I replied ‘Sure Chief. I’ll head over right now. Let you know what I find out.’ I turned to the patrolman I’d just had lunch with, and asked ‘Hey Milt. Wanna take a ride over and scope out the mansion?’ He said sure and off we went. It only took us 10 minutes to get there from the station. As we pulled up before the stone fronted house we both took in the nicely manicured lawn and gardens. Professionally done, of course. The residence hadn’t been occupied long enough for the grounds to look like this otherwise. I had a tendency on calls, to park out in the road instead of pulling in driveways on calls like this, of non-emergency nature. We walked up the driveway onto the sidewalk and I stepped up onto the front steps and rang the doorbell. Before I could back off the steps, the front door opened and the woman said ‘Yes?’ Okay. To say she was beautiful would be a gross understatement. She was, I thought, about 29 or 30 years old. Wavy blonde hair that hung down to her shoulder. The kidnapping and loss of memory. Trying to survive on the streets. Her alter ego, Sex Kitten. Hooking. And finally the murder attempt and her winding up here. Looking resigned, she ended her tale and waited. Monica spoke up, her detached clinician voice speaking. ‘Well, your story has the beauty of being internally consistent. The brain damage you describe could, in a remotely conceivable way, have the effects you’re describing. You realize just how far out this story is?’ ‘Yes. But it’s true.’ ‘Can I see Sex Kitten?’ Cynthia and Kitten swapped places, something they did with ease now, at least when no one was trying to kill them. Monica recognized a similar visible change that night from the limo. ‘At least she is consistent.’ She thought. Out loud, she said, ‘Okay, Cynthia back please.’ ‘Do you believe me?’ ‘No. But I don’t disbelieve you either. There is something weird going on, I’ll grant you that. You say you saw the doctor at the woman’s clinic?’ ‘Yes. She interpreted the CT.
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