Oracle Page 4

  “Wow,” said Vega, impressed. “If only their hidden minds had been able to share their findings.”

  “Exactly,” replied Anna. “But as I said, while the subconscious is horrible at communication, it can control conscious responses—with ease. And with a frequency that would astonish you. In one experiment—I won’t bore you with how it was carried out—men rated women with dilated pupils as being more attractive than the same women with non-dilated pupils. Turns out pupil dilation in women is a biological sign of sexual arousal. When the men were asked if their ratings had anything to do with pupil dilation, they scoffed at the idea.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “But their hidden minds had not only detected this subtle sign of arousal,” she continued, “but had known it for what it was. And had even managed to pull strings to get their conscious selves to respond positively to it—even though they had no idea why they were doing so. And no idea that their hidden mind was manipulating them from offstage.”

  Anna moved on before the professor could respond. “Chicken sexers are another classic example,” she said.

  “Did you say chicken sexers?”

  “Yeah. It’s a thing. When baby chicks are first hatched, males and females look identical. But the females will one day lay eggs, so chicken farmers want to separate them out right away to give them preferential treatment. Turns out there is a famous school in Japan where chicken sexing masters quickly and accurately separate the chicks into male and female bins. The problem is that these masters can’t explain how they choose. So poultry breeders from around the world travel to this school to train their own people. The Japanese masters stand over these clueless apprentices while they sort baby chicks, telling them if they are right or wrong every time. Eventually, the apprentices become masters, and are never wrong, even though they, also, can’t explain how they’re choosing.”

  “I see,” said Vega. “So their subconscious minds have it all figured out, and even manage to control their actions to take advantage of this insight.”

  “Right. Our hidden mind is great at observing. Great at dictating our tastes, fetishes, and opinions. Great at controlling us. But horrible at explaining. Like the Oracle of Delphi. All-knowing, yet it won’t give us a straight answer.”

  The professor nodded solemnly. “Okay, I’m sold. Intuition is real. And your theory to explain it is real also.”

  Anna grinned. “Are you sure about that, or is it just a gut feeling you’re having?”

  The professor smiled back. “So you’re saying that solving crimes is as easy for you as correctly sorting identical baby chicks is for a Japanese master. You just do it, without having any idea how.”

  “Not exactly,” said Anna. “But this would make a great title for your paper: crime-solving techniques borrowed from Japanese chicken sexers—your complete guide.”

  Vega rolled his eyes. “I’ll take that title under advisement,” he said in amusement.

  5

  The detective paused so they could finish their meals, which they did while watching the sun melt into the horizon and vanish in the distance.

  The waiter took their plates, and both ordered after-dinner coffees in lieu of dessert.

  “So how do you solve cases?” asked Vega. “Are you saying you just sort of know who committed a crime?”

  “Not at all. I use all the traditional methods. I rack my conscious mind to try to figure it out. I plan what questions to ask witnesses and suspects. But I’ve trained myself to pay attention when my hidden mind is trying to tell me something. Sometimes I just magically want to ask a suspect a question that doesn’t seem related to the case in any way. Instead of suppressing this urge, I ask the question.”

  “Because you’ve made peace with not understanding the why of it.”

  “Exactly. And I try to purposely evoke these strange avenues of thought and inquiry by blanking my mind at key times, trying to push my consciousness as much out of the way as possible. I can’t tell you how many times random questions and ideas that pop into my head, seemingly unrelated to anything, end up leading to a breakthrough in the case.”

  “I see,” said Vega. “So wild ideas out of left field that no one else would seriously pursue, you explore with a passion.”

  “Exactly. And even when wild questions and ideas don’t pop into my head, sometimes my gut tells me someone is innocent, even if they appear to be guilty, and I spend my time chasing other suspects. Sometimes my gut tells me someone is guilty, so I stick with them like glue. Sometimes my gut says to explore the case from a novel angle. And so on.”

  They paused as their coffees arrived.

  “Have you ever had any premonitions like you did when you were seven?” asked Vega when the waiter had left.

  “Yes. But I don’t call them premonitions. A premonition is getting a glimpse of the future. I can’t do that. I didn’t have a premonition that my parents were about to be killed. My hidden mind had seen something, heard something, smelled something, that no conscious mind could. Something that told it we had intruders.”

  “But why didn’t your parents’ subconscious minds pick up on what yours did? Even after you tipped them off to look for something wrong.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, pausing to sip at her coffee. “But I’ve come to believe that my subconscious is better able to tip me off than most. I don’t have cracks in the wall between my conscious and subconscious the way some autistic savants do. But I seem to excel at reading the feeble hints I’m given.”

  “Does this mean that your technique isn’t broadly applicable?”

  “No, everyone can benefit from cultivating their intuition. From learning how to listen better to the brilliant stranger inside, and trust in what it’s saying. Maybe not as much as I’m able to benefit. A genius and a special needs student will both benefit from studying for a test. But the genius will still get higher marks.”

  “So how do you cultivate this intuition of yours?”

  “Like any muscle. I use it. Constantly. Which means focusing on the telltales—my gut, my pulse, tingly skin, and so on—and learning how to listen to what the brilliant stranger in my mind is trying to tell me. And not just listen to it, but trust it. Which often requires a leap of faith, as many of its prescriptions can seem counterintuitive.”

  “I see,” said Vega, nodding thoughtfully. “So it really is that simple.”

  Anna smiled. “Yes,” she replied. “And that complicated. But there is one more facet. One I think is the most important of all.” She winced. “But I’m afraid you’ll find this the biggest reach of anything I’ve told you.”

  “Try me,” said Vega.

  “I cram my subconscious with as much information as I possibly can. Everything under the sun. I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen. I get non-fiction audiobooks and play them throughout the night while I sleep. Audiobooks that describe a hundred varieties of poisonous plants, for example. Or types of locks. Or review the science of blood spatter analysis.”

  Vega’s eyes widened. “And you’ve been doing this every night for fifteen years?”

  “Every night. Except for the few times I was in a relationship and wasn’t sleeping alone.”

  “Very courteous of you,” said the Stanford professor in amusement. His eyes narrowed. “But are you telling me that you can retain all this information?”

  Anna laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t retain any of it. Not consciously, at any rate.”

  “But you believe your subconscious can?”

  “My intuition tells me this is the case.”

  “Any scientific evidence to back that up?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Anna. “But our hidden minds take in a lot more information than we know, all the time. For example, there’s something scientists call the Cocktail Party Effect. People have an uncanny ability to hear their own names ring out through a heavy thicket of otherwise indecipherable conversation. Say you’re in a big crowd, with chatter all around, but t
otally focused on your own conversation. Even though the other conversations are like white noise, if your name is mentioned, it stands out from all the rest.”

  Vega nodded but didn’t respond.

  “So how does this work? Turns out your subconscious is taking in all of these other conversations, digesting them, without you knowing it. Like a hidden sentinel, monitoring. It wants to be sure headquarters isn’t bothered by this jumble of noise so you can focus on your own conversation. But if it hears something it thinks you might be interested in, it sends this to your conscious mind. Could be your name. Could be the word spy if you’re an intelligence agent. Or the word fire. Or anything else that it thinks you might need to hear.”

  “Hard to imagine your subconscious can take in this many scrambled conversations at the same time, and sort it all out.”

  “Yes it is. Which is what makes it so amazing. And indispensable. An exhausted new mother can sleep through a thunderstorm, but will awaken if her baby begins to cry in another room. Her subconscious chooses not to bother her with the thunder, but immediately throws the cry to headquarters for further attention.”

  The professor stared at her thoughtfully. “But even if our subconscious can hear everything, this doesn’t prove it retains it.”

  “I’m well aware,” said Anna. “In fact, most scientists think the idea that one can absorb the contents of an audiobook while sleeping is preposterous. But there’s really no way to prove it—or disprove it—since your subconscious isn’t talking. If I listen to an audiobook on poisonous plants at night and you ask me a question about the material in the morning, I won’t have a clue. In that respect, the scientists are correct. The material doesn’t benefit me consciously at all.”

  The detective took a sip of coffee and continued. “But I don’t care. Because my hidden mind now has the knowledge it needs to guide me in some future case. Say if a murder victim is found poisoned. My intuition might cause me to take a special interest in an unusual flower in a suspect’s garden, without me knowing why. But when I study this flower, now using my conscious mind, it can help me break the case wide open.”

  She paused. “I’m convinced that cramming my brain with miscellaneous information has been a big help to me. I’m providing the brilliant stranger in my head with a vast encyclopedia of knowledge to cross-reference, analyze, and find patterns within, so it can then nudge me in the right direction.”

  “Given your spectacular results,” said Vega, “it’s hard to argue that this strategy isn’t working.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you say that you use this intuition of yours frequently,” said Vega.

  “Continuously, in one way or another. I’m exquisitely sensitive to it. I’ve been listening to my gut since you called me. It told me to meet with you and tell you my story. I have no idea why.”

  Anna finished her coffee and set the now-empty mug back down on the table. “During this dinner, my gut has told me that you want the best for me, but warns that I can’t entirely trust you. That there’s more going on here than meets the eye. Something I’m missing. Something you’re hiding from me. Believe it or not, despite carefully vetting your credentials, my gut’s not even sure that you really are a professor of criminology. Or that you’re writing a paper.”

  “Which means that your gut isn’t always right,” said Vega with a smile.

  Anna laughed. “First, I didn’t say my intuition is certain that you aren’t who you say you are. Just that the jury is still out. And second, you are correct, even if it did insist, it isn’t always right. Most of the time, but not always. I have been known to misinterpret its Oracle-like ambiguous communications from time to time. And the strongest signal I’m getting is that you mean me well, so I’m choosing to ignore the more suspicious ones.”

  Her features suddenly hardened. “At least for now,” she added pointedly.

  Vega stared deep into the detective’s large blue eyes. “I do mean you well,” he said. “So it’s nice that this is coming through loud and clear. And this conversation has been even more eye-opening for me than I imagined,” he added.

  “I’m glad,” she said as the waiter brought the bill, which Vega paid in cash.

  Anna thanked the professor for dinner and rose to leave. “So are you flying back home now?”

  “Not tonight. I’m staying at the Camden International Hotel on Wilshire.”

  “Good choice,” said Anna approvingly, surprised that he had such expensive taste in hotels. The Camden was only fifteen minutes away from her condo, and she passed it frequently. It was eighteen stories tall, with a soaring ground floor that served as a magnificent, expansive lobby, complete with palm trees and an atrium.

  “Thanks. I didn’t want to have to cut our conversation short to rush to the airport. I guess I could have driven here instead of flying. It’s only supposed to be about five hours by car. But when driving to LA, you never know if bad traffic will add an hour or two to the total travel time. And I really don’t enjoy driving for that long. Even in a self-driving car.”

  The detective nodded. Self-driving cars had been on the market as early as 2023, but only a small percentage of the total were truly autonomous. These tended to be pricey, and most drivers still preferred to take the wheel themselves, proving the adage that old habits died hard.

  Vega blew out a long breath. “Before you leave,” he said, “since I am staying in town tonight, I had a thought.”

  Anna studied him for several seconds. Men seemed to find her looks almost irresistibly appealing. So usually she’d expect him to offer her a nightcap, hoping to get her into bed. But her intuition insisted this wasn’t the case. Not this time.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “I know tomorrow is Friday,” began Vega, “and that you’ll be working. But I’d love to get together again. Maybe I can buy you lunch at my hotel. But if you can’t make it tomorrow, I can make myself available any time you like on Saturday. Or even Sunday.”

  “So you’d stay a second or even third night if you had to, just to buy me lunch?”

  “Absolutely. As I’m sure your instincts have told you, I’m not trying to hit on you. But before I fall asleep tonight, I’ll be thinking long and hard about what you told me. And I believe I’ll be able to devise some scientific tests of your intuition. Get a gauge on just how strong it is. Right now, the proof that it’s as useful as you say is your solve rate. Which is impressive, and strongly suggests that you’re on to something big. But if I had additional data to put in this paper, generated by a well-controlled experiment, this would really bolster the case.”

  Anna considered. She found the professor intriguing, even though he was one of the occasional people whom her hidden mind couldn’t get much of a handle on. “No one has ever asked me to be their guinea pig before,” she said. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

  “Be flattered.”

  “If you say so,” she said with just the hint of a smile. “Okay,” she added finally, “you’re on. I’ll make tomorrow work.”

  “Outstanding,” said Vega happily. “I can pick you up. Or I can pay for your transportation if you’d like.”

  “No need,” said the detective, shaking her head. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”

  “Great. Just be sure to bring your intuition.”

  Anna grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry,” she replied in amusement. “I never leave home without it.”

  6

  Detective Anna Abbott entered her spacious, multimillion-dollar condo and once again reflected on her dinner with the Stanford professor. She had enjoyed it. The food was delicious, the view magnificent, and the conversation a little weird, but also fun. She had never before been so frank about how she had solved her cases, and it had been a long while since she had last taken any real credit for this success.

  When other detectives at the precinct expressed awe at her performance, she brushed them off, reflexively countering any p
raise with self-deprecating humor and an immediate minimization of her contributions. Many of her colleagues already harbored resentment and jealousy of her success, so she did everything she could to tamp out this fire. She would acknowledge that she thought she was a reasonably good detective, but insist that she was far more lucky than she was special, and that she had no doubt she would soon hit a spate of bad luck to balance the cosmic scales. And she always gave credit to everyone else around her, finding ways to pretend that even the tiniest contribution made by a colleague had been the key that had really unlocked the case.

  She also kept her private life very private, never disclosing where she lived, and never letting anyone she worked with anywhere near her neighborhood. They were already jealous of her as a detective, so the last thing she needed was for them to learn she lived in a luxury condominium. This would lead to questions that she didn’t want to answer, and even more resentment.

  Anna was walking to her bedroom to change clothes when she noticed that she was sniffing the air. She couldn’t detect any strange odors, so why was she doing this?

  Her eyes narrowed as her intuition provided the answer: something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.

  Anna had become exquisitely sensitive to subconscious signals, but the signals she was receiving now were so strong they didn’t require any sensitivity.

  Had someone been in her condo?

  She checked the locks and security footage, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. She then took a survey of her entire residence, going into one room after another, and scouring every square inch with her eyes.