Mr. Nobody(54)

Now to test whether his memories go any further back than that day on the beach.

I flick to the next photo in the sequence.

A stock family photo—a young couple, each holding a child in their arms.

I watch the fMRI images as they register. Cortex firing, only a dim glow from the amygdala, and nothing from the hippocampus. Interesting. Either Matthew can’t remember having a wife and child or he’s never had either.

    I flick to the next picture.

Another family photo this time from the 1980s—a couple in their forties with a seven-year-old son; it’s more formal in style.

I’ve chosen a stock image from the eighties so it will resonate more with Matthew’s memories of being a boy, and potential memories of his own parents, if he can access them.

I watch the fMRI screen. Visual cortex glows, and then the amygdala leaps to life, a burst of brain activity blazing on the screen. An extremely strong emotional reaction to the idea of parents or childhood. But as I study the dark mass of the hippocampus, there is nothing. Nothing. He has no memories of a family. I realize I’m holding my breath. I double-check the screen. No, there is no activation.

He really can’t remember.

A fizz of excitement thrills through me. Matthew might be the first fully verifiable case of fugue.

In spite of everything that’s happened over the last two days, I feel a bright burst of joy inside. I can’t help but smile to myself. Buoyed, I flick to the final image.

A thick green forest fills the screen.

I watch his face on the screen, his pupils widening as he makes sense of it. Last night Matthew mentioned having one clear memory, of being in a wood.

I look to the fMRI screen. His visual cortex activates, but his amygdala is strangely subdued, given how he spoke about the memory. I study the screen and then a sudden flash, an intense burst of activation in the hippocampus. A flash of memory. I jolt forward, leaning into the screen, and a constellation of areas in the cerebral cortex glow in answer to the initial flash. I’ve never seen anything like it, such a localized and specific reaction. I glance at his amygdala again. There’s hardly any emotional engagement. No emotional connection to these memories. My focus is pulled by a sudden low beeping below the screen.

    The lower screen is flashing—Matthew’s heart rate has soared well above the recommended level. I hover my hand above the fMRI’s emergency stop button and turn to check on his face on the video screen. Then I pull back my hand in surprise. Matthew’s face is utterly calm. His breathing is normal. I check the readouts again. His heart is pounding. He should be hyperventilating, but none of it is visible. The bright areas of his brain’s center for self-control, the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, are glowing with vivid intensity. Somehow he’s masking it, suppressing it, he’s using self-control.

Incredible self-control.

I click off the last photo and reset the system, taking a second to shake off the oddness of what just occurred. I let his heart rate settle.

We need clear readings for the next portion of the test. The most important portion.

After a moment I turn on my mic again. “Matthew, are you okay to continue?”

Yes.

I check his vitals and everything has made its way back to the appropriate levels. I guess we’re safe to move on.

I bring up the Q&A intro screen, explaining that I will not speak but he should respond to the text on the screen by pushing either Yes or No on his keypad.

Yes.

I start the sequence.


WERE YOU FOUND ON A BEACH?



Yes. His hippocampus activates briefly, the same as before.


DO YOU KNOW YOUR NAME?



    Matthew pauses for a microsecond, then taps No. His hippocampus does not activate although his amygdala flares and his heart rate spikes.


DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU BEFORE YOU FOUND YOURSELF ON THE BEACH?



Matthew closes his eyes. No. No activation in the hippocampus, only amygdala and dorsolateral. That’s fascinating—self-control again.

I pause, finger poised over the final question in the sequence. His pulse is high but not above recommended levels. I click the next question. There’s no simpler way to find out if we’re dealing with a dangerous man, someone who the military might be concerned about misplacing.


HAVE YOU KILLED?



He looks directly up at the screen, his pupils constricting as if he can see right through the camera to me. He seems to hold my gaze, unflinching and steady. On the fMRI his dorsolateral glows white-hot, overshadowing everything else. There’s that self-control again. The beeping starts once more on the screen below, and I tear my eyes away from his.

His heart rate is way too high: tachycardic.

I hit the emergency stop button on the fMRI machine and jump up to release the control room shield door. I heave the door open and race into the scanning room, slamming my palm into the bed release mechanism on the side of the machine. The hydraulic system kicks in and the bed glides out achingly slowly from the bulk of the fMRI. I see him now, he’s gasping for breath, head still lodged in the head brace, hands fumbling at its clasps. I run to him and swiftly unhook the fastenings.

“Matthew, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

    He clutches at his chest now, desperate, deep in the throes of a panic attack. He can’t breathe. My eyes swing to the readout next to him, his blood oxygen is lethally low at fifty. I look around the room but there is no one here to assist me. Damn it. I smash my hand on the emergency call buzzer and grab an fMRI safe oxygen tank, wheeling it quickly to the bed. I push the head brace away, and twisting the tank valve I slide the mask safely over his face, before I kick off my shoes and scramble up behind Matthew on the bed. I pull him back toward me, cradling him, his head and shoulders resting against my chest. It’s not flattering but I’ve got him. I slide one arm under his shoulder and brace him. I need to calm him, to get him to slow his breathing. I need to lower his ludicrously high heart rate. He needs to breathe.