Nana sat at the kitchen table on that morning in March. She was reading the Washington Post, which happens to be delivered by a man named Washington. Mr. Washington eats breakfast with Nana every Monday morning. This was a Wednesday, and an important day for the investigation.
Everything about the breakfast scene was so familiar, and yet I was startled as I entered the kitchen. One more time, I was made aware of how much the kidnapping had entered into our private lives, the lives of my family members.
The headline of the Washington Post read:
SONEJI/MURPHY
TO BE HYPNOTIZED
Attached to the story I could see photographs of both Soneji/Murphy and me. I’d heard the news late the night before. I had called Lee Kovel to give him his exclusive because of our deal.
I read Lee’s story while eating two morning prunes. It said that certain unnamed “sources were skeptical about the opinions of psychologists assigned to the kidnapper”; that “medical findings may have an effect on the trial”; that “if proven insane, Soneji/Murphy could get a sentence as lenient as three years in an institution.” Obviously, Lee had spoken to other sources after he talked to me.
“Why don’t they just come out and say what they mean,” Nana mumbled over her toast and cup of tea. I guess she didn’t care for Lee’s writing style.
“Why don’t they say what?” I asked.
“The obvious thing here. Somebody doesn’t want you messing with his neat little case. They want Tide-clean justice. Not necessarily the truth. Nobody seems to want the truth here, anyway. They just want to feel better right away. They want the pain to be over. People have a low tolerance for pain, especially lately. Ever since Dr. Spock began rearing our children for us.”
“Is that what you’ve been plotting down here over your breakfast? Sounds a little like Murder, She Wrote.”
I poured myself some of her tea. No sugar or cream. I took a muffin and put a couple of link sausages between the halves.
“No plots. Reality as plain as the nose on your face, Alex.”
I nodded at Nana. She might be right, but it was too deflating to deal with before six in the morning. “Nothing like prunes this early in the morning,” I said. “Mmm, mmm good.”
“Hmmm.” Nana Mama frowned. “I might go easy on those prunes for a while if I were you. I suspect you’re going to need an extra supply of bull from here on, Alex. If I may be so blunt with you.”
“Thank you, Nana. Your directness is appreciated.”
“You’re very welcome. For your breakfast, and this splendid advice: Don’t trust white people.”
“Very good breakfast,” I said to her.
“How is your new girlfriend?” asked my grandmother.
She never misses a trick.
CHAPTER 50
THERE WAS A HIGH-PITCHED HUMMING in the air as I climbed out of my car at the prison. The noise was a physical thing. Reporters from newspapers and TV stations were loitering everywhere outside Lorton. They were waiting for me. So was Soneji/Murphy. He had been moved to a regular cell in the prison.
As I walked from the parking lot in a light drizzle, TV cameras and microphones jabbed at me from a dozen different angles. I was there to hypnotize Gary Soneji/Murphy, and the press knew it. I was today’s big bite of news.
“Thomas Dunne says you’re trying to get Soneji hospitalized, that you’ll have him set free in a couple of years. Any comment, Detective Cross?”
“I have nothing to say right now.” I couldn’t talk to any of the reporters, which didn’t make me real popular. I’d made a deal with the attorney general’s office before they finally agreed to the sessions.
Hypnosis is commonly used in psychiatry these days. It’s often administered by the treating psychiatrist, or a psychologist. What I hoped to discover over several interviews was what had happened to Gary Soneji/Murphy during his “lost days,” his escapes from the real world. I didn’t know whether this would happen quickly or, indeed, happen at all.
Once I was inside Gary’s prison cell, the process was simple and straightforward. I suggested that he relax and close his eyes. Next, I asked Gary to breathe in, then out, very evenly and slowly. I told him to try to clear his mind of every thought. Finally, to count down slowly from one hundred.
He appeared to be a good subject for hypnosis. He didn’t resist, and he slipped deeply into a suggestible state. As far as I could tell, he was under. I proceeded as if he were, anyway. I watched him for signs to the contrary, but I saw none.
His breathing had slowed noticeably. In the beginning of the session, he was more relaxed than I had seen him before. We chatted about casual, nonthreatening subjects for the first few moments.
Since he had actually “come to” or become “himself” in the parking lot of the McDonald’s, I asked Gary about that once he was fully relaxed.