late forties. He travels around the country in a pickup truck. He doesn’t have roots. Sometimes he lives in the woods for weeks at a time. He supports himself by doing odd jobs and building very beautiful handmade furniture. That’s how we met, at an art fair on the Park Blocks. He had a booth next to mine, and he was trying to get orders for his furniture. Anyway, he needed a place to stay. I liked him. He seemed very gentle. My son really took to him. I never saw any sign that he was violent.”
Ami told the psychiatrist about the fight.
“I asked him about what he did to Barney and the policeman. He said that he wasn’t thinking; that his training took over. He seemed very remorseful about what he did, very depressed. He also told me that he’d been locked up in Vietnam. I asked him if he’d been a soldier, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He also said that he had sworn not to hurt anyone again. I’m wondering if the sudden violence was connected to his experiences in Vietnam.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“I remembered your testimony. You said that combat experience could produce symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder years after the event that caused the problem. I’d like you to talk to Dan and tell me what you think.”
“All right.”
“There’s another thing,” Ami said, “something weird. Dan’s ID is phony and they can’t find a match for his fingerprints.”
“Now that is interesting. His prints would have to be on file if he was in the military.” Dr. French stood up. “Let me check my schedule.”
He walked over to his desk and talked to his secretary over his intercom.
“I’ve got a cancellation this afternoon,” he told Ami, a moment later. “Would three be okay?”
Morelli was sitting up in bed when the guard let Ami and Dr. French into his room. The nasogastric tube and IV were gone, and some color had returned to his face. His long hair was fanned out behind his head, almost covering his pillow.
“You’re looking a lot better,” Ami said.
Morelli focused on Ami’s companion. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is George French. He’s a psychiatrist.”
Morelli smiled wearily. “That’s going to be my defense, insanity? I can save you a lot of trouble, Ami. It won’t fly. I’m sane.”
“You don’t have to be nuts to have a mental defense, Dan. Dr. French just wants to ask you some questions.”
“Is this confidential? It stays between us?”
“Yes,” Ami assured him.
Morelli shrugged and gestured toward the chairs that sat against the wall.
“Be my guest. I don’t have anything better to do.”
Ami and the doctor pulled the chairs over to the bed. George placed a yellow lined pad on his lap and scribbled a heading.
“Do you mind if I call you Dan?” he asked.
“You can call me anything you want, except late for dinner,” Morelli quipped to indicate that he wasn’t taking Dr. French’s inquisition seriously.
French laughed. “I’d like to get some background before we talk about what happened at the ball field. Is that okay?”
Morelli looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded his assent.
“Good. Let’s start with an easy one. Where did you grow up?”
“California.”
“Where in California?”
“San Diego.”
Morelli had told Ami that he was an army brat who moved around. Now he was telling Dr. French something else.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Is your mother still living?”
“No.”
“Father?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t get along?”
“He walked out on us when I was young.”
“Did your mother remarry?”
“No.”
Dr. French made some notes before resuming the interview.
“Getting any deep psychological insights, Doc?” Morelli asked.
“Thirteen so far,” French answered with a smile.
“Touche,” Morelli replied. He was trying to upset George, but he was smart enough to see that the doctor wasn’t biting.
“Why don’t you tell me where you went to high school?” French asked.
“St. Martin’s Prep.”
George looked surprised. “You must have been pretty well off.”
“Scholarship boy.”
“So your grades must have been good.”
“A’s mostly.”
“Any sports?”
“I did a lot of stuff in junior high. No organized sports at St. Martin’s. I concentrated on my grades pretty much and kept to myself.”
“What subjects did you enjoy?”
“Science, math. I liked physics.”
“Did you like St. Martin’s?”
Morelli shrugged. “Some of the teachers were pretty sharp. The kids were from a different world. We didn’t have much in common.”
“Did you have any close friends?”
A cloud descended over Morelli’s features. “I don’t want to get into that.”
“You knew Vanessa in high school,” Ami said.
Morelli looked upset. “Yeah, Vanessa. I knew her. But I’m not going there, so you can move on.”
“Okay,” Dr. French said agreeably. “What about college?”
Morelli did not answer.
“Mr. Morelli?” George prodded.
“No college. It was during ’Nam. I was drafted.”
“You didn’t want to go in?”
“I don’t know what I wanted. It was complicated.”
Ami thought that Morelli sounded sad and bitter.
“Where did you go through basic training?” Dr. French asked.
“Fort Lewis.”
“This was your usual basic training?”
“Yeah.” Morelli paused, remembering something. “There were the tests. I don’t think they were part of the normal training.”
“What tests?”
“We all took tests during basic training; IQ, language proficiency. Like that. At first, we took the tests in a group, but I started getting singled out after a while. I’d be called in on a Saturday morning or midweek night, and I’d take these tests with two or three other guys. We were told not to talk about them. They were real strict about that. But I did talk to this one guy once. He was curious about it, too. It turns out his folks were Russian emigrants,
