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  When she’d heard that, she’d wanted a chance to see him alone, to determine for herself whether or not he was faking.

  He hadn’t been faking She would stake her life on it She stood outside the room, leaning against the wall, then made the trek down the hospital corridor while she thought about Ryan Murphy The lost, lonely look in his eyes hadn’t been calculating. Rather, confused. Bewildered Emotions she didn’t think could be feigned

  Those eyes. She had wondered what color they were. She had not been prepared for the indigo color, a dark blue shade she had never seen before. Nor had she expected to see the depths in them.

  And they seemed vulnerable He had been careful about what he said, even though she recognized the need in his eyes for knowledge, for information. She felt his isolation, his loneliness, and something inside her responded to it. She knew about isolation and loneliness.

  She’d hoped for something else altogether. She had hoped that she would see the bad cop. The convict who’d betrayed everything he’d sworn to protect. Dan had thought so, too, and she knew that was why he’d eventually agreed to the visit. He’d approved it on the assumption that it would end her feeling of obligation.

  She felt it stronger than ever.

  He’s a loner. Not the land of man you would choose to have a beer With. Dan had depended on his recollection of the man to turn her off Instead of arrogance, she found vulnerability. And because of her, he was to be sent back to what amounted to solitary confinement

  She made her way down the hall to the desk “Dr. Dailey?”

  The nurse at the desk looked at a schedule. “He’s probably in his office.”

  “Do you have a phone number?”

  After a moment, she had it in hand and found a telephone A woman answered and she asked to speak to Dr Dailey. “It’s about Ryan Murphy.”

  After several moments, he came on the phone His voice was cautious “Mrs. Farrell?”

  “I would like to talk to you about..Mr. Murphy.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “The district attorney says prison authorities believe he’s faking the amnesia They want to send him to Reidsville.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. “Are you sure you want to become involved?”

  She wasn’t. “No,” she said truthfully. “But if he’s really ill because of what he did for me, I have to help.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t discuss him unless you obtain a release from him.”

  “Can you talk hypothetically about amnesia?”

  He hesitated again. “All right,” he said finally. “I’m in the building next to the hospital. Can you come over now?”

  She looked at her watch. Three more hours before Nick returned home. “Yes.”

  She scolded herself every step she took. She should be spending her time at the law firm, getting up to speed on Mark’s bnef. She should be baking cookies for Nick. She should be doing anything but hanging around the hospital, worrying about a convicted murderer. But she couldn’t let go.

  The neurologist opened the door for her after she was announced by the receptionist. He ushered her to a seat, then sat down His fingers tapped on a brown file folder. “The floor nurse said you spoke to him. Did he seem to remember anything?”

  She realized why he’d consented to the meeting He wanted information from her as badly as she wanted it from him. “No,” she said. Remembering his rules, she approached the subject tentatively. “Could someone fake amnesia?”

  “Realistically?” he asked “Probably, but not for long.”

  “You couldn’t know for sure?”

  “We know very little about amnesia. There is no way to tell whether parts of the brain have been damaged, or how much. I’ve never seen a case of prolonged amnesia before, but I’ve been consulting with some physicians who have. We do know that there are two kinds. Neurological amnesia—injury to the brain—and psychological amnesia in which the mind blocks out memories too painful to tolerate. Sometimes in the former the recent past is erased and the patient might remember his childhood or learned, repetitive skills The patient might or might not regain memories that he lost In psychological amnesia, the chances are his memory will return after treatment.”

  She searched again for the right words. “And someone with serious injuries such as those incurred in an explosion?”

  “I would say it was probably neurological, but I wouldn’t preclude the possibility that psychological amnesia is somehow involved.”

  “And someone with neurological amnesia might never get his memory back?”

  “Not only that, but the complete personality might be changed I’ve read case studies where a formerly mild-mannered subject became violent, and vice versa.”

  “In other words, the patient might become an entirely different person?”

  He nodded

  “If he’s not faking it?”

  The doctor nodded

  She mulled over the implication of his words. “If someone, say a person guilty of a crime, did suffer neurological amnesia, and his personality—his character—has changed, then that man would be paying for a crime another man committed.”

  He smiled at her as if she were a particularly bright student “That’s a lot of ifs, but the thought has occurred to me. Interesting scenario ”

  “Not for the person involved.”

  The doctor’s smile faded. “No. I would think it would be pure hell.”

  “There’s no way to know for sure?”

  He shook his head. “I wish there were. All I have is instinct- Professional experience. But even that wouldn’t be worth a lot if the person has changed in fundamental ways. If I didn’t know this person before, I couldn’t testify as to changes m his personality Nor could I say absolutely on a witness stand that I was sure he did have amnesia.”

  Julie’s mind was already racing ahead, considering the legal implications. She had been attracted to law because she relished the mental gymnastics involved in its practice. She could take almost any case and argue the merits of either side, finding legal precedents to support her position. That ability made her valuable to the law firm that now employed her. It had not been quite as helpful when she was a prosecutor where she’d had to thrust aside her doubts.

  She didn’t have doubts about Murphy’s guilt. He had pleaded guilty. But what if he was a different man today than he had been three weeks ago’ What would be the legal ramifications ?

  Julie listened intently as the physician recommended several books on amnesia.

  “Will he be here much longer?” she finally asked.

  He nodded. “He still has terrible headaches and his lungs were badly bruised We need to keep an eye on him a bit longer until I satisfy myself that we have done all we can to ascertain the extent of the injury to his brain. I don’t know how long I can keep him out of the prison ward, though”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Will you be back?”

  “I don’t know,” she said

  “He’s an interesting man.” the doctor said slowly. “He’s reading everything. He’s full of questions Although memory might be lost. his mental capacity apparently was not affected.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Are we speaking hypothetically again?”

  She nodded.

  “The injury would be to the hippocampal system. Damage in that area can cause impairment of long-term memory. Someone with that kind of injury can read without remembering how he learned to read He can add and subtract without knowing why or how he can perform these skills His ability to think hasn’t been impaired. It’s as if the hard drive of a computer has been wiped out. The computer still works, still has all its capacities, but it needs new information to drive it.”

  She tried to imagine how it might feel if her own mind was emptied of everything that had made her who she was today Wonderful, warm experiences: the birth of her son, his first step, graduation from college, the pride of her first j
ob. Even the terrible memories: the death of her mother, her husband’s death and its aftermath. She couldn’t imagine stumbling alone in a maze of emptiness. She felt her heart constrict, her breath catch in her throat at the very thought.

  She tried to jerk her mind from its imaginings. “He killed his partner,” she said flatly, trying to convince herself that she should follow Dan’s advice and forget about Ryan Murphy

  Dr Dailey shook his head “That’s what they say.”

  “You don’t believe it? He confessed ”

  “I know” He sighed, obviously prohibited by ethics from saying more. but she heard doubt in his voice She wondered why.

  She stood. “I have to go. My son will be home shortly.”

  He stood, also. “If you want to see him again, just let me know I’ll try to arrange it.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  He walked her to the door. “Any time, Mrs. Farrell. It’s important that he feels he has someone in his comer since there is no family.”

  “I don’t know about that. He just ordered me from his room.”

  “Still, I think he needs someone like you ”

  She thanked him again, then left, his words thrumming in her head. She had never questioned Murphy’s guilt, not after talking to Dan, but now her mind weighed the conversation with the district attorney There had been real betrayal in Dan’s voice

  Ryan Murphy. Was he more of a mystery than she’d thought?

  Chapter 3

  Julie sipped her coffee as she studied the computer monitor. She had accessed the archives of the metropolitan newspaper, in particular articles about Ryan Murphy and the sensational case which had rocked the Atlanta Police Department.

  The ten-year-old dateline was December 27th. She remembered that Christmas. She had been in California finishing law school. Her mother had died three months earlier, and her one sister lived in Rome, Georgia, too far to travel She remembered the loneliness

  It was the worst Christmas she had ever spent. She knew it had been even worse for Ryan Murphy. She read the original story once, then printed it out and read it again

  Decorated Cop Charged In Partner’s Death

  Detective Ryan Murphy, a highly decorated police officer, was charged today in the murder of his partner, Detective Michael Cates

  Murphy, 31, was found standing over his partner’s body at 10.00 p m. on December 24 at 223 Simpson Street Sources say the bullet which killed Cates came from Murphy’s departmentissued gun Traces of cocaine were found in the trunk of Murphy’s car.

  A police spokesman said Murphy denied any knowledge of the drugs and claimed that he fired at Cates in self-defense Murphy is marned and has a five-year-old daughter

  The story continued with more details about both men Cates had been with the department fifteen years and left behind a wife and two children Murphy, an all-star baseball player at the University of Georgia, was a decorated officer and sharpshooter who’d been shot once in the line of duty. He had been responsible for cracking several large narcotic rings before being teamed with Cates several months before the shooting Police officials expressed amazement that someone with his fine record had been involved with drugs.

  Several other stories followerd, mostly city politicians decrying corruption in the police department and a major police announcement concerning a drive to root out police corruption.

  Then a final story:

  Cop Pleads Guilty

  Former Atlanta Police Detective Ryan Murphy pleaded guilty Thursday in Fulton County Superior Court to second-degree murder in the wrongful death of his partner, Michael Cates.

  Murphy admitted his guilt as part of a plea agreement made with the district attorney’s office.

  Superior Court Judge Alvin Richards sentenced Murphy to life imprisonment on the recommendation of District Attorney Dan Watters Under Georgia law, Murphy could be paroled in seven years.

  Julie read the story over and over again. Dan had said Murphy had been an extremely competent officer; he most certainly would have been more than aware that the evidence against him was insufficient. Even Dan had confided he had doubts

  Until Murphy pled guilty.

  Why?

  Because he was filled with guilt? In her personal experience with criminals, few, particularly those who dealt drugs and committed cold-blooded murders, had much in the way of a conscience.

  She heard a knock on the door. She saved the file, then turned off the computer and went to the door. Emily stood there with Nick in hand. Her daughter, Abby, attended the same preschool, and Julie and Emily often exchanged driving duties.

  “Coffee?” Julie offered.

  Emily shook her head. “Got to get home We have company coming tonight.” Her gaze went to Julie’s face “Everything all right?”

  Julie nodded. “I’m just tired. Thank you for taking care of Nick.”

  “Any time, and don’t worry, I’ll be asking you to reciprocate with Abby.”

  Julie closed the door, then walked to the sofa and swallowed Nick in her arms. He allowed a big hug, then cuddled next to her.

  “Missed you,” she said.“Did you have a good day?”

  “Learned a song,” he proclaimed proudly.

  “You did?”

  “ ‘Old MacDonald hath a farm,’ ” he sung merrily. “ ‘E-i-e-i-o.’ ”

  She grinned at him. Her heart flooded with love and gratitude, and she clasped him tightly. How close she had come to losing him How very close they had come to losing each other.

  She closed her eyes with the joy of holding him, an elation that faded when in her mind’s eye she saw the dark blue eyes of Ryan Murphy and recalled the questions in their wounded depths.

  His hand touched the telephone. Once, twice Each tune he snatched it away. He had no right to intrude in her life.

  But the compulsion to learn more about himself grew stronger and stronger, like some great wave engulfing him. He knew what they said. He knew he was a convict. He knew he was going back to prison. What he didn’t understand was why Why had he killed someone?

  Doctors, young and old, tramped in and out of the room, each asking the same questions, each looking at him as if he were some strange animal to be studied. He came to detest them, especially one who called himself Dr. Peyton Edwards and who kept giving him childish tests: fitting square and round pieces of wood into holes in the board and asking him what blobs of ink on cardboard meant. To him, they were simply blobs of ink, nothing more, and he had no intention of playing stupid games. Not when they refused to answer his own questions

  Only Dr Dailey seemed to understand his torment and would sit and talk with him as if he were a person and not something under a microscope But Dailey wouldn’t talk to him about the murder ten years ago. He said he didn’t know anything about it

  Ryan had to know. His mind had been primed by the television shows—news whenever he could find it—he watched nearly twenty hours a day. He would put the pill they gave him in his mouth, then spit it out and turn the television back on. He had an insatiable need to learn, to understand, to regain years he had lost.

  He still remembered nothing of his life before the accident, but he discovered he still retained skills. He’d counted the money the doctor had pulled from his pocket and had a knack for math and remembering numbers. He’d found he could read and understand even complicated material, including a medical textbook Dr. Dailey had brought in He remembered phrases and words, but he remembered nothing of the past. He didn’t know whether he had a family, or where he was born or the names of friends

  He touched the phone again If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know.

  He hadn’t kept the card Julie Farrell had pressed into his hand, but he had looked at the number, and he remembered it. He needed to call before they took the phone away. He knew that was coming. Just as he knew there was a fight going on as to how long he should stay here.

  This time, he dialed.

  It was late, and Jul
ie took one last look at Nick. Prissy, their calico cat, had wrapped herself inside his arm, and the two of them looked content with the world. Earlier, she had read him a story, then stretched out next to him. She wanted him close to her, wanted to satisfy herself he was there. She didn’t want to go to her own room and go to bed. Too many terrifying nightmares. Fire was in each one of them, its flames reaching out toward Nick, toward her.

  But she knew she couldn’t live in fear. She finally went to her own bed and read until her eyes couldn’t focus any longer, then turned out the light. She started to doze off when the phone rang, startling her to wakefulness.

  She looked at the clock. One in the morning. That usually meant trouble. She picked up the receiver.

  “Mrs ..Farrell ”

  She recognized Murphy’s voice immediately It was deep, rumbling Slow, as if he measured every word Although she had not seen him since he had ordered her from his room, his face, and voice, had been a constant in her mind.

  “Yes, Mr Murphy”

  A long pause followed.

  “Mr. Murphy?”

  “I didn’t know.. who else to ask. You gave me a card.”

  She could feel his hesitancy, his diffidence. She wondered whether he had any idea of the time He certainly didn’t sound sleepy. “What can I do for you?”

  Another long pause. She could almost taste his reluctance and so she knew how important this was to him. She swallowed hard, suddenly wanting desperately to do something for the man who had saved her son

  “Information,” he said after a moment.

  “Information?”

  “About what happened ten years ago”

  She juggled the telephone in her hands, remembering the articles. Why would he want to know? Wouldn’t it be better...? But then she knew it wouldn’t. She knew she would want to know if she were m his position. She would want to know everything, no matter how much it hurt.