building. Bedrooms had been turned into offices, no doubt. The third door on the left had a strip of red plastic that matched Doris's name tag. The white letters proclaimed this was the office of Dr. M. Mickleson. Jack gave a quick rap and entered at the muffled response from inside. I trailed behind him, pulling a small notebook out of my pocket, playing the part of the dutiful assistant.
The first thing I noticed was the smell of aftershave; the office reeked of it. Something sharp and musky. It made my nose itch. I managed to repress a sneeze at the cost of making my eyes water.
The man behind the desk matched the woman at the front: short and slightly pudgy. They even had matching name tags and expressions of boredom. He did not, however, sport a hot pink sweater. His was navy. His hair was more salt than pepper with a shiny bald spot on top. I recognized him from the photo above the fireplace.
The men shook hands in that macho way they do. Mickleson ignored me, focusing his attention on Jack through thick glasses with chunky black plastic frames. I wasn't used to men ignoring me. Thanks to my more than generous curves and bright red hair I sort of stood out, but it was clear Mickleson was more interested in Jack's supposed status. As a mere assistant, I was beneath his notice.
"Ah, Dr. Keel. So nice of you to pay us a visit." Mickelson's tone didn't sound like he thought it was nice. More like he thought it was an imposition. His watery hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Please sit." He waved us to a pair of plain wooden chairs that were insanely uncomfortable. Probably another thing they'd salvaged from the kitchen. "I understand you have a question about one of our former patients?"
"Possibly, Dr. Mickleson." Jack leaned forward as if about to impart a deep, dark secret. "You see, doctor, we have a most interesting conundrum, and since you are an expert in the field, we hope you can help us."
Dr. Mickleson steepled his fingers together, excitement flitting briefly across his face before he managed to school his expression. His eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of his glasses, suspicion suddenly erased. He was on the hook. "I would be glad to help in any way I can. What seems to be the problem?"
"As you know, my practice is in geriatric psychology. Experimental, of course."
I almost sputtered over that, but Mickleson nodded eagerly. I guess there really was such a thing. Or he wanted there to be.
"Of course, Dr. Keel. Go on."
"Recently, a patient was brought to me suffering from dementia. She was found wandering the streets, confused. She remembers almost nothing of her past. I am trying to track where she came from so I can access her files and hopefully help her."
I heard the odd emphasis on "help" and knew what Mickleson was no doubt thinking. "Experiment on" was probably close, and Mickleson seemed way too eager to assist us. It made me wonder just what kinds of things were going on behind closed doors here.
"Of course. Of course. If you could give me some details... " Mickleson leaned forward, licking his thick lips.
"She remembers being a nurse in the Second World War, dancing to big band music, and living in a retirement home that includes the name 'Sunny.' That's it, I'm afraid," Jack said, leaning back in his chair. His tone was casual, but he watched Mickleson like a hawk.
During Jack's description, Mickleson's face had slowly drained of color. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and finally he squeaked out, "But she's... "
I knew what he'd been about to say: dead. Instead, he shook his head, sweat popping out along his upper lip and his eyes going wide with panic. He stood up quickly, flapping his pudgy hands to indicate we should do the same.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Keel, but I'm afraid we have no such patient here, nor have we ever. I'm so sorry you wasted your time." He herded us toward the door. "I really wish I could help you."
"As do I," Jack murmured. "She must have come from another
The first thing I noticed was the smell of aftershave; the office reeked of it. Something sharp and musky. It made my nose itch. I managed to repress a sneeze at the cost of making my eyes water.
The man behind the desk matched the woman at the front: short and slightly pudgy. They even had matching name tags and expressions of boredom. He did not, however, sport a hot pink sweater. His was navy. His hair was more salt than pepper with a shiny bald spot on top. I recognized him from the photo above the fireplace.
The men shook hands in that macho way they do. Mickleson ignored me, focusing his attention on Jack through thick glasses with chunky black plastic frames. I wasn't used to men ignoring me. Thanks to my more than generous curves and bright red hair I sort of stood out, but it was clear Mickleson was more interested in Jack's supposed status. As a mere assistant, I was beneath his notice.
"Ah, Dr. Keel. So nice of you to pay us a visit." Mickelson's tone didn't sound like he thought it was nice. More like he thought it was an imposition. His watery hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Please sit." He waved us to a pair of plain wooden chairs that were insanely uncomfortable. Probably another thing they'd salvaged from the kitchen. "I understand you have a question about one of our former patients?"
"Possibly, Dr. Mickleson." Jack leaned forward as if about to impart a deep, dark secret. "You see, doctor, we have a most interesting conundrum, and since you are an expert in the field, we hope you can help us."
Dr. Mickleson steepled his fingers together, excitement flitting briefly across his face before he managed to school his expression. His eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of his glasses, suspicion suddenly erased. He was on the hook. "I would be glad to help in any way I can. What seems to be the problem?"
"As you know, my practice is in geriatric psychology. Experimental, of course."
I almost sputtered over that, but Mickleson nodded eagerly. I guess there really was such a thing. Or he wanted there to be.
"Of course, Dr. Keel. Go on."
"Recently, a patient was brought to me suffering from dementia. She was found wandering the streets, confused. She remembers almost nothing of her past. I am trying to track where she came from so I can access her files and hopefully help her."
I heard the odd emphasis on "help" and knew what Mickleson was no doubt thinking. "Experiment on" was probably close, and Mickleson seemed way too eager to assist us. It made me wonder just what kinds of things were going on behind closed doors here.
"Of course. Of course. If you could give me some details... " Mickleson leaned forward, licking his thick lips.
"She remembers being a nurse in the Second World War, dancing to big band music, and living in a retirement home that includes the name 'Sunny.' That's it, I'm afraid," Jack said, leaning back in his chair. His tone was casual, but he watched Mickleson like a hawk.
During Jack's description, Mickleson's face had slowly drained of color. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and finally he squeaked out, "But she's... "
I knew what he'd been about to say: dead. Instead, he shook his head, sweat popping out along his upper lip and his eyes going wide with panic. He stood up quickly, flapping his pudgy hands to indicate we should do the same.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Keel, but I'm afraid we have no such patient here, nor have we ever. I'm so sorry you wasted your time." He herded us toward the door. "I really wish I could help you."
"As do I," Jack murmured. "She must have come from another
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