Carney was inconsolable and began to struggle wildly. There was a knock on the door. Two nurses rushed in and started to work to calm him down before he could tear his wounds open or rip out his IV.
I went outside to find Dr. Nelson waiting with Bree and Assistant DA Brown. “I probably pushed him too hard,” I said.
The psychiatrist nodded. “Especially given the surgeries last night.”
“I’ll come back in the morning?”
Nelson thought about that, said, “I’ll let you know this evening.”
“What am I supposed to tell my boss?” Brown asked, checking her watch.
“Tell him he’s going to have to hold his horses a little while longer.”
That did not sit well with the assistant DA, and she scowled.
“You believe him, Alex?” Bree asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
“No doubt he’s going for an insanity plea here,” the prosecutor said.
“Maybe because he is insane, Counselor,” my wife said, surprising me.
“You don’t know that,” Brown snapped.
“Neither do you,” Bree said.
I said, “I’m not convinced this is entirely about a head injury.”
“Why?” my wife and the prosecutor said at the same time.
“Because I can’t see a link yet between the injury, the three other personalities, and the heinous things that have been done in this case.”
Before anyone could reply, Sampson appeared, coming down the hallway in a hurry from the elevators. “You don’t answer your phone?”
“Not when I’m interviewing a mass murderer and baby kidnapper.”
“Yeah, well, I think I found some folks you’re going to want to talk to before you go interviewing Officer Carney again.”
He handed me two phone numbers, said, “My contact says they’re busy people. If you can’t reach them at first, keep trying.”
I did keep trying, all that afternoon and into the evening. But as of seven p.m., I had not yet heard back from Chief Petty Officer Sheldon Drury, stationed at Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, or Dr. Evelyn Owens of Balboa Hospital in San Diego.
“Dinner!” Nana Mama called.
The air smelled of meat frying and garlic, enough to tear me away from my phone. But Ali rolled over on his stomach on the couch and moaned, “Nana Mama, it’s almost the end. Fifteen minutes? Please?”
“It’s not fifteen minutes until the end of that episode and you know it, young man,” my grandmother shot back. “Now stop it and get to the dinner table. It’s an important night.”
I watched from the hallway as Ali groaned, shut off the television, and trudged to the table as if he carried the weight of the world. Jannie was already at the table, spooning out pork chops my grandmother had pan-seared and then baked in a glass pan with sautéed sweet onions, olive oil, garlic, and a little Dijon mustard. With egg noodles, green beans, and fresh applesauce on the side, there are few dishes in the world that rival it. A cold Dr Pepper only adds to the experience. At least in my book.
In any case, my fifteen-year-old daughter was acting a hundred and eighty degrees different than she had a few nights before, now bubbly and open. Bree sported a new, smaller bandage on her face that showed just how swollen it had become. Her right eye was almost shut. She had to be in pain, but you never would have known it the way she engaged Jannie, getting her to talk about history and English—her favorite classes—and how the coach was expecting great things from her the following afternoon.
For once I just sat down and let them go on, listening to them babble while I dwelled on my sessions with Officer Kenneth Carney and his three alter egos. Was it real? Were there four people in his head? Or was this an elaborate—
“Alex?” Nana Mama said, breaking into my thoughts.
“Right here.”