“Quigg didn’t teach at a school, he worked at Ventura State Hospital.”
“Okay.” Distracted.
I said, “He may have given his wife a phony reason for changing careers and that makes me wonder if something-or someone-at V-State scared him.”
I recounted the unsettling sounds I’d heard from Specialized Care, Gertrude’s protectiveness. “That could be Quigg’s connection.”
He said, “Patient with an old grudge? How long ago are we talking, Alex?”
“Quigg was out of there twenty-four years ago but our guy could have a long memory.”
“Twenty-four years and something sets him off?”
“Killing sets him off,” I said. “He got into the swing, thought back to his bad old days at V-State.”
“Kill Teach. So Quigg wasn’t such a softie back then?”
“Not necessarily. For someone with paranoid tendencies it could’ve been a wrong look, anything.”
“Wonderful… but other than you think Quigg fibbed, there’s no proof he actually worked that special ward.”
“Not yet, but I’ll keep digging.”
“Fine. Let’s talk after I get back.”
“Where you going?”
“To meet Victim Number Five.”
“Oh, no. When?”
“Body just turned up. This time it was Hollywood Division that got lucky. Petra caught it. She’s a tough girl but she sounded pretty shaken. I’m on my way over now.”
“What’s the address.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s already a circus and you know what you’re gonna see.”
“Okay.”
He exhaled. “Look, I’m not sure I’m gonna be kept on, word is His Grandiloquence is ‘reassessing.’ So there’s no sense you ruining your night. Top of that, I’m fielding a pile of useless tips and I have a sit-down with Usfel’s and Parnell’s families at an airport hotel first thing tomorrow morning. Both sets of parents, this is gonna be rollicking.”
A murder so soon after the media play felt like a taunt and I reassessed my theory about the question marks, figured Milo had been right. I went to my office, sat at the computer, and shuffled varying combinations of ventura state hospital criminally insane child murderer young disembowel question mark. When that pulled up nothing useful, I spent some time wondering if Shimoff’s drawing had stimulated my memory because, years ago, I’d seen a younger version of the round-faced man on the grounds of V-State.
A patient I’d worked with? Or just passed in the wards? A dangerous kid who’d eluded Specialized Care because he’d been smooth enough to fool the staff and remain on an open ward?
Hospital teachers spent more time with patients than anyone. Had Marlon Quigg noticed something about a deeply disturbed boy that everyone else had missed? Had he spoken up and convinced the doctors about the need for extreme confinement?
Motive for a major-league grudge.
But Milo’s question remained: Why wait so long to wreak vengeance?
Because the dangerous kid had turned into a truly frightening adult and had been locked up all these years.
Now released, he sets about righting wrongs. Locating Quigg, stalking him, grooming him with cordial greetings during Quigg’s dog-walk in the park.
Recognizing Quigg but no reason for Quigg to associate a child with a grown man in a shearling.?
Guess why I’m doing this.
Ha ha ha.
Gertrude Vanderveul had known enough about what went on at Specialized Care to keep me away.
Trust me on this, Alex.
Maybe now she’d agree to tell me why.
I looked for her in cyberspace, starting with the APA directory and the state psychology board website and fanning out from there.
She wasn’t listed anywhere, but a Magnus Vanderveul, M.D., practiced ophthalmology in Seattle. Maybe kin, maybe not, and too late in the day to find out. I played with the computer some more, hit nothing but sour notes, was feeling cranky when Robin and Blanche returned to the house, worked hard at faking pleasant.
Blanche sensed my true mood right away but she licked my hand and nuzzled my leg, a cobby little wrinkly bundle of empathy.
Robin was there a second later. “What’s the matter?”
I told her about Quigg’s lie. “You might have put it together, Lady Sherlock.”
She said, “What kind of things did the scariest kids do?”
“Don’t know because I never saw them.” I described Specialized Care, Gertrude’s protectiveness. “Couldn’t get her to explain. I’m trying to locate her, maybe she’ll be more open.”
“Work on her maternal instincts.”
“How so?”
“Tell her all you’ve accomplished. Make her proud. And confident.”
Milo hadn’t gotten in touch by ten the following morning. Nothing about the latest victim appeared in the news and I figured the chief had kept things tight.
I tried Dr. Magnus Vanderveul’s office in Seattle. A woman answered, “LASIK by Design.”
Doctor was busy with procedures all day but if I wanted information about myopia or presbyopia she’d be happy to transfer me to an educational recording.
“Appreciate that but I need to speak to Dr. Vanderveul personally.”
“Regarding?”
“His mother and I are old friends and I’m trying to get in touch with her.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the receptionist. “She passed last year. Doctor flew to the funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling that on multiple levels. “Where was the funeral?”
A second of silence. “Sir, I’ll give him your message. Bye, now.”
I found the death certificate. Palm Beach, Florida. Downloaded the obituary from the archives of a local paper.
Professor Gertrude Vanderveul had succumbed to a brief illness. Her tenure at V-State was noted, as was a subsequent move to Connecticut to teach at the university level. She’d published a book on child psychotherapy and served as a consultant to a White House commission on foster care. Ten years ago, she’d relocated to Florida where she’d advised various welfare agencies and pursued a lifelong interest in lily cultivation. Predeceased decades ago by an orchestra conductor husband, she was survived by a son, Dr. Magnus Vanderveul, of Redmond, Washington, daughters Dr. Trude Prosser of Glendale, California, and Dr. Ava McClatchey of Vero Beach, and eight grandchildren.
Contributions to the Florida Foundation for Child Development were requested in lieu of flowers.
Trude Prosser practiced clinical neuropsychology from a Brand Boulevard office. A voicemail greeting recited by an automated voice greeted me. Same deal at Ava McClatchey’s obstetrics group.
Having left messages for all three of Gertrude’s erudite progeny, I went for a run, wondering if any of them would bother to call.
By the time I returned, all three had.
Keeping it local, I started with Trude. This time she picked up, announcing “Dr. Prosser” in a sweet girlish voice.
“This is Alex Delaware. Thanks for getting back.”
“You were one of Mother’s students.” Statement, not a question.
“She supervised me during an internship rotation. She was a wonderful teacher.”
“Yes, she was,” said Trude Prosser. “How can I help you?”
I started to explain.
She said, “Did Mother ever talk about a murderous little monster? No, she never talked about any of her
