patients. And I should tell you that while I don’t know you, I know about you through Mother. She found what you do now quite fascinating. The investigative work.”
“I had no idea she was aware of it.”
“Quite aware. She read about some case in the paper and remembered you. We were having lunch and she pointed to your name. Quite tickled, really. ‘This was one of my trainees, Trude. Bright boy, very inquisitive. I kept him away from the nasty stuff but apparently I only whetted his appetite.’ ”
“Any idea what she was protecting me from?” I said.
“I assumed the dangerous patients.”
“In Specialized Care.”
“Mother felt they were untreatable. That nothing psychology or psychiatry had to offer could put a dent in personality issues of that severity.”
“Did she herself ever work with patients there?”
“If she did, she never shared that,” said Trude Prosser. “Not only was she ethical, she avoided talking to us about work, in general. But she was at V-State for years, so it’s possible she circulated there. How much time did you spend with her, Alex?”
“A memorable month,” I said.
“She was a wonderful mother. Father died when we were young and she raised us by herself. One of my brother’s teachers once asked her what the secret was to raising such well-behaved kids, did she have some kind of psychological formula?”
She laughed. “The truth is, at home we were wild animals but we knew enough to fake it on the outside. Mother nodded gravely and told the woman, ‘It’s very simple. I lock them in a root cellar and feed them crusts and stagnant water.’ The poor thing nearly fell over before she realized Mother was having her on. Anyway, sorry I can’t help more.”
“This is going to sound strange, but did the issue of question marks ever come up?”
“Pardon?”
“A child who drew question marks. Did your mother ever allude to something like that?”
“No,” she said. “Really, Mother’s patients never came up, period. She was ironclad about confidentiality.”
“Did she ever mention a teacher named Marlon Quigg?”
“Marlon,” she said. “Like the fish. Now, that I can say yes to. I remember the name because it became a bit of family entertainment. Mag-my brother-was home from college and had quickly regressed to being a loudmouthed oaf. So when Mother announced that someone named Marlon was coming over, could we please make ourselves scarce and not intrude, it was an obvious cue for Mag to get obnoxious. Insisting to Mother we should ply Mr. Fish with tuna salad and watch him wax cannibalistic. Of course Ava-my sister-and I thought that was hilarious, though we were old enough not to act like blithering idiots. But Mag brought that out in us, when he was home, we all regressed. And of course that spurred Mag on and he began making more terrible puns-Marlon had no sole, Marlon was getting crabby, what a shrimp. Et cetera. When Mother stopped laughing, she demanded that we not show our faces until the poor boy left because he was a teacher at V-State going through a rough patch and needed some bucking up.”
“She called Quigg a boy?”
“Hmm,” said Trude Prosser. “It was long ago, but I believe I’m recalling accurately. He wasn’t of course, he must’ve been a man. Being a teacher. But perhaps his vulnerability made her think of him as a child. Anyway, we knew better than to mess with Mother when she was waxing clinically protective, so we went to a movie and by the time we got back, it was just Mother in the house.”
“Did Quigg ever show up again?”
“If he did, I’m unaware. You’re wondering if something happened back then that ties in to his murder? Some homicidal patient killed him after all these years?”
“Right now the investigation’s pretty much dead-ended so we’re looking at everything. Is there anyone else I might talk to who’d remember those days at V-State?”
“Mother’s boss was a psychiatrist named Emil Cahane. I think he was the assistant director of the hospital, or something along those lines.” She spelled the name. “I met him a couple of times-Christmas parties, that kind of thing. He came for dinner a few times. He was older than Mother, would be well into his eighties by now.”
“Did you know any of her other students?”
“She never brought students home. Or talked about them. Until she pointed out that article in the paper, I’d never heard of you.”
“So no staff person ever visited other than Marlon Quigg and Dr. Cahane?”
“Dr. Cahane coming for dinner was more social,” she said. “Besides that, nothing.”
“She told you Quigg was having a rough patch.”
“That could mean anything, I suppose. But now that I think about it, for Mother to bend her rules it must’ve been serious. So perhaps you’re onto something. But someone bearing a grudge that long? Goodness, that’s grisly.”
I said, “Your brother and sister also called me back. Think they might have something to add?”
“Mag’s a bit older so perhaps his perspective would be different, but by then he really wasn’t around very much. Ava’s the youngest, I doubt she’d know anything I don’t but give her a try.”
“I appreciate your taking the time.”
“I appreciate your getting me to talk about Mother.”
Dr. Ava McClatchey said, “Trude just called me. At first I didn’t even remember the guy’s visit. Once Trude reminded me of Mag’s stupid fish puns, I got a vague memory but nothing Trude didn’t already tell you. Got a C- section to do. Good luck.”
Dr. Magnus Vanderveul said, “Nope, we went to the movies before the fellow came over and he was gone when we came back. I did start to torment Mother with more fish puns-was he gone because she was into catch and release.” He chuckled. “The look on her face told me to cool it.”
“Upset?”
“Bothered,” he said. “Now that I think about it, that was odd. Mother was Superwoman, it took a lot to bother her.”
CHAPTER
25
I’d never met Dr. Emil Cahane. No reason for the hospital’s deputy director to have contact with a floating intern.
If I got lucky, that would change soon.
Cahane wasn’t listed in any public directories nor was he a member of the American Psychiatric Association, any psychoanalytic institutes, or scientific interest groups. No active medical license in California; same for the neighboring states. I checked East Coast locales with high concentrations of psychiatrists. Nothing in New England, New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, New Jersey. Florida, where Gertrude had ended up.
Nothing.
Well into his eighties. The worst-case scenario loomed.
Then a search using Cahane’s name pulled up a career achievement award he’d received from the L.A. Mental Health Commission eighteen months ago.
An accompanying photo revealed a thin, hawkish white-haired man with a crooked smile and a listing physique that suggested a stroke or other injury.
Cahane’s listed accomplishments included his years at V-State, two decades of volunteer work with abused children, foster families, and the offspring of military veterans. He’d researched post-traumatic stress disorder, closed head injuries, and integrated methods of pain control, had endowed a study of the emotional effects of prolonged parental separation at the med school cross-town where he held a clinical professorship.
