Heartstone

by Phillip Margolin

  Shindler smiled.

  “You’re a man after my own heart, Doctor.”

  “Do you teach at the University full-time, Doctor?” Shindler asked.

  “No, no. Just one freshman Psychology course to keep me young. My practice keeps me pretty busy, but I enjoy being around youngsters. And you can call me Art. Doctor is way too formal and makes me feel old enough to counter any good I might have gotten out of tonight’s class.”

  Shindler laughed and leaned against the back of the wooden booth. They were seated in the rear of “The Victorian Age,” an imitation English pub that catered to a predominantly college clientele.

  “Art, what exactly is hypnosis?”

  “Nothing magical,” Hollander said. He smiled faintly as if he had heard and answered the question a thousand times before. “Simply a form of suggestion. We sit here and I suggest another beer. You weigh the suggestion. The beer is good but you are on duty and you have to think clearly. However, if I suggest that everything I am going to suggest is reasonable, then you will stop evaluating and you will depend on me.”

  Hollander took a pen out of his pocket and pulled a white napkin in front of him. He placed a dot at the top of the napkin.

  “Think of this point as being a state of complete alertness. You are alert now. You can see and hear all the things that are going on in this pub, as well as listen to our conversation and think your own thoughts. But there are other states of awareness that are not total.”

  Hollander drew a line from the dot straight down the napkin to the bottom and ended it with another dot.

  “You know the expression ‘dead to the world’? A person is so sound asleep that his mind is practically completely at rest. This would be a point represented by the dot at the bottom.

  “Okay. Along this line we’re going to get various stages of alertness and somewhere on this line is a state where a person becomes susceptible to suggestion. This might be a point where the person is at thirty minutes after he has gone to bed. His eyes are closed, he’s lost contact with the general sounds around him, but he’s still aware of very important sounds, like a baby crying or, in a doctor’s case, that darn telephone ringing. A person in that state can be alerted rather easily, because in that state he is paying all of his attention to a single thing.”

  “If you asked a person in this state a question, would they respond normally?” Shindler asked. “I mean, the way you’re answering my questions?”

  “Oh, yes. It depends on the depth of the hypnosis. The lower the state of awareness, the more their attention is focused and the more accurate the response.”

  “Doctor…Art. Let’s suppose that a person has seen something so frightening and so upsetting to them that they have repressed the memory of that event. They have amnesia. If you ask them about the event, they deny that they were ever there. If you put that kind of person under hypnosis, could you make them talk about the event, tell what really happened?”

  Hollander raised his eyebrows and regarded Shindler with new interest.

  “‘Repressed,’ ‘amnesia.’ You and George had a nice talk. He must have told you the answer to your questions already or else you wouldn’t have come to see me.”

  Shindler smiled.

  “George said he thought you could. What do you say?”

  “Possible. Hypnosis is frequently used in amnesia. One of the biggest uses of psychiatry is to recall repressed material of the kind you have just mentioned.”

  “What would you do in a case like this?”

  “Well, you have not given me much information, but I assume you will when you are ready. In the general situation, I would develop a hypnotic state to relax the individual. When the patient is relaxed, the repressive mechanisms in the mind that watches over the forbidden memories are off guard. The relaxation permits the memories to be brought from the subconscious to the conscious.

  “Now, this is not an easy process. Especially when we are dealing with amnesia that is due to a very frightening, very threatening experience. The individual might be afraid that they will go crazy, that they will be punished severely or something like that if it is ever discovered that they have been involved in the event that they are repressing. When they come close to the repressed memory, they fight hard. They do their best to avoid contact with it. They will have bodily reactions we call conversion reactions. They will have headaches, upset stomachs, diarrhea. All sorts of physical reactions as well as just refusing to discuss the matter. It is not easy.”

  “Do you want another beer?”

  “Certainly. It is always a pleasure to live off the public dole.”

  Shindler signaled the waitress and ordered two more beers.

  “Can you get through?”

  “Not in every case.”

  “Would you like to take a shot at a very unusual case?”

  Hollander smiled and his eyes twinkled.

  “Roy, you know you have me hooked. Tell me what the facts are.”

  “Art, this is a case I have been working on for some time. Have you ever heard of the Murray-Walters murders?”

  Bobby Coolidge flexed his fingers. He had developed a cramp in his writing hand and, in the few seconds in which his attention had wandered from Professor Schneider’s lecture, he had missed most of what the professor had said about the Budget and Accounting Act of 1950. Not that he cared about the Act personally, but he had made a promise to himself that he would really try this first semester to see if he could make the grade.

  When he first decided to go to college, it had been a major decision. No one else in his family had ever done it. College people had always been thought of as an alien species as different from Coolidges as Martians from Earthmen. Now he was one of the Martians and it wasn’t easy.

  Bobby was renting a one-bedroom apartment in a crummy area of town. He had saved enough to make it through the first academic year without working. But that meant no frills. His entertainment came from a second-hand portable TV. His meals consisted of several varieties of spaghetti sauce poured over one variety of spaghetti.

  And the work was hard. High school had never been this tough. What made it worse was that the other students seemed to understand so much more than he. There had been times when he wanted to quit. Once, he stayed away from school for a week. He was afraid of failure. Afraid that he was out of his depth. Then he had paid another visit to Billy and he had returned to the classroom. On the drive back, he decided that he did have a choice about how his life would end and it was not going to wind up like Billy’s had.

  The professor announced the end of the period and Bobby still was missing the notes on the purpose of the Budget Act. The girl in the seat next to him was still writing. She was very attractive. Blond, blue-eyed. A cheerleader type, he had decided, during the first few weeks of class. Obviously well off from the cut and variety of her clothes.

  Today, she was dressed in a plaid kilt and a red turtleneck sweater. When she leaned over to write, her long blond hair cascaded over her sloping shoulders so that she had to brush it off her writing tablet.

  “Excuse me,” he said. She looked up and smiled. “I missed the last few minutes of the lecture. I wonder if I could copy your notes.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Just let me finish them for you.”

  “I appreciate it. My hand cramped. I just can’t write as fast as Schneider talks.”

  The girl laughed. She had a pleasant laugh that made him think about church bells on clear winter Sundays.

  “It isn’t just you. I can never keep up with him.”

  Bobby laughed.

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one. Where do you think he learned to talk like that? Maybe his father made phonograph records.”

  She smiled again and handed him her notes. Not bad, he thought. A laugh and a smile. I’m getting to be a regular comedian.

  “What’s this word here?” he asked, pointing to a scrawl stuffed between two other illegible words.

  “‘Bud
get.’”

  “Right. My name is Bobby Coolidge. I’ve been sitting across from you all these weeks and I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself.”

  “Consider yourself introduced. My name is Sarah Rhodes. Now we’re even.”

  The room was emptying, but Sarah did not seem impatient to leave. Bobby wondered if she would have lunch with him if he asked her. He had not had a real date since he had returned from the army. There had been a few pickups in bars, right after he was discharged, but nothing since his return to Portsmouth. It was partly a lack of money and partly a lack of desire. He was having a difficult time adjusting to civilian life. His values were in a state of flux. His education seemed important, but he had not arrived at a concrete reason why. Emotional attachments seemed frivolous and unsettling. He had decided that women would be a distraction he could not afford, so he had avoided them. Still, lunch would not hurt-if she would go with him.

  “Thanks for the loan,” he said, handing her the spiral notebook. He walked with her toward the classroom door. The professor was talking to a skinny boy with tortoiseshell glasses. Everyone else had left.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  He had said it too fast. Blurted it out. Not cool, he thought, uneasily.

  “Why?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “I thought, if you were, I’d spring you to lunch. I mean, it’s a fair trade. Food for thought.”

  She caught the pun and laughed. He was proud of himself for thinking it up. It was almost intellectual.

  “Sure. But we’ll go Dutch. My notes aren’t worth that much.”

  The school cafeteria was jammed and they settled for a small table in a corner. Bobby emptied his tray and carried his and hers to an aluminum rack that stood against a wall covered with posters and advertisements about campus affairs. When he returned, Sarah finished taking his sandwich out of its cellophane wrapper and handed it to him.

  “Thanks. This place is mobbed. It reminds me of mess hall at boot camp.”

  Sarah looked interested.

  “You were in the army?”

  “Just got out,” he answered between bites.

  “Were you…?”

  “In Nam?” he finished for her. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t like it there, did you?” she asked, after looking at the expression on his face.

  “It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I went. I came back. There’s not much in between that I like to talk about.”

  “Sorry,” she said and he realized that he had been too sharp in his reply.

  “You shouldn’t be. I’m the one who should apologize. You had no way of knowing.”

  “I only asked because it’s in the news so much and you’re the first person I ever met who has been there.”

  “Where have you been? I mean, where are you from?” he asked, changing the subject, artfully, he hoped.

  “Toronto.”

  “You’re not American?”

  “No,” she laughed. “And don’t look so shocked. We Canadians don’t have horns.”

  He blushed.

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “That’s okay. Now we’re even.”

  They smiled at each other and Bobby put down his sandwich and offered his hand. She took it and they shook. He held it a second longer than was necessary, but she did not seem to mind. When he had brought up their trays, there had been a notice that the Student Union was showing Gone with the Wind the next evening. One dollar per student. Bobby mentally checked his savings. He could swing two dollars and a couple of bucks for beer.

  “Do you like old movies?” he asked.

  “Yes. What made you ask?” she said. Her eyes flirted with him, playfully teasing him.

  “I noticed…They’re showing Gone with the Wind tomorrow. I’ve never seen it, but I hear it’s good. If you wanted to go…?”

  “I have seen it.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’d love to go again.”

  He brightened up and she smiled again. They had both been smiling a lot, he thought. He glanced at the cafeteria clock and gathered his books.

  “I have to run. I have math in five minutes and I can’t afford to miss a class. Tell me where you live and I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

  She gave him an address in the hills. He knew the area. It was expensive. He felt nervous again.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said as he stood to go.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The detective was here again. Only this time she wasn’t as frightened. Yesterday he had sent flowers. She wondered why the doctors would not release her. She did not know that it was Shindler’s doing.

  “How are you this morning, Esther? I thought I would bring these.”

  More flowers. A bouquet of roses. Only John and that boy who had taken her to the prom had ever given her flowers. They looked very pretty.

  “Thank you. You can put them in the vase on the dresser.”

  He looked strange carrying the bouquet. He was tall and gangly and his suit didn’t fit well. The bouquet was lost in his large hand.

  “I sent the flowers as a delayed apology for the way I treated you that time at the station house. I felt awfully bad about that.”

  She did not know whether to believe him. There was something about Shindler that she did not like. Still, the flowers were pretty and he was acting like a gentleman. Maybe she had been wrong about him.

  “That’s okay. I…I’d almost forgot about it.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  She looked at him for a moment, until it struck her that he was asking her for permission. She wasn’t used to that.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I feel fine now. Except the doctor won’t tell me where my boy is.”

  “Your son is fine, Esther. I checked this morning. Welfare put him with foster parents.”

  He saw the look of alarm on her face.

  “Don’t worry. It’s only temporary. I’m looking into it for you, Esther. No one is going to take your baby. You believe me, don’t you?”

  She eyed him warily. There was a trap here somewhere. She was afraid again.

  “Do you want a cigarette?”

  “The doctor said I shouldn’t.”

  Shindler winked and held one out to her.

  “I’ll cover for you.”

  She was going to take it, but she hesitated and drew her hand back.

  “No thank you. I’d rather not.”

  “Do you mind if I…?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Shindler lit up.

  “You seem to be coming around fine,” Shindler said.

  “I guess.”

  “I’m glad we didn’t lose you. You’re an important person, Esther.”

  There it was again. Warning signals. There was something about his manner, his questions, that frightened her. She wasn’t important to anyone. She never had been.

  “Esther, I am here to ask you a favor. Do you think that you would do me a favor?”

  “What favor?”

  “I know you don’t like to discuss it, but I want to talk to you about Richie Walters and Elaine Murray.”

  She could feel her heart accelerate suddenly. She knew there was something! Why wouldn’t he let her be?

  “I told you, Mr. Shindler, I really don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “How would you like to clear up everything, once and for all?”

  “I would. Honest, Mr. Shindler. You ain’t trying to be mean. I know that. But it upsets me a lot when you talk about that.”

  “Okay. I know you get upset. But think of it this way, Esther. Say you were there.” She started to protest and he raised his hand. “I’m not saying that you were. This is something I’m supposing. You know that Richie and Elaine’s murders were the biggest murders we’ve had in Portsmouth, don’t you?”

  “I suppose,” she answered grudgingly.

  “Okay. Now anyone who helped
us solve those murders would be a pretty important person. She would be famous and everyone would be grateful to her, because of the help she had been to the community. So you can see why I think you are so important.”

  “But, Mr…”

  “Now hear me out, okay?”

  Esther gave up and sank back on her pillow.

  “Sometimes a person will see something that is so horrible that their own mind won’t let them remember it. Have you ever heard of amnesia?”

  “Yeah. But I thought you only got that if someone hit you on the head.”

  Shindler smiled.

  “That is one way. But the mind is an unusual machine, Esther. It protects its owner. And it can make a person forget unpleasant things. I think that you saw Richie murdered. I don’t think you took any part in the killing. I’m a good judge of character. You get to be that way when you have been a policeman for as long as I have. I think you are too nice a girl to have been knowingly involved in a murder. But let’s just say that you and the Coolidge brothers did get drunk after that party. Do you remember telling me that you thought that you went cruising downtown?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, let’s suppose that after you went cruising, the Coolidges got into a drag race with Richie and Richie forced them off the road. And let’s suppose that they got mad at Richie and followed him up to Lookout Park and there was a fight and you saw them kill Richie. Now you are a nice girl. You would never do anything like that. That would have been so horrible to a nice person like you that your mind might blank out that part of the evening.”

  “But, Mr. Shindler, it wasn’t like that at all.”

  “How do you know, Esther? You told me that you were so drunk that you could not remember what happened that evening.”

  “Well, I was. But I would remember something like…It just didn’t happen that way.”

  She was starting to get upset and Shindler waited for her to calm down.

  “Esther, remember I said that we could clear this up once and for all?”

  “Yes. I would like that, Mr. Shindler.”

  “There is a doctor I know. Dr. Hollander. He is a psychiatrist and he is an expert in hypnotizing people.”