Legends

“Martin Odum is suffering from what we call Multiple Personality Disorder.” Dr. Treffler could hear Crystal Quest grinding slivers of ice between her molars. “At the origin of this condition is a trauma,” the psychiatrist continued, “more often than not a childhood trauma involving sexual abuse. The trauma short-circuits the patient’s narrative memory and leads to the development of multiple personalities, each with its own memories and skills and emotions and even language abilities. Often a patient suffering from MPD switches from one personality to another when he or she comes under stress.”

Crystal Quest fingered a chunk of ice out of the kitchen tumbler and popped it into her mouth. “Has he been able to identify the trauma?”

Dr. Treffler cleared her throat. “The original trauma, the root cause of these multiple personalities, remains shrouded in mystery, I’m sorry to report.” She could have sworn Crystal Quest looked relieved. “Which is not to say that with more treatment it won’t surface. I would very much like to get to the trauma, not only for the sake of the patient’s mental health but because of the medical paper I plan to write—”

“There won’t be any medical paper, Dr. Treffler. Not now, not ever. Nor will there be additional treatment. How many of these multiple personalities have you detected?”

Dr. Treffler made no effort to hide her disappointment. “In Martin Odum’s case,” she replied stiffly, “I’ve been able to identify three distinct alter personalities, which the patient refers to as legends, a term you will surely be familiar with. There’s Martin Odum, for starters. Then there is an Irishman named Dante Pippen. And finally there’s a Civil War historian who goes by the name of Lincoln Dittmann.”

“Any hint of a fourth legend?”

“No. Is there a fourth legend, Mrs. Quest?”

Quest ignored the question. “How many of these legends have you personally encountered?”

“There is Martin Odum, of course. And at the most recent session, which took place last week, I came face to face with Lincoln Dittmann.”

“How could you be sure it was Lincoln?”

“The person who came into my office was quite different from the Martin Odum I know. When I realized I was confronting Lincoln Dittmann and said so, he came clean.”

“Cut to the chase. Is Martin Odum off his rocker? Should we commit him to an institution?”

“You can have it either way, Mrs. Quest. Lincoln Dittmann is certainly off his rocker, as you put it. He’s convinced he was present at the battle of Fredericksburg during the Civil War. Say the word and I can get a dozen doctors to certify he’s clinically insane. If you wanted to, you could have Lincoln Dittmann—or his alter ego, the Irishman Dante Pippen—committed indefinitely.”

“What about Martin Odum?”

“Martin is distressed by his inability to figure out which of the three working identities is the real him. But he functions reasonably well, he is quite capable of making a living, of fending for himself, perhaps even of having a relationship with a woman as long as she is able to live with the ambiguity at the heart of his persona.”

“In short, nobody who meets Martin in a bar or at a dinner party would think he was mentally deranged?”

Dr. Treffler nodded carefully. “As long as he is unable to dredge up the details of the original childhood trauma, he will remain in this state of suspended animation—functional enough to muddle through, vaguely anguished.”

“Okay. I want you to drop this case. I’ll send my man Tripp around to your clinic to collect any and all notes you might have made during the sessions. I don’t need to remind you that the whole affair is classified top secret and not to be discussed with a living soul.”

Dr. Treffler remembered something she’d told Martin at one of their early sessions. “Even if I change the names to protect the guilty?”

“This is not a laughing matter, Dr. Treffler.” Crystal Quest stabbed at a button on the console. “Tripp will see you to the lobby. Appreciate your coming by.”

“That’s it?”

Mrs. Quest heaved herself out of the wicker chair. “That’s definitely it,” she agreed.

Dr. Treffler rose to her feet and stood facing her, her eyes bright with discovery. “You never wanted me to identify the trauma. You don’t want Martin to get well.”

Quest sniffed at the scent of perfume in the windowless cubby-hole; it startled her to realize that Bernice Treffler’s professional psyche reeked of femaleness, which was more than she could say for herself. “You’re in over your head,” the Deputy Director of Operations testily informed her visitor. “In Martin’s case, getting well could turn out to be fatal.”

1997: MARTIN ODUM DISCOVERS THE KATOVSKY GAMBIT