expression, the glassy eyes, of a zombie in a B horror movie. His wiry body seemed fragile, his normally dusky skin was pale. He was huddled on one of four cots.
Rosie said, "Benji? This is a good friend of mine."
Sylvia stood next to the cot and spoke softly. "How are you doing, Benji? Can you talk for a minute?"
No reaction. Benji stared through Sylvia. When she looked closely, she saw that the firefighter's pupils were moving, involuntarily tracking some invisible current of air or mind.
His eyes were a rich sable with a marbling of chestnut highlights. Spanish and Anglo blood had been mixed somewhere in the not-so-distant past with Pueblo. The genetic consequence was regal: high cheekbones, straight nose, chiseled chin.
Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed. "I hear it was rough out there last night."
Silence.
Sylvia snapped her fingers suddenly.
Benji blinked, and a sharp spurt of sound issued from his mouth. It wasn't English—and Sylvia didn't think it was a Pueblo language—but it had the rhythm of some exotic speech. It reminded Sylvia of a client who, in times of stress, had reverted to the frenzy of speaking in tongues.
Sylvia turned to Rosie. "How long has he been like this?"
"When I got here, he was sitting up and talking, but it was mostly that kind of speech. The E.M.T.s brought him in early this morning; they said he made sense one minute but not the next. There's an M.D. on call. He examined Benji."
"Where is everybody now?"
"They went out with the helicopter. Two firefighters were injured in Dark Canyon."
Sylvia gazed at Benji. Malingering was a common problem with inmates, and some of them were amazingly adept at faking physical and/or emotional trauma. Evaluating health professionals had to rely on corroborating or discrediting data.
She stood and tipped her head toward Rosie. "You know Benji. . . is he faking?"
Rosie shook her head vehemently. "Benji's a firefighter—it's part of his heritage, it's who he is . He takes great pride in his skills, in his ability to face fire. His father was a firefighter. And his grandfather before him." She waved a hand at the inmate. "Benji has nothing to gain by faking this—trance. In fact, when he's himself again, I believe he'll feel as if he lost face today."
Sylvia nodded. "Okay. Let's assume he's traumatized. Without a neurological exam, the doc can't completely rule out seizures or head injury, but I doubt the Department of Corrections wants to shell out four hundred bucks for a scan?"
"You guess right." Rosie handed Sylvia a long form that a Dr. Cooper had filled out; it was a report on Muñoz y Concha. Sketchy, but still interesting. According to the doctor, the firefighter had shown no sign of head or neck trauma. Dr. Cooper noted that the most disturbing symptom was Benji's amnesia: "Patient has no memory of discovering a body."
At the top of the page, someone, probably Cooper, had scribbled "?mental? B R psychosis?? dissociative amnesia?"
Sylvia stared at the report and guessed the initials "B R" stood for "brief reactive." She considered both diagnoses. Brief reactive psychosis was short-term, sudden psychosis, in which there would be severe disturbances in mental functioning, i.e., the inability to tell reality from fantasy. Brief reactive psychosis might be induced by a heavy-duty stressor—say, for instance, the discovery of a mutilated and burning body. In contrast, dissociative amnesia was contained memory loss or disturbance caused by a trauma or by traumatic events. Simply, it was a change of consciousness—a disconnection between an individual and some part of himself or his environment.
She glanced at Rosie. "Would you say Benji's been catatonic for thirty minutes? An hour?"
"A half hour or
Rosie said, "Benji? This is a good friend of mine."
Sylvia stood next to the cot and spoke softly. "How are you doing, Benji? Can you talk for a minute?"
No reaction. Benji stared through Sylvia. When she looked closely, she saw that the firefighter's pupils were moving, involuntarily tracking some invisible current of air or mind.
His eyes were a rich sable with a marbling of chestnut highlights. Spanish and Anglo blood had been mixed somewhere in the not-so-distant past with Pueblo. The genetic consequence was regal: high cheekbones, straight nose, chiseled chin.
Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed. "I hear it was rough out there last night."
Silence.
Sylvia snapped her fingers suddenly.
Benji blinked, and a sharp spurt of sound issued from his mouth. It wasn't English—and Sylvia didn't think it was a Pueblo language—but it had the rhythm of some exotic speech. It reminded Sylvia of a client who, in times of stress, had reverted to the frenzy of speaking in tongues.
Sylvia turned to Rosie. "How long has he been like this?"
"When I got here, he was sitting up and talking, but it was mostly that kind of speech. The E.M.T.s brought him in early this morning; they said he made sense one minute but not the next. There's an M.D. on call. He examined Benji."
"Where is everybody now?"
"They went out with the helicopter. Two firefighters were injured in Dark Canyon."
Sylvia gazed at Benji. Malingering was a common problem with inmates, and some of them were amazingly adept at faking physical and/or emotional trauma. Evaluating health professionals had to rely on corroborating or discrediting data.
She stood and tipped her head toward Rosie. "You know Benji. . . is he faking?"
Rosie shook her head vehemently. "Benji's a firefighter—it's part of his heritage, it's who he is . He takes great pride in his skills, in his ability to face fire. His father was a firefighter. And his grandfather before him." She waved a hand at the inmate. "Benji has nothing to gain by faking this—trance. In fact, when he's himself again, I believe he'll feel as if he lost face today."
Sylvia nodded. "Okay. Let's assume he's traumatized. Without a neurological exam, the doc can't completely rule out seizures or head injury, but I doubt the Department of Corrections wants to shell out four hundred bucks for a scan?"
"You guess right." Rosie handed Sylvia a long form that a Dr. Cooper had filled out; it was a report on Muñoz y Concha. Sketchy, but still interesting. According to the doctor, the firefighter had shown no sign of head or neck trauma. Dr. Cooper noted that the most disturbing symptom was Benji's amnesia: "Patient has no memory of discovering a body."
At the top of the page, someone, probably Cooper, had scribbled "?mental? B R psychosis?? dissociative amnesia?"
Sylvia stared at the report and guessed the initials "B R" stood for "brief reactive." She considered both diagnoses. Brief reactive psychosis was short-term, sudden psychosis, in which there would be severe disturbances in mental functioning, i.e., the inability to tell reality from fantasy. Brief reactive psychosis might be induced by a heavy-duty stressor—say, for instance, the discovery of a mutilated and burning body. In contrast, dissociative amnesia was contained memory loss or disturbance caused by a trauma or by traumatic events. Simply, it was a change of consciousness—a disconnection between an individual and some part of himself or his environment.
She glanced at Rosie. "Would you say Benji's been catatonic for thirty minutes? An hour?"
"A half hour or
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