Turn of Mind

Understood. When was the last time you used your scalpel?

I don’t know. Some time ago.

You were an orthopedic surgeon, right?

That is correct. One of the best.

The man allows himself a smile.

And you specialized in hands?

Hand surgery, yes.

What do you make of these? He handed me some photographs. I study them.

An adult hand. Female. Medium-sized. The thumb is the only remaining digit. The others disarticulated at the joints between the metacarpal and proximal phalanges.

How would you characterize the cuts?

Clean. But not cauterized. Judging from the amount of coagulated blood, not performed according to protocol. But by all appearances, expertly executed.

What kind of knife would you say has been used?

Impossible to tell from these photos. I, personally, would use a size ten blade for an amputation, but it does not appear that these cuts were made for therapeutic reasons.

Is there a size ten blade in here? He indicates the baggie.

Of course.

Why ‘of course’?

Because it’s the most appropriate blade for many of the most common surgical procedures. You would always have one handy.

You know who these photos are of, don’t you? Whose hand this is?

I look at my lawyer. I shake my head.

Amanda O’Toole.

Amanda?

That’s right.

My Amanda?

That’s right.

I am left without words. I look at the young woman who has her arm around my shoulders. She nods.

Who would have done such a thing?

That’s what we’re trying to find out.

Where is she? I must see her. Do you have the digits? Replantation might be possible with cuts this clean.

I’m afraid that isn’t likely.

The room contracts. Somehow I know what he is going to say. Those photos. This station. A lawyer. My scalpel handle. The blades. Amanda. I close my eyes.

My daughter/niece breaks in. How many times are you going to do this to her? How cruel can you be?

We have no choice. When Detective Luton found the scalpel we had no choice.

You mean, when my mother handed over the scalpel. Would she have done that if guilty?

Perhaps. If she didn’t remember what she’d done. He turns to me.

Did you kill Amanda O’Toole?

I don’t answer. I am focused on my own hands. Whole and unbloodied.

Dr. White, pay attention: Did you kill Amanda O’Toole and then afterward cut off four of her fingers?

I don’t remember, I tell him. But there are images that nag.

The man is watching me closely. I meet his eyes and shake my head.

No. No. Of course not.

Are you certain? For a moment there . . .

My client has answered. Do not badger her. She is not a well woman.

One of the other men, smallish and blond, the one who had been sipping the energy drink, interrupts.

Strange how she knows some things and not others.

That is the nature of the disease, says the woman sitting next to me. She fades in and out.