by David Archer
“None that I know of, and I don't think there was anything like that. On the other hand—Doctor, maybe you can help me. I'm working on a couple of cases now, and hers may be one of them, that seem to indicate that someone is deliberately tampering with people's minds, using zolpidem, possibly combined with alcohol and hypnosis. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”
“Oh, dear heavens, Mr. Prichard,” she said. “No, I haven’t, but as a clinical hypnotist myself, I can tell you that the very thought of it suddenly terrifies me! Zolpidem is a powerful drug, with serious effects on our inhibitions. If a small dose were given to someone who was already in trance, and suggestions planted to take more at a later time—my God, it's conceivable that a post-hypnotic suggestion could be planted that would override all of our natural inhibitions!”
Sam sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that. Doctor, it's very possible that Annie Corning was treated in this way. Could such a suggestion possibly result in wiping her memory?”
“I couldn't say with any reasonable certainty, but I would hazard a guess that it is possible, yes. What concerns me even more, however, is how to formulate any kind of recovery program for her; I'd have no concept of where to begin!”
“I'm going now to try to speak to the person I believe is behind this,” Sam said. “I don't know if I'll get any answers that will help you or not, but I'll let you know if I get any at all. Right now, I'm going to call Annie's husband and give him your number. And Doctor, I'm not going to tell him what I suspect just yet; I'm gonna imply that the problem might be a side effect of medication. Can you cover me on that for a bit, till I know for sure what I'm dealing with?”
“Certainly, Mr. Prichard,” the doctor said. “I won't say anything until I hear from you.”
He ended the call and looked in his notes for Albert Corning's number, then dialed it. Corning answered almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“Al, this is Sam Prichard,” Sam said. “I'm calling to tell you that I've found your wife.”
Corning gasped. “Oh, God, Sam, is she—is she alive?”
Sam sighed into the phone. “She's alive, Al, but there are complications. Annie is in a hospital in Oregon, and has amnesia. Until just a bit ago, she didn't even know her own name, and at the moment, she doesn't remember being married or who you are. I have the number of her doctor for you, and she'd like you to call as soon as possible.”
Corning said, “Oh, my God, oh, my God—I'll call right now! Let me get a pen, oh, my God! This is—Sam, how can I thank you? Can I tell the police? Can I tell her sister?”
“I think you should take that up with her doctor, but I'm sure she'll be glad to confirm for them that your wife is alive and in her care. Now, there's something else I want to talk to you about; you and Annie went to get some dental work a short time before she began acting strangely, do you remember that?”
“Dental work? Yeah, sure, I got a check-up and Annie got a crown and a couple of fillings. Why?”
“And Annie started acting strangely right after that?”
Corning was quiet for a moment, as if thinking, then said slowly, “Well, yes. Is there a connection?”
“Well, I happen to be looking at another case, where it's possible that there is a side effect of the dentist's hypnotic anesthesia, combined with other things, that might cause some kinds of amnesia. I just want you to be aware that this isn't Annie's fault, none of it.”
Corning sighed. “Sam—thank you. I don't know what else to say, so I'll just say thank you! I'll call the doctor now, what's the number?”
Sam gave him the number and hung up, then Googled the dentist’s office address. He got onto the Shadow and rode that way.
* * * * *
Indie was worried, but if there was one thing she knew about Sam, it was that he could take care of himself. She went about her daily routine, cleaning up the house, thinking about what to make for dinner and keeping one mother's eye on Kenzie, with another watching that cat! Samson was a pretty good kitty, but every now and then, he'd get it in his head that he was a climber. She'd found him on top of the refrigerator, on top of the cabinets, and once he got on top of the long curtain rod that was over the sliding glass doors leading to the back yard.
Climbing up, it seemed, he was good at. Getting back down always involved Indie having to stand on a chair and coax him into reach.
Still, having the cat had been good for Kenzie. After some of the hard times they'd been through, during which the child never once complained, Indie was thankful for their new lives, for the stability that Sam had brought to them, for the love and happiness that the three of them shared. She often caught herself whispering, “Thank you, Lord,” as she went about her day, and the sense of peace that would come over her made her feel that He was answering, “You're welcome.”
She'd just finished running the vacuum in the living room when her phone rang again, and she glanced to see that it was her mother. She rolled her eyes; she loved her mom, but they talked at least three or four times a day, usually. She answered the call with a smile she didn't necessarily feel.
“Hey, Mom,” she said.
“Indie,” her mother began, “I know how Sam feels about Beauregard, but he insists I call and tell you this anyway.”
A chill went down Indie's spine. Beauregard was the ghost of a Confederate soldier who was supposedly her mother's “spirit guide.” He was also, she firmly believed, a figment of her mother's imagination, but somehow, he seemed to know things, and as long as Indie had been alive, he hadn't been wrong once when he predicted something. She was sure the truth was that her mother had some gift for prognostication, but used Beauregard as the way she dealt with it.
“What is it, Mom?” she asked, dreading the answer. Beauregard had a tendency to predict bad news.
“Well, Beauregard says that Sam is about to be in a lot of trouble, and that it's going to be up to you to save him. That’s all he'll tell me, he says, the rest of it you have to find out yourself.”
Indie's breath caught, but she forced it. “Okay, Mom, I'm gonna call Sam now and warn him. He'll get mad, but I'll do it anyway! Bye!” She hung up and dialed Sam's phone.
It rang four times and went to voicemail, which probably meant he was on the motorcycle and rolling down the road, so he didn't hear the phone. She hung up and tried again, but this time when it went to voicemail, she said, “Sam, call me! Urgent!” and hung up, praying he'd see the missed call and get back to her quickly.
* * * * *
Sam rode up to the dental building, parked the Shadow and got off. His leg was bothering him a bit, so he pulled the cane out of the holster he'd made for it on the front forks and went inside. A chubby, blonde receptionist greeted him cheerfully, and Sam made a joking bet with himself that she was hired by Mrs. Connors, and would probably be replaced as soon as the divorce was final.
“Hi, and welcome to Connors Dental. How can we help you today?”
Sam smiled. “I'd like to speak with Dr. Connors for a moment,” he said, holding out his ID. “My name is Sam Prichard, I'm a private investigator.”
The girl's eyes grew large, and she picked up a phone. “Dr. Connors?” she said after a moment. “There's a private investigator her who would like to speak with you.” She listened for about five seconds, then said, “Yes, sir.” She hung up the phone and said, “He'll be right out.”
A door in the wall behind her opened only seconds later, and a portly, balding man of medium height in a white dentist's smock stepped out. “I'm Dr. Connors,” he said. “How can I help you?”
Sam kept his face stoic, but shook the offered hand. “Doctor, I'm Sam Prichard, and I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to you about a couple of your patients who seem to be having some problems after seeing you.”
Connors' eyebrows went up. “Problems? Come on back to my office, please.” He glanced at the receptionist, who seemed to be ignoring them completely, and led Sam through the door and down a hallway. The office was
only a short distance away, and he pointed to a comfortable chair when they got inside with the door closed behind them.
“Now,” he said, “can you tell me what this is about?”
“Dr. Connors, two of your patients have exhibited some bizarre behavior shortly after being here for your services. One of them is Annie Corning, who began acting strangely right after getting some work done four months ago, and then disappeared completely a month later. She's just been found, alive, but with seemingly complete amnesia. The other is Carl Morris, who is sitting in jail right now for the brutal murders of his wife and children. He saw you for a cleaning under hypnosis the morning of the day it happened.”
Connors didn't show any emotion during Sam's recital of the facts. “I'm sorry, I don't see how either of these situations has anything to do with me.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “You don't? Doesn't it seem odd to you that both of these people started acting oddly right after seeing you? That would be a coincidence that would worry me, if I were in your shoes. Suppose their behavior is a side effect of your hypnosis? That could be devastating to your business, if the word got out, and if Carl Morris is able to bring it up as a defense in his murder trial, it's going to be all over the front pages of an awful lot of newspapers, I can guarantee you. Now, don't you want to try to enlighten me about how your hypnosis works, so I can go back and say that I didn't find any connection? Or would you rather I go to the prosecutor with what I've got so far, and let him draw his own conclusions?”
Connors smiled. “Mr. Prichard, I didn't mean to give the impression I don't care, and of course I want to help, but there is a long established fact, and that is that no one will do anything under hypnosis they wouldn't do by their own choice. If Mr. Morris was here that morning, and I've seen the accounts of his crime in the newspapers and TV, then he would have been completely free of any hypnotic suggestion long before the murder took place. And as for the lady you mentioned, no amount of hypnosis can erase a memory for more than a short time. It's been tried, in clinical cases where people wanted to forget past traumas; it can't be done.”
Sam nodded. “Not on its own, no,” he said, “but I'm working on the theory that there might be psychoactive and hypnotic medications involved. Mr. Morris had a large dosage of zolpidem in his system. Zolpidem is better known as Adivol, Dr. Connors, in case you're not aware of that, and it's been associated with many different kinds of bizarre behaviors including a number of murders and accidental killings. I've spoken with a psychiatrist who says it's quite likely that if a dose were given to a person while under hypnosis, the combined effect could cause a suggestion to override the natural inhibitions against doing whatever was suggested.”
Connors didn't even blink. “I can see where that might be possible,” he said, “but that's why it has nothing to do with me. We don't use any kind of chemical anesthesia here other than locals—benzocaine, novocaine, the normal stuff any dentist uses. I don't even use nitrous oxide here, because I don't believe it offers any real benefit.”
“In that case, you wouldn't object to me taking a look around? Just to confirm that you don’t have any kinds of drugs here?”
Connors smiled. “Mr. Prichard, I may be cooperative, but I'm not a fool. If a search is to be made, I'm afraid it will have to be done by the police, and with a lawful search warrant. If you can get the police to believe this crazy story, they're more than welcome to come here, warrant in hand, and look to their hearts' content. Until then, I believe we're done talking.” He stood up. “I'll show you out.”
Sam rose to his feet and looked Connors in the eye. “I'll go, no problem, but I will be back with the police and that warrant. And I'll also tell you this: if I find proof that you are manipulating the minds of people with hypnosis and drugs, I will see to it that you are buried so deep in the prison system that you'll forget what daylight even looked like.” He turned to go through the door, and heard the doctor step forward to follow.
* * * * *
Sam sat up, wiping his face and feeling something wet on it. He looked around, wondering where he was, and suddenly froze. He was sitting on the floor, and beside him was a woman with her back to him. She was covered in blood, and he instinctively reached out to turn her over, so he could see who she was.
It was Juliette Connors, and she was quite dead, he could tell. She'd been shot through the head, and the bullet was apparently a fairly large caliber one; most of the top of her head was gone, along with most of the brain tissue that used to be in it. Sam stared at her, wondering how he'd come to be there, and who had killed his client.
He reached for his phone to call 911, but even as he started to dial, he heard sirens and vehicles roaring up outside of wherever he was. He climbed to his feet and looked around, realizing he was in a house. He saw the front door, and took two steps toward it before it came crashing in.
A policeman stood there, his gun in his hand, and he was shouting at Sam to get down on his knees and put his hands behind his head. Sam complied automatically, his mind racing, and then he was being wrestled to the floor. His hands were wrenched cruelly behind his back, and handcuffs were applied, even as he was trying to tell the officers who were surrounding him that he had just woke up there, that he was trying to call them when they showed up, but they weren't listening.
One of them rolled him over onto his back, and looked down at him.
“Samuel Prichard,” he said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Juliette Connors. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney...”
Sam knew the drill, and shut his mouth. He had no clue what was going on, but he was sure he hadn't killed anyone, and he wasn't going to risk saying something they could use to make him look guilty. He'd go to jail, just as he'd taken numerous others to jail, and then figure out what was going on.
And then he'd call Indie.
He was hauled out and stuffed into the back seat of a cruiser, and left alone there for a while, the engine running and the AC on. He sat there and tried to remember what had happened. He'd gone to see Dr. Connors, and confronted him about the drug-hypnosis connection, which had been denied. He was just leaving when—that's when he woke up.
Dear God, he thought, the bastard's done it to me! But how? I didn't go under hypnosis, and I didn't take or drink anything while I was there…
The only possible answer was that he was drugged suddenly, possibly with something that put him down without a fight. He knew it wouldn't be chloroform—despite its popularity with crime fiction authors and movie producers, actual unconsciousness from chloroform takes about five minutes of inhalation, during which time the victim is usually objecting violently. Sam knew that there were other drugs, though, that could render someone senseless in a matter of seconds, and suspected that one had been used on him.
He couldn't see a clock, so he had no idea how much time had passed since he left the dentist's office. If it had been more than just a few minutes, it was probably enough time that there would be no trace of any drugs or chemicals to be found there, because the man's first logical move would be to get rid of everything that could implicate him. If Sam began talking about his theories, he'd sound like a lunatic, and he knew it. Even the evidence he and Indie had compiled wouldn't be enough to convince a prosecutor.
Prosecutor—Sam had just been arrested for murder, and the worst part was that he couldn't be certain that he hadn’t done it. If Connors was the cunning monster that he and Indie suspected him to be, then it was quite possible that he had programmed Sam to go to his wife's home and kill her. With that thought in mind, Sam was fairly certain that the large caliber bullet that had killed Mrs. Connors would turn out to be a forty-caliber slug from his own weapon.
The police had been forced to break down the door, he remembered. That would indicate that, just
like Carl Morris, the doors had been locked from the inside. If that were the case, then it was likely that Sam was the only possible suspect in this crime, and given the circumstances and without knowledge of the possible hypnotic connection, he'd believe it himself.
However, even if he had pulled the trigger and fired the fatal shot, Sam was not the killer—he was the murder weapon, just as Carl Morris had been the weapon that killed his own family. Since neither of them had any knowledge of what they had done, or in fact, whether they had done anything at all, and since neither of them had been complicit in taking whatever drugs were involved, a reasonable defense would likely be that they were not lawfully responsible, any more than a gun was responsible for the death of the person standing in front of it when its trigger was pulled.
There were numerous police officers present, and Sam saw Karen Parks, the homicide detective that he'd worked with on the Jimmy Smith case. She looked at him as she walked past the car, but there was none of the friendliness he recalled from that time. He watched her go into the house, and when she came out twenty minutes later, she was carrying a zip-lock bag with a gun in it. He knew he'd been right as soon as he saw it; the black and white grips were the ones Danny Jacobs had given him once for a birthday present. The murder weapon they were focused on was his own gun.
She walked up to the car and opened the door beside him. “Sam,” she said, “I'm sure you know I hate this, but I've gotta say, this is one ugly mess you've handed me. Want to tell me what happened?”
Sam looked at her, wishing he could tell her all of it, but he knew she'd think he was either nuts, or lying to try to save his own skin. Since he'd been hired by Mrs. Connors to find her husband's assets, a case could be made that he might have made a deal with Connors to kill her so that he wouldn't have to share his wealth. Granted, that would implicate Connors, but it would make an even stronger case against Sam, so it wasn't a line of thought he wanted anyone else to consider. He looked up at Karen and said, “I hate this too, but I think I need a lawyer before I say anything.”