou ever sleep on your hands?” Sonny said after a long pause.
    â€œLike when one just goes dead in the middle of the night and you have to move it around with the other one until it finally starts to tingle again?”
    â€œLike that,” Sonny said. “Except it can happen anytime, and sometimes it stays like that for hours.”
    â€œDoes it ever happen when you’re swimming?”
    â€œMostly. I swim a lot.”
    Christensen considered the predicament of a swimmer with useless hands. “But you’re able to get to the side of the pool okay?”
    â€œI can get out of the water, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œHave you ever pegged it