all their pinkies.”
“That’s right.”
McManus crossed his legs. “If memory serves, this is an anomaly associated with a host of genetic syndromes, Downs being the most prominent. It’s also quite prevalent in the general population. Miss Prescott, do you know how common Clinodactyly is?”
“It’s found in roughly twenty percent of people.”
“So, you’ve done your homework. I’m also assuming you’ve studied up on the genotypic and phenotypic realities of traits? Family members may not express traits phenotypically, that’s outwardly, but may be carriers of a trait, which is the genotypic end.”
“I have.”
“Then what does Clinodactyly prove?”
Alright, fair enough, she thought.
“They gave me the Wechsler when I was seven. I’m not bragging, but I’m off the charts. Anyway, I found my brother’s scores and he’s stone average. I mean really average.”
“I.Q.s have been known to vary from sibling to sibling. Consider—”
“I have unattached earlobes, but the president and first lady have attached lobes.”
McManus nodded, then smiled. “You ever work a punnett square?” He motioned. “Hand me that piece of paper.”
“That’s really not necessary. I know how it’s done.”
Caitlin realized that if her parents were both heterozygous, which meant having different alleles, she’d have a twenty-five percent chance of having unattached lobes. McManus was a sharp cookie; he was everything she’d hoped he’d be. She continued, saying that she was leggy, while her parents and brother had elongated torsos but shorter legs. Caitlin was the only one in the family diagnosed with Allergic Rhinitis, and she certainly found that odd.
McManus said, “That could be viral. Check with your ENT.”
Caitlin leaned forward. “I have no baby book, nor have I been able to find any pictures of my mother while she was pregnant with me. There’s nothing from the hospital—you know, feet prints, hospital bracelet, pictures, or video.”
“Do your parents have an explanation for this?”
“Everything was lost in a fire when I was one. Mom said the blaze gutted four rooms in the house.”
“Have you thought about contacting the city?”
“The fire department never responded to a fire at that address, and the insurance company has no record of any such claim.”
“Interesting.”
She sat back. “I have Type A blood.”
“So?”
“My parents are both Type B.”
The agent frowned and rubbed his chin. “And you know this how?”
“I did a little snooping. I grabbed my parents’ blood donor cards when they came in the mail about two years ago. Both have Type B.” She watched the agent’s eyebrows arch. “What does your little punnett square say about that?”
McManus readjusted himself on the sofa. “Your parents have blue eyes; so do you. You share your mother’s blonde hair and skin tone. The blood revelation, if it’s accurate, is curious, that’s for sure. However, the rest of your evidence can be explained individually.”
“Can it be explained together?”
McManus exhaled and stared out the window. He finally shrugged and shook his head slightly. “But let me say this: you don’t seem too terribly upset about your alleged adoption. I would think this would be an emotional moment for you, yet you’re talking about it like it’s yesterday’s news.”
“I’ve known about this for a while, and I’ve been through the whole Kubler-Ross thing left, right and sideways. Several times. I keep my feelings buried. It’s easier that way, believe me.” The first daughter cleared her throat, “But this really isn’t why I brought you here today.”
Chapter 16 St. Ann Catholic Church 3:40 PM
“Oh?”
“Something’s bothering me about my psych class this morning,” said the first daughter. “I had never heard about Fr. Mulcahy until today. Have they settled the lawsuit yet?”
McManus studied her. She figured he was still reeling from the adoption claim. He finally blinked and said, “There is no lawsuit anymore. The plaintiff’s lawyer dropped him as a client, and nobody else has shown any interest in representing him.”
“Why?”
“There are too many holes in his story. First of all, as you well know, there were no witnesses to any of this, nor had anybody ever expressed dissatisfaction with Mulcahy’s work as a priest. Ever. In addition, the man insisted the abuse took place when he was twelve and thirteen-years-old. Archdiocesan and city records show that the church in question wasn’t even built when the alleged abuse took place. In fact, it wouldn’t be built for another five years. Furthermore, the man claimed he spoke to a priest at the parish the moment the memories hit him. Said he spoke to a Father Justin. There is no Father Justin in the entire archdiocese. Not only that, but none of the priests or deacons in the parish say they spoke to him, let alone spoke to him about abuse.” McManus waved his hand. “So, that’s that.”
“Except that poor Father Mulcahy gets his name dragged through the mud post mortem.”
“All because of either a lie or Faulty Memory Syndrome.”
“And that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”
“Faulty Memory?”
McManus explained that although amnesia and repression are well documented in many abuse cases, the unconscious can be a tricky thing. Each and every case of recall involves the victim (or supposed victim) reconstructing events, sometimes after a number of years have elapsed. During reconstruction, many factors and influences come into play. Many of these influences cause distortions of the facts. Additionally, the unconscious is often described as a vast warehouse of stored information, memories, fantasies and nightmares. Sifting through this strange world, to determine what’s real and what’s not, can be a daunting task.
Caitlin said, “So none of us can trust memory retrieval from the unconscious?”
The agent shrugged. “That depends. I come from the school of corroboration. If you believe a repressed memory has just surfaced after years, try to find facts or witnesses to support the memory.”
“What about hypnosis?”
“Be careful,” warned the agent. “Careless and incompetent psychoanalysts have botched many hypnotic sessions, leading their clients to believe they were abused, led prior lives or were even abducted by aliens, for crying out loud.” McManus frowned. “Are you insinuating that a repressed memory caused you to feel faint in class today?”
“When
