Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

Stanley was her neuropsychologist, a bear of a man who never pulled punches.

“I’ve told you before, there’s no guarantee that you’ll ever get it all back. You’ve had significant tissue damage and there are still bullet fragments in your brain.”

“And the hallucinations?”

Stanley moved around to the other side of the table and sank into a chair, looking directly at her.

“I’m not convinced that what you’re experiencing can really be classified as hallucinations. You’re more than likely a victim of what we call confabulation.”

“Have you told me this before, too?”

Stanley nodded. “Hallucinations exist in the present. For example, you might look down at this table and imagine there are a hundred spiders crawling across it.

“Confabulation, on the other hand, although rare, is simply the mind filling in the details of a memory where none exist. Some of those details might be false, while others might come from some other past event. If I were to ask you what you had for dinner last night, you might tell me you dined with the President of the United States and be entirely convinced that it’s true.”

“But I know I was on that cruise. And I also know that Jen’s missing.”

“Unfortunately, that’s about all we can verify. You were missing, too, Beth, for nearly ten months. And no one knows what happened during that time. But a lot of what you remember about Playa Azul could well be a product of the dysfunction.”

“No,” Beth said. “It happened. Rafael and Marta, Meat Without Feet, the mugging, every bit of it.”

“According to your ex-husband, the cruise company insists that they have no record of the Santiagos.”

“Then they must have been using false identities.”

“The Playa Azul police have discounted your story as well.”

“They’re wrong,” Beth insisted. “I…I just wish I could get my head past that police station and remember it all. Then I might be able to find her.”

Dr. Stanley smiled. A gentle smile. Beth sensed he must be a man of infinite patience.

“I once worked a case similar to yours. A young man who was convinced that his brain injury was the result of being mauled by a grizzly bear. He remembered it clearly. But the truth was, he was the victim of a bus accident and had never seen a bear in his life, grizzly or otherwise.”

“I’m not him,” Beth said.

“No, you’re not. And every patient presents differently. But there are certain symptoms that we recognize and-”

“I was shot, Doctor. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t. Any more than I can tell you how you wound up in New Mexico.”

“I just want to remember. Why the hell can’t I remember?”

“With any luck,” Stanley said, “we’ll one day know the truth. But I’d be lying to you if I told you you’ll ever be completely back to normal. No matter how much progress you make, there will always be some brain dysfunction. How that will affect your life or your memory is hard to say.”

He leaned forward, smiling again.

“But the good news is that you are improving. Much faster than we expected. Your CT scans are looking better, and while these cognitive tests can’t really tell us how you’ll function in the outside world, they do give us some reason to celebrate.”

“And these hallucinations or confabulations or whatever the hell they are. Will I ever be rid of them?”

Stanley raised his hands in a gesture that made it clear that he had no answer for her.

“Our research is spotty in that regard. In most cases, the confabulation is short-term, but again, there are no guarantees.”

“Christ,” Beth said. “I feel like I’m stuck in that fucking Bill Murray movie. How many times do I have to relive this stuff before I go batshit crazy?”

“‘Crazy’ is not a word I’d encourage you to use. It’s demeaning and not even remotely accurate.”

“What the hell else do you call it, then?”

“You were severely injured, Beth. An injury that often leads to confusion. And while I know these episodes are taking their emotional toll, I’m as optimistic about your prognosis as a man in my profession can be.”

“That’s not saying a whole lot.”

Another smile. “Just the fact that we’re having this conversation should give you reason to hope.”

Beth almost laughed.

Hope was a nice sentiment, but not much more than that.

And she couldn’t help wishing that whoever had shot her had actually finished the job.

The woman behind the counter wasn’t having any of it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t give out patient information.”

She was Burke Memorial Hospital’s custodian of records, a rotund African-American woman with startling brown eyes.

“Look,” Vargas said. “I know you have rules, but maybe you can bend them a little. I don’t care about her medical records. All I need is a name.”

“And all I need are some comfortable slippers, a bottle of wine, and a night with Barack Obama.”

“I’ll buy you the damn wine if you give me that name. The slippers, too.”

The woman frowned. “Is that a bribe? Do I look like somebody who can be bought?”

“I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not laughing, mister. I don’t know where you went to school, but I think you must’ve skipped out on Ethics One-oh-one. That young lady was a patient at this hospital and it’s not only against the law but against my personal sense of responsibility to hand over private information to anyone, especially the likes of you.”

“Can’t you at least tell me whether or not you were able to identify her?”

“No, I cannot,” the woman said. “Both the police and the family have asked us to keep anything involving her case confidential, pending investigation of the incident that put her in here. For all I know, I’ve already breached that confidence just by opening my big fat mouth.”

“So you do know who she is. You just said ‘family.’”

She scowled at him. “See what I mean? I think we’re done here.”

With this, she turned away and disappeared behind her office door.

Vargas knew this had been a long shot. You didn’t often run across medical professionals willing to risk their careers to help make life easier for a reporter, but he’d had to try. And at least he knew that the American woman had been identified.

The logical next step would be to contact the Albuquerque police, but it sounded to Vargas as if they weren’t likely to be cooperative, either.

His only choice, he decided, was to call in another favor and hope he got a better reception this time.

Several years ago, he’d done a story on a grisly string of murders stretching from California to Nevada and struck up a friendship with a Las Vegas homicide cop by the name of Jennings-the guy who had told him about the “itch.” After suffering a devastating loss, Jennings had flamed out and retired, then wound up doing half-assed magic gigs at a local casino to feed his gambling habit.

Jennings had an ex-wife in the LVPD and a lot of connections, and was one of the few people Vargas knew who hadn’t condemned him to his ignore list. In fact, when Vargas’s humiliation went public in a very big way, Jennings had sent him a card with a joker on front and a one-line message scribbled inside:

YOU’LL SOON BE DRAWING ACES.

That hadn’t happened quite yet, but Vargas knew that Jennings would help him if he asked. And a call to the Albuquerque police from one of their Southwest brethren was likely to receive more attention than a visit from Vargas. Short of that, Jennings was bound to have a connection with access to just the right database. He’d always been a master at getting things done.