Caught in a traffic jam on Wilshire and Westwood, I phoned my service.
Three calls, none of them from Emil Cahane.
I tried the Valley number Milo had given me. No answer.
When I got home, I began working the computer, searching for staff lists at V-State and finally coming upon an old one that listed Cahane as deputy director with one person above him, Dr. Saul Landesberg.
A search using Landesberg’s name pulled up a four-year-old obituary.
Him, Gertrude, I wasn’t even sure if Cahane was coherent.
Ancient history. But not to a man in a fleece-lined coat.
Robin was working out back. I dropped in, kissed her, petted Blanche, engaged in a brief discussion of dinner. Yes, Japanese sounded fine, maybe we’d splurge on Matsuhisa.
When I returned to my office, the phone was ringing.
Milo said, “Guess what, we actually learned some stuff. A clerk at a stand on San Vicente in Brentwood told Reed he sold an armload of puzzle books to someone about a week ago. Unfortunately, he remembers the books, not the purchaser. Who cleaned him out. And paid with small bills and coins.”
I said, “Go west from that location, hook north to Sunset and keep going, you’ll reach Quigg’s apartment. Couple of miles farther, you’re at Temescal Canyon.”
“Stocking up on reading material for a thorough surveillance? Interesting… The second thing is Petra found out from Oxnard that there really was a Rosetta who died in the parking lot at V-State, last name Macomber. She lived in a public housing project, had coke and booze issues. So Eccles had at least some reality testing, but there was no evidence it was murder, more likely a heart attack.”
“Not a scratch on her,” I said. “That’s why Eccles thought she’d been poisoned. Was she visiting him?”
“The cop Petra talked to didn’t know, only reason he remembered was he’d patrolled near the hospital, was called to the scene by their on-site security. Thought it was ironic for someone to walk out of a hospital and keel over. Even though it wasn’t that kind of hospital. The last bit of news is Shimoff’s second drawing is much more detailed than the one he did with Wheeling, I’m working on getting it to the media. So thanks for directing us to Mr. Banforth. Anything from Cahane?”
“Not yet.”
“He gets back to you, fine. He doesn’t, we’ll figure out what to do. Sayonara.”
I returned to the list of V-State senior staffers, tried the next name, the head social worker, a Helen Barofsky. Her personal data had managed to elude me for nearly an hour by the time my service rang in.
“A Dr. Cahane called,” said the operator. “He said it wasn’t an emergency.”
Depends on your definition.
The number she gave me matched the one I’d received from Milo.
I waited seven rings before a soft voice said, “Yes?”
“Dr. Cahane? This is Alex Delaware returning-”
“Dr. Delaware.” Soft, wispy voice, tremulous at the tail end of each word, like an amp set on slow vibrato. “I’m afraid your name isn’t familiar.”
“No reason it should be,” I said. “I floated through V-State years ago as an intern. Gertrude Vanderveul was my supervisor. Years later, when the hospital closed down, I did some consulting on getting the patients in E Ward some decent aftercare.”
“Aftercare,” he said. “Promises were made, weren’t they?” Sigh. “I was gone by then. Gertrude… have you been in contact with her?”
“Unfortunately, she passed away.”
“Oh. How terrible, she was young.” A beat. “Relatively… my nephew’s secretary said something about a Mr. Quib passing but I can’t say I know who that is, either.”
“Marlon Quigg.” I spelled it.
“No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
Yet he’d returned my call.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I responded to your message because at my age any bit of novelty is welcome. In any event, sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“Marlon Quigg worked as a teacher at V-State during your tenure.”
“We employed many teachers,” said Cahane. “At the height of our glory, we were quite the enlightened institution.”
“This teacher was murdered and the police have reason to believe his death relates to his work at the hospital.”
Silence.
“Dr. Cahane?”
“This is a bit to digest, Dr. Delaware. The police have reason to believe, yet they’re not calling me, you are.”
“I work with them.”
“In what capacity?”
“A consultant.”
“Meaning?”
“Sometimes they think psychology has something to offer. Could you spare a few minutes to meet?”
“Hmm,” he said. “And if I phoned the police, Alex, they’d confirm that you’re a consultant?”
I rattled off Milo’s name, rank, and private number. “He’d be more than happy to speak to you, Doctor. He’s the one who asked me to get in contact with you.”
“Why is that?”
“You were the deputy director at V-State when Marlon Quigg worked there, had access to information.”
“Patient information?”
“Specifically dangerous patients.”
“That, as I’m sure you know, raises all kinds of issues.”
“The situation,” I said, “is way beyond Tarasoff. We’re not talking imminent danger, we’re talking empirical brutality with a significant risk of more.”
“That sounds rather dramatic.”
“I saw the body, Dr. Cahane.”
Silence.
He said, “What exactly are you looking for?”
“The identity of a child Quigg was teaching whose behavior frightened him, perhaps to the point of suggesting a transfer to Specialized Care.”
“And this person killed him?” said Cahane. “All these years later?”
“It’s possible.”
“You’re supposing, you really don’t know.”
“If I knew I wouldn’t need to speak to you, Dr. Cahane.”
“Specialized Care,” he said. “Did you ever rotate through there?”
“Gertrude felt I shouldn’t.”
“Why was that?”
“She said it was because she liked me.”
“I see… well, there are always judgments to make and for the most part Gertrude made sound ones. But Special-C wasn’t a hellhole, far from it. Whatever steps were taken to control patients were taken judiciously.”
“This isn’t about hospital procedure, Dr. Cahane. It’s about a particularly calculating, vicious murderer acting out years of resentment and fantasy.”
“Why exactly do the police believe Mr. Quigg’s death had something to do with a patient at V-State?”
Because I told them so.
I said, “It’s complex. Could we meet face-to-face?”
“You want a prolonged opportunity to convince me.”
“I don’t think you’ll need much convincing.”
“Why’s that?”
