noise.
“If Quigg succeeded in having a child moved there, it would’ve brought about a profound shift in quality of life, trading an open therapeutic environment for what was essentially a prison. Possibly for years.”
“The main hospital was that cushy?” said Milo.
“There were a few locked wards but they were used for the patients’ safety, profoundly delayed individuals who’d hurt themselves if allowed to wander. Specialized Care was designed with everyone else’s safety in mind.”
“Shackles and rubber rooms?”
“I never found out what went on there because Gertrude wouldn’t let me near the place. Because she liked me.”
“They have teachers there?”
“Same answer. I couldn’t say.”
Petra said, “Well, something bothered Quigg enough to get him out of that place. How old of a scary kid would we be talking about?”
“The few descriptions we have of our suspect are a man in his thirties and Quigg left V-State twenty-four years ago, so probably a preteen or an early adolescent. The hospital closed down ten years ago. If he was kept there until the end, we’re talking a disturbed, angry man in his twenties possibly released to the streets. Or it took him this long to act out because he wasn’t released, he was transferred to Atascadero or Starkweather before finally earning his freedom.”
“Or,” said Milo, “he’s been out for a while and these aren’t his only murders.”
Petra said, “Other surgeries,” and shook her head. “No one including the Feebies has seen anything like his pattern.”
“Not every murder gets discovered, kid.”
“For ten years he’s careful and conceals his handiwork, then all of a sudden he goes public?”
“It happens,” said Milo. “They get confident.”
“Or,” I said, “they start to get bored and need more stimulation.”
Milo pulled out his phone. “Let’s find this psychiatrist-Cahane.” He called in a real estate search. Negative.
Petra said, “He’s in his eighties, could be in some kind of assisted living.”
Milo said, “Hopefully he’s not too senile to help us.”
I said, “If he doesn’t pan out, there are others who might know-someone who actually worked in Specialized.”
Petra said, “We could look for old hospital personnel records.” Producing a tube of MAC lipstick from her purse, she refreshed. Smiled. “Being de- tec tives and all.”
As we left the restaurant, both their phones went off simultaneously. Not coincidence; two minions from the chief’s office were ordering them downtown immediately for a “planning session.”
As we headed for the West L.A. parking lot, Petra’s cell chirped again. This time the call was from her partner, Raul Biro, back at his desk in Hollywood Division.
He’d located Lemuel Eccles’s son, an attorney from San Diego. Because of the distance, Biro had done a telephonic notification. But Lem Jr. had business in San Gabriel tomorrow and would stop in L.A. for a face-to- face.
Petra said, “We can do the interview together, Big Guy, or if you’re tied up, I’ll handle it. Assuming we don’t get ‘planned’ off the case.”
“Assuming,” said Milo. They walked off wordlessly, a bear and a gazelle.
Five paces later, Petra stopped and looked back. “Thanks for the ideas, Alex.”
Without breaking step, Milo bellowed, “I second the motion.”
CHAPTER
26
I got home prepared to examine Ventura State Hospital’s history, seeking out anyone who could tell me about the patients in Specialized Care.
One curious boy, in particular.
If that failed, I’d press Emil Cahane’s nephew to gain access to the psychiatrist. As I settled in my chair, my service called in. “I have a Dr. Angel on the line, she says it’s important.”
Donna Angel and I go way back, to my first job fresh out of training, working the cancer ward at Western Pediatric. Donna had been an oncology fellow, one of the best, and the department had asked her to stay on as a faculty member. After I went into private practice, she referred occasional patients, always with insight and wisdom.
Picking up a new patient right now would be a distraction but sick kids never lost their priority. I said, “Put her through.”
“Good to talk to you, Alex.” Donna’s Tallulah voice was even huskier than usual. When I’d met her, she smoked, a habit picked up in college. It had taken years for her to quit; I hoped the vocal change meant nothing.
She coughed. “Darn cold, kids are like petri dishes for viruses.”
I said, “Heal up. What’s new?”
“I’ve got someone you should meet.”
“Sure.”
“Not a referral,” she said. “This time I’m helping you.”
She told me about it.
I said, “When?”
“Right now, if you can swing it. There’s some… eagerness at play.”
I made the drive to Sunset and Vermont in a little under an hour. Western Pediatric Medical Center was in its usual state of demolition and construction: another gleaming building rising from a rebar-lined maw, new marble on the facade, chronic deficits be damned.
The campus was a vein of noble intention in the drab bedrock that was East Hollywood. Half a mile to the north, Lemuel Eccles had been savaged and dumped. No time to ponder coincidence or karma or metaphysics.
I parked in the doctors’ lot, rode to the fifth floor of a glass-fronted structure named after a long-dead benefactor, smiled my way past the hem-onc receptionist, and knocked on Donna’s door.
She opened before my knuckles left the wood, hugged me and guided me inside.
Her desk was the usual clutter. A man stood next to one of two visitors’ chairs.
“Dr. Delaware, this is Mr. Banforth.”
“John,” said the man, extending a hand.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Maybe I should be thanking you.”
Banforth waited for me to sit before lowering himself into the chair.
Thirty-five or so, he was six feet tall, solidly built, black, with close-cropped hair graying early and tortoiseshell eyeglasses resting on a small, straight nose. He wore a brown cashmere crewneck, mocha slacks, mahogany suede running shoes. A golf-ball pin was fastened to the left breast of the sweater. A thin gold chain around his neck held two tiny figurines. Outlines of a boy and a girl.
Donna said, “I’ll leave you two to talk,” and headed for the door.
When it closed, John Banforth said, “This has been weighing on me.” He crossed his legs, frowned as if anything close to relaxation felt wrong, and planted both feet on the floor.
“Okay,” he said, “here goes.” Inhaling. “As Dr. Angel told you, my daughter Cerise is her patient. She’s five years old, her diagnosis is Wilms’ tumor, she was diagnosed at Stage Three, one of her kidneys had to be removed, and we thought we were going to lose her. But she’s doing great now, really responding to treatment and we firmly
