CHAPTER SEVEN
The office followed all the rules of basic psychology. Soothing wall color in a sage green. No harsh fluorescents, only warm tungsten floor lamps to keep the room luminated as the March skyline edged toward a sunset of golds and pinks. The desk and coffee table were a natural wood with a visible grain. Comfortable furniture at the midrange of price. Two pleasant, if somewhat bland, spring landscapes adorned the walls.
Larkin knew all the tricks.
Dr. Elizabeth Myers dressed like an appropriate accent to the room. Glasses that suggested intelligence, but with a large enough frame that her expression did not imply superiority. Steel-gray hair wrapped in some complicated affair. Pleated pants in a teal that complemented the walls, a billowy top that looked like something purchased in Williamsburg, and a chunky piece of jewelry around her neck that was styled to look rustic or smart, but not expensive, even though it most certainly was extremely pricey.
Her intern was a lanky fellow with a shock of red hair and a body that still hadn’t been entirely grown into, in the way that twentysomething men were susceptible. But he was pleasant enough, which was all Larkin really cared about by 6:07 that evening. “Richard Walsh. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Larkin.”
Larkin stood to shake the student’s hand. “Dr. Myers says you’re working on your dissertation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your area of interest.”
“Cognitive neuroscience of human memory.”
Larkin looked at Myers as she seated herself behind the desk. He returned to the couch. “HSAM.”
“Specifically? Yes, sir,” Walsh agreed as he took the chair left of the couch. “And I appreciate your willingness to be interviewed. I’m sure you’ve been asked these questions dozens of times already.”
“I’m sure,” Larkin agreed, his tone bordering on bland.
Color rose in Walsh’s pale complexion. No doubt a mixture of the nervous excitement he was doing his damnedest to tamp down and the simple fact that Larkin’s manner of speech tended to rub people in uniquely negative ways. He fidgeted with the pen in his hand, leaving pockmarks of ink on his legal pad of paper. “Can you describe how you assemble—or rather, the sensation of your autobiographical memories? I’ve spoken with another individual with confirmed HSAM, and they described it like viewing a board game.”
Larkin glanced at Myers a second time, but the older woman gave nothing away. “A Rolodex,” he answered, turning to Walsh. “Depending on the association I’m presented with, the Rolodex spins accordingly to find the memory. Then I can zoom in on specific incidents.”
Walsh scribbled on his pad, but Larkin was too far away to decipher the chicken scratch. “So if I began with a calendar date, say… September 14—”
“What year. It has to be 2002 or later.”
Walsh blinked a few times. “Is that when the HSAM began?”
“Yes. What year.”
“2018.”
“Friday,” Larkin answered. “Overcast and humid. I was working the Archer case.”
Removing a phone from his trouser pocket, Walsh asked, “Do you mind if I confirm that information?”
Larkin said nothing.
Walsh tapped his screen a few times, his eyes widened slightly, and then he cleared his throat and nodded. “Day of the week and weather are accurate. What if you’re presented a more personal association? Like an individual’s name?”
“It needs to be someone I’m already acquainted with.”
“Of course.” Walsh shifted a manilla folder he’d been holding underneath the pad and removed a few printed-out sheets of paper. “Dr. Myers explained to me the ongoing study the two of you are conducting—your husband assists with that?”
“Dr. Myers emails Noah a list of questions that he fills out over the course of three weeks and sends back without my knowledge of what’s been asked. What I had for dinner Tuesday night. What he wore Saturday afternoon. On and on. They’re never the same questions. Then she compares his answers with what I recall.”
“The three-week minimum,” Myers finally spoke up, addressing Walsh, “was decided upon as a baseline when clinical tests showed that an individual’s ability to recall mundane autobiographical details without HSAM was severely impacted by this time.”
Walsh scanned the document, then asked at random, “What shoes did Noah wear two Saturdays ago?”
Larkin shut his eyes.
It’d been the first day in almost a month that he’d been able to sleep in. He’d taken ZzzQuil to make the most of it. But Noah had stomped around the bedroom getting dressed—loud enough that their downstairs neighbor should have complained. Noah was going to the Greenmarket in Union Square. Noah was still upset from the night before when Larkin said no to a morning outing. He was running on fumes, needed to sleep, the market didn’t close until six in the evening so where was the rush? Of course he wanted to spend the day with his husband, but he was so exhausted that his skin hurt and he needed tosleep. Larkin could see Noah sitting on the side of the bed, tying his shoes, then storming out of the bedroom. The front door crashed shut thirty seconds later.
