Shared Obsession Chapter 102
Kate hands Esposito a page from the notes she took interviewing Angelica Fink. "Rocco Jones, Fink's old assistant. The wife said he called and left threatening messages for Fink. See what you can find."
"On it," Esposito acknowledges.
"Hey, what's up with Ryan?" Castle wonders. He points through the open door of the conference room where Ryan is in intense conversation with the precinct's confused visitor."
"Mugging case," Esposito explains. "The guy got hit on the head and can't remember who he is."
Castle quirks a brow. "Amnesia? That's such a cliché that if I wrote it into a book my readers would revolt. But shouldn't someone call a shrink? What's he doing with Ryan?"
"Marino found him on the canvass around the gallery," Esposito explains. "Ryan thinks he might have seen something, maybe even be a witness."
"And Fink's killer clonked him on the head to shut him up? He wasn't squeamish about pumping bullets into Fink. Why not just shoot this guy? Something doesn't add up," Castle asserts.
"Then why don't you go join Ryan and check him out?" Kate suggests. "I need to update Montgomery."
As Ryan examines the contents of his pockets, the mystery man slumps in his chair. "I'm sure you have better things to do. I probably do too."
Ryan points to an inhaler. "You're probably asthmatic." He looks up as Castle ambles in. "Hey, you're the one who loves puzzles. This guy can't remember who he was or why he was hanging around the gallery. This stuff is what he had on him. What do you make of it?"
"Then he really has amnesia?" Castle queries.
"We're waiting on the doc," Ryan replies, "but it sure seems like it."
Castle extends his hand. "Richard Castle."
"I'd introduce myself too," Ryan's project responds, but…."
"Right," Castle agrees. "So what do we have here? Hmm, inhalers usually have a pharmacy label with the patient's name and prescription info on them. Maybe whoever filled your prescription put the label on the box. Unlucky. Grocery bag, from markets all over town. Not much help there. Keys. The keys look like copies. No traceable serial numbers. You are the bad luck kid."
The bad luck kid pulls a thick paperback out of his coat and hands it to Castle. "Apparently I've been reading."
"Ah, Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. Heavy reading but you have excellent taste. Too bad it's not a library book. We could trace that. People should use libraries more."
Ryan reaches for the book. "Let me see that." When Castle hands it over, Ryan points to a slug embedded in the weighty volume. "Nine millimeter. I think we've just found the fifth bullet."
"Castle!" Montgomery shouts from the doorway.
"Captain?"
Montgomery points to four men lugging in a huge Balsam Fir. "What is that?"
"A Christmas tree, Sir. You said it would be all right if I decorated for the season," Castle adds.
The captain sputters. "I meant a few garlands, maybe a small tree, not a giant redwood."
"Balsam Fir," Castle automatically corrects. "And if you figure square inches of tree per person in the bullpen, it's really not that big at all." He points up at the lofty ceiling. "And the place can certainly handle it. I also have a menorah coming in for Chanukah, and a Kinara for Kwanzaa. I want to give everyone equal time."
"But I can't have you taking my cops away from their cases to decorate that thing," Montgomery protests.
"Don't worry, Sir. I won't," Castle assures the older man. "I'll take care of it."
"So let me get this straight," Alexis says, when Castle picks her and her latest science project up from school, "I'm supposed to bring Paige…."
"And any others of your friends you can get," Castle interrupts.
"Paige and whoever, into the 12th Precinct to decorate the Christmas tree, and you'll pay us. How much?"
"Ten dollars an hour for each of you. That's more than any of you would make babysitting, and you wouldn't have to worry about diapers."
"Fifteen," Alexis demands. "We've all got Christmas shopping to do. And we get pizza while we're working."
"You drive a hard bargain. All right," Castle agrees, "fifteen dollars an hour plus pizza."
"From Stephanos."
"From Stephanos."
"And how about our tree at home?" Alexis asks.
"You're not expecting to get paid for decorating that?" Castle questions.
"Of course not. We always do our tree together. It's part of Christmas. When's it coming?"
"It's getting shipped from that farm we order from near the Canadian border. It should be arriving tomorrow sometime. But about that. I was thinking that Kate…."
"You want her to help decorate our tree?" Alexis questions.
"If it's all right with you. I mean I would never want to spoil our family Christmas. Neither would Kate."
"Dad, will it make you happy to have Kate help with our tree?"
"It would make me very happy," Castle confides.
"Then it's fine with me. But I get to put the star on top."
"Even when I had to hoist you on my shoulders to do it, you always have. And no one could ever replace you."
As father and daughter are unlocking the loft door, Martha floats out of the elevator, singing.
"Another afternoon outing with your newly rediscovered high school flame?" Castle inquires.
Martha sighs. "Indeed. I haven't felt this way since – I can't remember when."
"Ah, speaking of amnesia, I have to get back to the 12th. You'll round up your crew, Alexis?"
"On it."
Castle distributes coffees as he, Beckett, Ryan, and Esposito gather around her desk while a psychiatrist interviews the mystery man in the conference room.
"Ballistics confirm that the bullet in the book came from the same gun as the ones in Victor Fink and the wall of the gallery," Ryan shares. "Whatever happened, our amnesiac was there."
"His fingerprints aren't in the system and we don't have any hits on Missing Persons," Kate says. "Have CSU check his coat for gunpowder residue, blood, and fibers. Maybe it can tell us what happened that night. And check photo IDs on Fink's artists and clients."
"Think he might be one of them?" Ryan asks.
"We won't know until we check," Kate says.
"This is crazy!" Esposito declares. "We actually find a witness to our murder and we don't know who he is and he can't remember what he saw."
"Where are we on Rocco?" Kate asks.
"Uniforms are bringing him in now," Esposito reports.
"And it looks like Doctor Holloway finished his examination," Kate observes. "Maybe he found out something useful."
Kate and Castle join Holloway in the conference room.
"We all have three different types of memory," Holloway explains. "General knowledge, like language and facts, is called semantic memory." He looks at his patient. "Yours appears to be unaffected. Then there's procedural memory, often called muscle memory. That includes any actions or skills you've performed over and over and formed neural pathways for, like, uh, riding a bike. Now I know yours is intact because you've been walking around."
"So what's the problem, Doc?" Castle asks.
"The problem is episodic memory. That's any experience you've ever had, conversations you've had, movies you've seen, even your own name."
"So if I were a betting man, which I have no idea if I am, would I bet my money on coming back?" the mystery witness asks.
Holloway leans across the table. "There's no way to tell. You might eventually get it all back, or none of it, or something in-between."
"Do we know why this might have happened?" Kate asks.
"He's got a bump on his head," Holloway replies. "It's usually a blow on the head coupled with psychological trauma that leads to amnesia."
"Trauma?" the amnesiac repeats.
"You did get shot," Castle reminds him. "Could that be it?"
"If he believed he was going to die, it might," Holloway answers.
"What if we took him to the scene of the crime?" Castle suggests. "Would that jog his memory?"
"Possibly," Holloway considers. "But I'd like to take him back to St. Vincent's, run a few tests and scans to be safe."
"Of course," Beckett agrees. "I'll just need to ask a few questions first. Mr. – I'm sorry, I don't know what to call you."
"I don't know what to call me either," Holloway's subject responds.
"You said his procedural memory is intact?" Castle asks Holloway.
"Yes."
Castle passes a pen and paper to the mystery man. "Just sign at the bottom."
The man automatically scribbles his signature. He looks down at the page. "Wow, that's freaky!"
"It's also illegible," Castle notes. "Maybe you're a doctor."
"His first initial looks like a 'J.' Does that ring any bells?" Kate asks.
"No," the signer replies.
"Maybe we should just call you 'J,'" Castle proposes.
J shrugs. "It's as good as anything."