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mysterious recurring nightmare lurking in the details surrounding that accident, but her answers remained lucid and unforced, with no resistance to Fred’s probing questions.
    It was only then that Fred switched tacks. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “about the first thing you remember.”
    “No!”
    Her instantaneous and flat-out refusal brought Fred MacKinzie to full attention. It had the same galvanizing effect on me.
    “Why not?” he asked.
    “Because I don’t want to.”
    I noticed a subtle sudden change in the mother superior’s voice. It seemed younger somehow. Her words were now being delivered in the singsong staccato of a small child.
    Fred remained smoothly reassuring. “How old are you?” he asked
    “I don’t know.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Bonnie Jean Dunleavy.”
    “Have you started school yet, Bonnie Jean?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    If she’s not in school then, that makes her four or five years old, I wrote. Either 1949 or ’50 .
    “What are you wearing?” Fred asked.
    Homicide detectives do the same thing with suspects. They ask indirect questions, thus creating a fabric of story. If the suspect tells lies, those spur-of-the-moment fibs will fall apart later under more detailed questioning. Here Fred’s indirect questions—ones that weren’t related to the troubling memory itself—allowed Mary Katherine to answer. But even this cautious, roundabout approach caused visible agitation. During earlier questioning Mary Katherine’s hands had rested at ease in her lap. Now, as Fred MacKinzie moved closer to dangerous territory, her hands moved fitfully about. Sometimes she tugged anxiously at the hem of her skirt or the sleeve of her sweater. Sometimes she covered her eyes as if shielding herself from something too awful to face.
    “A sundress,” she answered at last. This time she closed her eyes rather than shielding them. I wondered if shutting out her view of Freddy Mac’s office made it possible for her to see the dress she had worn so long ago. “A bright blue sundress with yellow sunflowers on it.”
    I scribbled into my notebook: Time of year is summer. Where?
    “What are you doing?” Fred asked.
    “I’m standing on a chair by the sink, looking out the window.”
    “What are you looking for?”
    “My parents’ car.”
    “So they’re not there with you?”
    “No.”
    “Is anyone else there, a babysitter? A friend, perhaps?”
    “No. I’m alone.”
    “Alone and looking out the window?”
    “Yes.”
    “What do you see?”
    Her eyes remained shut. “The sun is shining,” she said slowly. “I want to go outside and play, but I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because Mama and Daddy won’t let me. I have to stay inside and wait until they come home.”
    “Where are they?”
    Sister Mary Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just out.”
    “What can you see through that window?”
    “Grass. And two driveways, ours and hers.”
    “Whose driveway?” Freddy asked.
    “I don’t know.” As Sister Mary Katherine delivered her answer, her body shifted uneasily in her chair. She squirmed in her seat like a little kid who has waited far too long to head for a rest room.
    “Can you tell me your neighbor’s name?” Fred asked.
    “No. I can’t talk about her at all.” Slumping in the chair, Sister Mary Katherine seemed close to tears. “Don’t you understand?” she pleaded. “I’m not allowed to talk about her. Ever. If I do, something bad will happen. Someone will hurt me.”
    I jotted down: Who’s going to hurt her ?
    Fred was following the same track. “Who will hurt you, Bonnie Jean? Your father?”
    “No, not my father!” she said forcefully.
    Clearly the current line of questioning was so upsetting that Fred backed away from it for a time. “Tell me about your house,” he suggested.
    “It’s an apartment in a basement. It’s cold here even when the sun is shining.”
    “Who lives upstairs?”
    “A lady who’s old and