"You mean what patients say about themselves?"
"Yes, and the usual standard psychological tests as well. We want to examine various aspects of the patient's personality—coping styles, IQ, the themes of the patient's inner world…hopes, fears, wishes…. But in this case, we have hypnotically refreshed memory, and that raises some other issues."
"Like…?"
"We use the Stanford Susceptibility Index—we want to know if the patient is easily hypnotized."
"You can tell that from the way they answer questions on a test?"
"No," he said. "Here, let me show you. Follow my finger with your eyes."
He moved it left, right, up, down, finally looping his finger all the way up, way past my vision. "Okay, now, without following my finger, roll your eyes up as far as they can go.
I did it.
"So?" I asked him.
"Generally, the more white exposed on the extreme eye–rolls, the more susceptible to hypnosis the patient is."
"How'd I do?"
"Fine," he said, something flitting quickly across his face. "We also need a sleep history," he said quickly. "If the patient has chronic difficulty falling asleep, or wakes up suddenly—especially about three hours after they fall asleep—we have some indication of dysregulation of the noradrenergic system."
I wanted to ask him if he had an English–speaking translator on the grounds, but I settled for: "Nora–what?"
"Norepinephrine is a chemical—like the other chemicals I talked about for the reward systems—only these noradrenergic systems are the main mediators of the fear response. And when someone is exposed to traumatic stress—especially in childhood when those systems are first organizing—those systems become hyperreactive."
"Even when the kid's asleep?"
"If the whole environment is stressful, sure. The key is the heart—it's only one synapse away from the brain. Trauma increases the heart rate. If the environment is heavily laced with trauma, you get an overreaction to even the most simple stressors…and that brings on a major change in functioning. You see it in all traumatized individuals: anxiety, impulsivity, depression, aggression…even dissociation."
"So you put them on an EKG machine and wait for…?"
"Pretty close. Actually, the instrument we use looks like a wristwatch; kids get used to it in seconds. When we—or they—bring up a traumatic topic, the heart rate increases. And when the internal anxiety gets high enough, the brain has to 'act,'" he said, making the quote–marks sign again, "and this can be a primary, external behavior—like agitation or aggression—or a primary internal response: freezing, going numb, dissociation. If the response to threat is external, the heart rate stays elevated. But if the response is dissociation, the heart rate plateaus…and ultimately decreases. We can actually track this, in association with specific cues. And with time–sequenced video, we get a very precise assessment of what topics and what cues and what stimuli are associated with a deeply ingrained memory…the memory of the state of fear present in the original trauma." He took a deep breath. "Is any of this making any sense to you?" he asked in an apologetic tone. Perry used language in exactly the opposite way lawyers did—he didn't want to hide behind it; he wanted you to get it. A fucking genius without being arrogant, explaining the meaning of life with that "aw, shucks" farmboy front—he must be a killer on the fund–raising circuit.
"A normal person gets scared, their heartbeat goes up," I told him. "Eventually, that calms them. If they've been abused, the heart rate just keeps climbing until they go somewhere else in their heads. To a safe place. Then the heartbeat slows down. Like the tail wagging the dog," I said softly. Thinking how I learned to do it for myself: staring at a red dot on my mirror, going into that dot until I wasn't afraid anymore. I didn't get all his vocabulary, but if you translated it, every abused kid in the world would recognize it.
He nodded, not saying anything.
I stayed quiet too, listening for my own heartbeat.
The hotel was set up right inside the hospital complex. For families who wanted to stay around while a patient was hospitalized, Perry told me. That way they could be close at hand, feel more a part of the process. I figured I'd stay there too, took a two–room suite for the duration.
After I unpacked, I took a stroll until I found a pay phone and called Mama.
"All quiet," she said. "You okay?"
"Sure," I told her. I gave her the number of the hotel room, just in case.
I went back, took a shower, and started reading over some of the material Perry had given me, wishing I'd brought my medical dictionary along. I started reading this stuff years ago, swiping books from Doc's library in the prison. Doc never admitted he knew what I was up to, but whenever he left a book lying around for too long, I knew he meant me to take it. Maybe if he knew I was running a nice little business writing phony psych reports another inmate clerk substituted for the real ones that went to the parole board, he wouldn't have been so eager to further my education.
I always returned the books when I was done. Couple of things I learned in prison: nothing you stole was ever really safe in your cell, but once it went into your head, no goon–squad shakedown could take it back.
When I was locked down, I used to read all the time—that's where I got my vocabulary. But I don't do it as much any more. Like the guys who stopped lifting iron soon as they hit the bricks. There's other ways to pass time once you're free.
I'd forgotten how much I'd loved it, reading and studying. I'll bet if I'd been raised by humans instead of a collection of freaks and the fucking State, I'd have been…a scientist, maybe. I don't know.
I know I wouldn't have been what I am now. You don't get born bad.
I jumped when the phone rang next to the bed. None of the crew would call me here unless…
"What?"
"Burke? It's me. Heather. I'm in the hotel too. You got my note, right? They're keeping Jennifer overnight. To run some tests or something. Did you eat yet?"
I glanced at my watch. Jesus! It was almost nine o'clock—I'd been lost in Perry's stuff for hours.
"Ah, no. I was just gonna—"
"Can we have dinner together? We don't have to go anyplace, okay? Just room service and—"
"Where's Kite?" I asked her.
"He's back…home. Working on the case."
"Yeah, okay. Dinner. You want me to—?"
"My room's really small. Could I come up there?"
"Sure. Whenever you're ready."
"I'll be right up," she said.
I dug out the room service menu. Sounded pretty good, reading down the list. But they always do, I guess. It wasn't five minutes before I heard a tentative knock at the door. Heather. In a bone–colored business suit and matching pumps and stockings. The only traces of color were her black–cherry hair and a black lace bra she wore instead of a blouse under her jacket. And her orange eyes under long dark lashes.
"You look very nice," I told her.
"You too," she said politely, as though my white sweatshirt and chinos was an evening ensemble.
She took a seat on the couch, knees touching decorously. I handed her the room service menu. She studied it carefully, tracing each item with a blunt white–lacquered fingernail. "You want a steak?" she finally asked.
"Sure."
"Salad?"
"Whatever."
"I'll take care of it," she said, getting to her feet. She walked over to the desk and sat down in the straight chair next to it. She picked up a ballpoint pen and one of those cheap little pads you find in hotels, crossed her legs like a steno getting ready to work. "How do you want your steak?" she asked, looking over at me, poised to write.