The Memory Therapist - ONC 2020

Chapter Three

I step into the main lobby and see a lone detective sitting in one of the chairs. He's reading a magazine and pretending not to notice that I have approached him.

"Detective ...?" I say by way of greeting.

He's younger than I would imagine a detective being, perhaps close to my age. Instead of a classic military cut hairstyle, I'm surprised to see a mop full of brown hair.

He instantly puts the magazine down and stands, giving me a firm handshake while saying, "Detective Maison. I presume you are Dr. Clowd?" he offers with a boyish smile, his green eyes meeting mine.

"Your investigation skills are something else. Was it the name on the door or that you asked for me that gave me away?" I add my charming smile to limit the blow to his ego.

It's not unheard of for the cops to show up to a memory therapist. Usually, they come to talk to an expert about learning how to tell if a memory is false. So I'm not panicking. Yet.

"Do you have a moment to talk?" He's a good head taller than me. Though he isn't massive, it's obvious that he works out.

"For you? You can have two," I smile flirtatiously as I invite him into my office. Before I follow, I say to Phil, "You can go. There's no appointments and I'm sure the detective just has some inquiries to the science behind our practice."

Phil nods reluctantly, a concerned look on his face at my brief interaction with the detective. His jealousy might be annoying but I still have hopes that I can use it to my advantage later. It's a proven fact that every man with a crush wants to prove himself.

Depending how this conversation goes, he may get to prove himself sooner than I would like.

I enter my office and close the door behind me, not waiting for Phil to leave before I do. Detective Maison is already sitting in an armchair positioned across from my desk. It's rarely used. First thing they teach you is to not create barriers between yourself and the patient. Open space creates the illusion you are open to talk to.

Instead of sitting behind my computer, I motion for the detective to join me in the lounge area of my office. He takes a seat on the couch across from my chair, sitting stiffly. If the psychology works on patients, surely it looks like I have nothing to hide from the police.

"What can I help you with, Detective?"

"Please, call me Charles." I assess the man in front of me and try not to smirk. He's using the same tactic as I am - remove the barrier between cop and citizen by removing his title. He may be young, but I feel he's earned the right to be a detective.

"Your name is surprisingly close to Charles Manson. Here for a memory?" I arch my brow in speculation.

"Not here for myself, Dr. Clowd -"

"Please, call me Ray," I offer with a smile.

"Okay, Ray," he returns that boyish grin. Any other girl would get her defenses down with that smile. "I don't know if you watch the news, but about a couple months back we had a grisly murder downtown. An Ana Gemicks." He closes the distance between us by leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, clutching his hat in his hands.

My heart seems to stop at the mention of the name. Of course I know Ana. Pretty young thing. Too bad my client likes to humble his victims. I carved up her face, a reminder that outer beauty isn't everything, before I killed her. She would forever be disfigured in heaven. If you believe in that sort of thing.

My patient was very satisfied with my work.

I steel myself before I respond, "I remember." I don't want to offer too much, wanting him to lead the conversation. We are both playing a game and I intend to win.

"We have a suspect in custody. He knows all the details of the crime, but there are no traces of DNA to link him to the crime scene. I have my suspicions that he's not our guy."

"But your team doesn't agree?"

"No team, I work alone." I appraise him with the new information he has provided. Doesn't work well with others then and no one to persuade him if he's blind to the facts. Interesting.

"Alright. Why do you believe he's not the right man, Charles?"

"He's a mess. No way he was organized enough not to leave a single particle of DNA at the murder scene. Not if he was alone, but there's no evidence to suggest a partner."

"So, you believe that it's an implanted memory?"

The detective's smile turned into one of arrogance instead of charming. "He's your patient."

"Then he's clearly not your guy." It was dance we were doing. I need to make sure not to step on his toes.

"I know. But our techs can't find this memory in the database."

"I assure you that my memories are legal -"

"No, of course. I don't mean to suggest otherwise. But I would like to know where you found it. Perhaps having that information could lead us to the originator of the memory."

"Look, detective -"

"Charles," he corrects, keeping the friendly facade while he interrogates me.

"It was months ago. I scour the internet for any memories that my patients might benefit from. I don't have a set of sites that I visit that I can provide you."

"I doubt you get many memories locally. It was a local murder."

"Not necessarily," I counter quickly. Perhaps too quickly from the look on his face, but I continue, "People can upload their memory to the internet and sell it to some snuff porn site in Russia or China. I visit some unsavory sites for this job. Trust me when I say it's not easy to find a memory of someone being mutilated and stabbed with cork screw multiple times."

"We never released the murder weapon in the papers. Or the mutilation," his eyes narrow at me.

Fuck. Well played, Charles.

I hold his piercing gaze as I say, "Please understand. I need to watch the memories myself to know what I am showing my clients." He nods at this, but his suspicion is still evident.

"Ray, how many people have you showed this memory to?" I release a breath that I wasn't aware I was holding.

"Several, but I can check my records. Unfortunately, I can't give you names for confidentiality purposes. I'm sure you understand."

He looks to deflate at my words, but nods again instead. "I was hoping that perhaps you would make an exception," he provides a sheepish smile and continues to explain, "if we know everyone with the false memory, we can ensure we don't waste resources on this."

"My hands are tied. I'm sorry, Charles," I try my best to sound defeated by the fact, but really it just helps keep the investigation from moving closer to me.

I move to the computer desk and pretend to look up my notes for the specific video in question. I already know that I have shown this little gem to five individuals so far. He waits patiently as I pretend to navigate my system. He can't see my screen, so I decide to make him wait several more moments before I give him the answer.

Knowledge is power, right? My delaying in providing this information indicates my power over him. Whether I share or not is completely up to me. At least that's what a therapist would tell me. If I had one.

"How can I tell who has this memory genuinely?"

"It's hard. The idea is that the patient believes it's a genuine memory. But there are tell-tales that it's been implanted into them."

"Care to explain those to me over dinner?"