When Dr. Jezeric reentered the containment unit six hours later, the patient roused quickly from a light doze and immediately resumed his defiant stare. The crusted blood had been mopped from his face and brushed out of his long hair. His wounds were clean, and the dermal antibiotic sealant gel had been replaced with bandages and a pair of staples in one place. Strips of gleaming plastic-laced tape now secured the intravenous line to his bare forearm. "You look much better," the doctor said with a smile as he resumed his seat in the molded chair.
"Oh, yeah. Classy place you got here. Five stars."
"Did you eat anything?"
"Lobster and a stuffed pork chop."
Dr. Jezeric stifled a laugh. The food had been fortified oat powder mixed with milk. It was a pity the man was so obstinate, but he was quick-witted. "I'll see what I can do to improve the cuisine for next time. But for now, do you have any questions for me?"
The man wiggled the fingers of his tightly bound right hand. "How long do I have to stay trussed up like this? Getting spoon-fed is undignified."
"Until I can be sure you won't kill me, or anyone else who comes in here." The doctor stated bluntly. "You were so violent that the local Gendarmerie couldn't handle you, and an entire tactical intervention team had to be called in."
The wiggling fingers curled into a fist, and Dr. Jezeric noticed smears of drying blood under the edge of the cuff that hadn't been there hours ago. The patient smiled tightly. "Yeah? Anyone get hurt?"
He wanted to know. It was important to him for some reason. Dr. Jezeric leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. "Five shot dead. Many more injured, some badly. I don't know the exact numbers. Do you remember any of it?"
"Nope." The answer was fast and glib, but it did not quite synchronize with the subtle movements of his facial muscles. He obviously remembered something, but it was impossible to know what it was. In less than a second, the lapse was corrected. Dr. Jezeric began to write, making some short notes, and then spent the next few minutes writing nonsense words. The patient maintained his deliberate, nonchalant expression, but if eyes had been lasers, the pen would have vaporized.
"You don't like it when I write," the doctor said casually, "But I'm not writing anything I wouldn't just tell you. My opinion is that you do remember something of what happened, but that, for some reason, you are reluctant to speak of it. I also think that you have been trained in resisting interrogation."
"Seen a lot of that, have you?"
Dr. Jezeric nodded. "I have. I am from Sokovia, remember? The Secret Police had methods of extracting information from captives, and the underground had ways of preventing it. A student of psychiatry in Sokovia could not avoid learning about them both." He paused, but he patient didn't answer. Dr. Jezeric continued, "I cannot guess who taught you those skills, or why. Just as I cannot guess why someone would have replaced your arm with what amounts to a killing machine."
The observation had been nothing more than fishing, but it struck something. The man's expression flattened into nothingness, like a mannequin's, every ounce of defensive humor abruptly gone. His fist loosened. Even his unconscious body language melted into silence. Dr. Jezeric waited, and observed with growing concern. Was this a psychotic break? Some sort of involuntary shut-down? After a long minute, he asked, "Are you with me?"
The patient struggled to focus his attention and turned his eyes toward the doctor. He looked vulnerable and confused. He licked his lip. "I…think… I remember my name."
"That's very good!" Dr. Jezeric said warmly. "I was getting worried about you. What is your name?"
"Hugh," he almost whispered.
"It's nice to meet you, Hugh. Do you remember your last name?"
"Jass."
Dr. Jezeric spoke as he wrote the name. "Hugh Jass. Wait a second…Hugh Jass?"
The patient roared with laughter.