An older woman, who reminded Marti of Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith Show, stood behind a young woman working in a notebook at the dining room table. Both looked up at the interruption.
“Mrs. Martin, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jackie said, “but this is Dr. Segerson. She’d like to talk to Molly for a few minutes.”
“Of course. I’ll just make myself some tea in the kitchen.”
Marti pulled a chair over to Molly and sat down. “Hello, Molly. My name is Marti. What are you working on?”
Molly had all the same general features as Jackie, but they didn’t fit together in quite the same way, so that where Jackie was beautiful, Molly was not. But there was a peacefulness and innocence in her face that made her look ageless. She turned her notebook so Marti could see she had been practicing writing the numbers from one to one hundred.
“That’s very good,” Marti said. “Do you like schoolwork?”
“It’s not fun, but Jackie says it’s—” Molly’s smooth brow furrowed and she looked at Jackie for help.
“Nece . . .” Jackie prompted.
“Necessary,” Molly said.
“Molly, do you remember when you were a better tennis player than Jackie?”
“They said I was, but I don’t think so.”
Marti looked at Jackie. “Has she been back to Gibson since this happened—driven by it, or seen it in any way?”
“Absolutely not.”
Marti turned back to Molly. “If I asked you to draw something for me, would you try to do it?”
“Okay.” Molly turned to a fresh page in her notebook and picked up her pencil.
“Draw me a picture of the Gibson State Mental Hospital.”
Molly set to work, and Marti’s hopes rose that Molly had retained some thread of a recollection for the hospital she could use as a link to other memories. But Molly’s sketch quickly turned into a generic drawing of a house a six-year-old might make.
“May I draw something?” Marti asked.
Molly gave her the pencil, and Marti stood up. Moving to Molly’s right, Marti turned the notebook so she had the length of the paper to work with. In broad strokes, she drew an outline of the mental hospital, then sketched in the main entrance and the windows, finishing with the lightning rods on each spire.
“Do you recognize that?” she asked Molly.
“Is it the place you wanted me to draw?”
Marti’s hopes rose. “Yes, do you remember being there?”
Molly shrugged. “I just figured since you asked me to draw it, that must be what it is.”
Marti looked at Jackie. “Can she read?”
“Not very well. I think she’s only worked her way up to third-grade material so far.”
Though it seemed like a long shot, Marti decided there was nothing to lose in trying the next thing she had in mind. She leaned down and wrote Oren Quinn’s name in large block letters under the drawing she’d made.
“Molly, do you know who that is?”
Molly put her index finger under the letters and tried to sound out the name. “O . . . rrr . . . eeee . . . nnn.”
“Oren . . .” Marti said, helping her along.
“QQQQQ . . . iiii . . .”
“Quinn,” Marti said. “Oren Quinn.”
Molly just looked at Marti with a blank expression. Marti sat down again beside her. “Molly, do you remember anything at all about when you were a nurse?”
“I know people say I was one, but I can’t picture that at all.”
Marti looked at Jackie, shook her head, and turned her hands palms-up in surrender.
Jackie stroked her sister’s hair and said, “Molly, why don’t you go into the kitchen and ask Mrs. Martin for some orange juice.”
Molly nodded and headed for the kitchen.
“I admit I could have come better prepared,” Marti said. “But I don’t think it would have mattered. She seems to have no trace of a memory of her former life.”
“And she’s been difficult to teach, too.”
“Children are sponges for information while they develop. When we become adults and much of our neural wiring is already formed, we’re less receptive to learning new things. But I think she’s going to be fine. Did you notice how she figured out what I drew must be the hospital? So she’s capable of deductive reasoning.”
“Who is Oren Quinn?” Jackie asked.
“The superintendent at the hospital. I figured if she remembered any name from there, it would be him.”
“What do you make of this?” Clay said, from the bulletin board.
Marti and Jackie walked over to see what he was talking about.
“Look at these pages where she was practicing writing the months of the year,” Clay said, pointing. “Every time she writes September it’s twice as big as all the others. And over here, where she’s written the numbers from one to one hundred on three different sheets, the number twelve is always the largest.”
Marti looked at Jackie. “Was that the day she lost her memory? September twelfth?”
“No. She was fine on the twelfth. On the fourteenth, she was found wandering around the highway outside of town where it goes through Gwatney swamp. There was a big truck accident out there. The driver said she caused it, by just standing in the road.”
“Can you think of any significance the twelfth would have to her?” Marti asked.
“You really think those large numbers mean something?”
“There has to be some reason why she’s emphasizing them.”
“Well, I certainly can’t think of any reason.”
“You said she was fine on the twelfth,” Clay said. “How do you know?”
“We had lunch together. We did that a couple of times a week.”
“Did she say anything at lunch to indicate why that day was special to her?” Marti asked.
“It’s been eight months. I can’t recall exactly what we talked about.”
“Why don’t we ask Molly about the number?” Clay suggested.
“I’ll get her,” Jackie said, heading for the kitchen.
The two returned a few seconds later, and Jackie took her over to the bulletin board. “Molly, we’ve noticed that every time you write the month September and the number twelve, they’re always larger than the other months and numbers. Can you tell us why?”
Molly shrugged. “It just seems like that’s the way it should be.”
“I think we’re finished here,” Marti said.
“Go tell Mrs. Martin our visitors are leaving,” Jackie said to Molly. Obediently, Molly did as Jackie asked.
Back in the living room, Jackie looked at Marti and said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have been of more help.”
“It was worth the try.”
A few seconds later, as Marti and Clay walked to his truck, Jackie came back onto the porch. “I do remember one thing Molly and I spoke about at lunch.”
Marti and Clay returned to the porch and stood at the bottom of the steps. “I don’t see how it has any bearing on what happened to her,” Jackie said. “But we talked about the young woman who was found murdered over in Blake earlier the same morning. I didn’t know anything about it, but Molly had heard the news on the radio as she drove to the restaurant.”
“Was she acquainted with the victim?”
“I can’t remember the details of our conversation, but I don’t think so. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen around here, so I suppose the rarity of the event is what kindled her interest. It did mine.”
“Did they ever catch the killer?” Marti asked.
“I think it went unsolved.”
“If she didn’t know the victim,” Clay said. “Why would the date of the crime survive the loss of memories that were a
lot more personal?”
“We don’t know it did,” Marti responded. She looked again at Jackie. “But thanks for telling us about that.”
Marti and Clay went to his truck, and Jackie returned to the house.
“Where to now?” Clay said, firing up the truck’s engine.
“How far away is Blake?”
Chapter 18
“BLAKE IS about thirty miles west of here in McNairy County,” Clay said. “You’re thinking of going over there?”
“I’d like to know more about that murder.”
“So you do think that’s what Molly’s remembering from the twelfth.”
“I don’t know what to think. But it’s the only thread I have to follow at this point. Don’t feel you have to go, too. That’s certainly way beyond what you thought you were getting involved in today.”
“I don’t have anything else to do. Might as well take a ride.”
“Is Blake big enough to have a police department?”
“I think we’ll be wanting the county sheriff’s office.”
THE SHERIFF’S name was Billy Ray Banks. Marti saw it stenciled on the frosted glass panel of his door, just before the deputy showing them in opened it. Marti was prepared for a redneck with a big belly that threatened to pop the buttons on his uniform. Instead, Banks was a slightly built black man with short white hair. And his uniform fit him just fine.
As they entered, he looked up from where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee and said, “Either of you want a cup? It’s not nearly as bad as you might imagine.”
Both Clay and Marti demurred.
Banks brought his coffee to his desk, a big golden oak structure of utter simplicity, like a couple of those Marti had seen in storage at Gibson. “Too much of this job is done standing up,” he said. “So I think we all ought to sit while we talk.”
When they were all settled, and Banks had sampled his coffee, he set his cup down on a stone coaster, leaned forward, and folded his hands on the desk. “Now, who are you?”
Since it was Marti’s show, she did the introductions. Curiously, when she mentioned her affiliation with Gibson, Banks’s eyes seemed to shift from polite tolerance to sincere interest.
“And you’re here for what reason?” Banks asked.
“I’m interested in the murder you discovered in Blake on September twelfth.”
“Do you have information to offer on the case?”
“Actually, I know nothing about it except the date it occurred and that the victim was a young woman.”
Banks’s brow furrowed and he shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“An employee of Gibson acquired a severe case of amnesia a few days after the murder. We just visited her and noticed she seems to have a fixation on the date September twelfth. Her sister doesn’t know of anything significant in the patient’s life from that date. But she did remember the Blake murder was on the news that morning.”
Banks took a pen from his shirt pocket, clicked the tip, and pulled a notepad in front of him. “What’s this amnesiac’s name?”
Alarmed that she might be creating trouble for Molly and Jackie, Marti said, “Her name is Molly Norman, but there’s no point talking to her. She doesn’t remember anything before September fourteenth, the day she was found with total memory loss.”
Ignoring Marti’s last comment, Banks said, “What’s her address?”
Because she hadn’t bothered to note it, Marti looked at Clay, who hesitated. Realizing he was waiting for her permission to divulge where the Normans lived, she nodded.
Banks jotted down the address.
“Sheriff, we came here to obtain information, but so far we’ve been the ones giving it.”
“Why are you so interested in Molly Norman you would drive all the way over here from Linville?” Banks asked. “Are you treating her?”
“No. I went to see her because I recently experienced some memory loss myself, and I hoped talking to Molly might help me figure out why it happened.” This would have been the time to mention Vernon Odessa’s memory loss, but there was no way Marti was going there.
“How long have you worked at Gibson?” Banks asked.
“A week.”
“And you came from . . .”
“California.”
“Just before you started at Gibson?”
“Yes. I assume from your interest in Molly Norman that the Blake murder is still unsolved.”
“No one at Gibson has spoken to you about the case?”
“No. Why would they?”
Banks sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at Marti for a while before speaking. Finally, he said, “Because our best suspect is a patient there.”
Marti couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “One of our patients? Who?”
“A man named Vernon Odessa.”
Marti nearly gasped aloud.
“Is that a familiar name?” Banks asked, noting her reaction.
“He’s on my ward. I’m his psychiatrist.”
“Then you know his history.”
“Of course, but why is he a suspect?”
“There were certain features of the crime that fit his pattern.”
“You mean the use of a hammer?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. But how can he be a suspect? He’s locked up. He’s not free to roam the countryside.”
“So the superintendent over there pointed out to me. He also called my attention to the book that had been written about Odessa.” Banks pulled a book from one of his desk drawers and dropped it on the table. “I bought this copy and read it twice. And, frankly, it disgusted me both times. Dr. Quinn believes we’re dealing with a copycat killer who also read the book and who knows Odessa is being held at Gibson. Quinn suggested that this hypothetical alternate suspect arranged for the murder scene to resemble Odessa’s work to confuse the investigation.”
“Did you personally go over to Gibson and check out the situation?”
“Yes.”
“And you still refer to Odessa as your best suspect. Why?”
“I’ve been in police work for thirty years. After that long, you develop a good feel for the truth. And the truth is, Odessa did it.”
“So why hasn’t he been indicted?”
“I don’t have any proof. And he has Gibson as an alibi. He couldn’t have been in Gibson and in Blake at the same time.”
“People have been known to escape from Gibson.”
“There’s no indication he did.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Go over and see what I can find out about Molly Norman.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help you.”
“So you said earlier. Is there a better number to reach you than at the hospital?”
Marti gave Banks her cell number then said, “Will you keep me informed of anything you learn that might be important?”
“Maybe . . .”
“BOY, WE really stepped into something, didn’t we?” Clay said when they were back in his truck and heading home.
Marti didn’t answer because her mind was grappling with what she’d just learned. If Odessa had committed the Blake murder, he could be executed for that. She wouldn’t have to prove he murdered Lee. At the moment, she had no idea how Odessa could have been in two places at once, but she liked Banks and felt his police instincts were reliable. But mostly, she believed Odessa had committed the Blake murder because that would give her another shot at him.
But where to begin . . . she could call Barry Glaser at the Hampton Inn in Memphis and coax him back to Linville. Then she could arrange another brain fingerprint test using photos Banks must hav
e from the Blake killing.
But if Odessa had no memory of killing Lee, he likewise might pass a brain fingerprint test of the Blake murder. And there was no time . . . Glaser was booked up for weeks . . . he couldn’t just come back and wait for her to arrange another test, even if he was willing to do another one for free, which he might not be.
“I’m sorry, did you ask me something?” Marti said to Clay.
“It was just a comment of surprise about what we just learned. Whether Odessa did the Blake murder or not, I never did like the idea of having him around here. He should be in a California facility where he belongs.”
“You know who he is?”
“Jackie mentioned it once when he first arrived.”
“Was it common knowledge . . . I mean, did the local paper cover the story?”
“No. I think Jackie learned about it from Molly.”
Marti thought about this a moment, then got out her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Clay asked.
“Someone at Gibson . . . Dr. Estes, please . . .”
She wasn’t in her office, so Marti had her paged.
“Trina. Hi, this is Marti. Did you know a woman named Molly Norman who worked at Gibson?”
Clay glanced at Marti and saw her brows lift in apparent surprise at the response she got.
“What did she say?” Clay asked as Marti put her phone away after thanking Trina for the information.
“Before she had her problem, Molly Norman worked on Odessa’s ward as the junior nurse.”
“So maybe that’s why the date of the Blake murder is still fixed in her mind . . . she thought Odessa did it, too.”
“The bastard . . .” Marti muttered.
Realizing she’d said that aloud, she looked at Clay, who was obviously surprised at the anger she’d expressed.
Suddenly, Marti was tired of carrying the burden of Lee’s death all by herself. She was sick of being two people and lying to practically everyone she met. It was just too much and had gone on too long. She couldn’t be that person anymore.
The Memory Thief Page 15