“Something was left on Mr. Quigg’s body,” I said. “A piece of paper upon which the killer had printed a question mark.”
I could hear Cahane’s breathing, rapid and shallow.
Finally, he said, “I don’t drive anymore. You’d need to come to me.”
The address Milo gave me matched an apartment building a few miles east of Cahane’s nephew’s office in Encino, a plain-faced, two-story rhombus stuccoed the color of raspberry yogurt and planted with yuccas, palms, and enough agave to cook up a year’s worth of margaritas.
The freeway passed within a couple of blocks, its roar the awakening yawn of an especially cranky ogre. The building’s front door was closed but unlocked. The center-spine hallway was freshly painted and immaculately maintained.
Five units above, five below. Cahane’s flat was ground floor rear. As I approached the door, the ogre’s growl muted to a disgruntled hum. I knocked.
“Open.”
Cahane sat ten feet away in a scarred leather easy chair that faced the door. His body tilted to the left. His face was even thinner than in the tribute photo, white hair longer and shaggier, a couple days’ worth of stubble snowing chin and cheeks. He had long legs and arms, not much upper body, was dressed in a clean white shirt and pressed navy slacks under a fuzzy plaid bathrobe. Black suede slippers that had once been expensive fit over white socks that hadn’t been. A mahogany piecrust table held a cup of still-steaming tea and a book. Evelyn Waugh’s hilarious take on travel.
Extending a quivering hand, he said, “Forgive me for not rising but the joints aren’t cooperating today.”
His palm was cool and waxy, his grip surprisingly strong but contact was as brief as he could manage without being rude. He shook his head. “Can’t say I remember you.”
“No reason-”
“Sometimes images register anyway. Would you care for something to drink?” Pointing to a kitchen behind the front room. “I’ve got soda and juice and the kettle’s still warm. Even bourbon, if you’d like.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then please sit.”
No puzzle about where to settle. The sole option was a blue brocade sofa pushed to the wall opposite Cahane’s chair. Like the slippers, it looked pricey but worn. Same for the piecrust table and the Persian rug that stretched unevenly atop soot-colored wall-to-wall. Disparate bookcases covered every inch of wall space save for doorways into the kitchen and the bedroom. Every case was full and some shelves were double-stacked.
A quick scan of the titles showed Cahane’s reading taste to be unclassifiable: history, geography, religion, photography, physics, gardening, cooking, a wide range of fiction, political satire. Two shelves directly behind his chair held volumes on psychology and psychiatry. Basic stuff and not much of it, considering.
Chair, beverage, robe and slippers, reading material. He had enough money to endow a program, had pruned to the basics.
He kept studying my face, as if trying to retrieve a memory. Or just reverting to what he’d learned in school.
When in doubt, do nothing.
I half expected to be presented a Rorschach card.
I said, “Doctor-”
“Tell me about Marlon Quigg’s end.”
I described the murder, giving him the level of detail I figured Milo would approve. Wanting to communicate the horror without divulging too much and making sure not to mention the other victims lest Cahane interpret that as pointing away from V-State.
He said, “That is beyond brutal.”
“Does the question mark mean anything to you, Dr. Cahane?”
His lips folded inward. He rubbed chin stubble. “How about fetching that bourbon? Bring two glasses.”
The kitchen was as spare as the front room, clean but shabby. The glasses were cut crystal, the bourbon was Knob Creek.
Cahane said, “A finger and a half for me, calibrate your own dosage.”
I allotted myself a thin amber stripe. We clinked crystal. No one toasted.
I sat down and watched him drain his glass in two swallows. He rubbed his stubble again. “You’re wondering why I live this way.”
“It wasn’t the first thing on my mind.”
“But you are curious.”
I didn’t argue.
He said, “Like most people, I spent quite a bit of my adult life accumulating things. After my wife died I began to feel smothered by things so I gave most of them away. I’m not stupid or impulsive, nor am I ruled by neurotic anhedonia. I held on to enough passive income to ensure freedom from worry. It was an experiment, really. To see how it felt to cleanse oneself of the rococo trim we think we crave. Sometimes I miss my big house, my cars, my art. Mostly, I do not.”
Long monologue. Probably a stall. I had no choice but to listen.
Cahane said, “You’ve put me in a difficult position. You’ve come to me with nothing more than hypotheses. Granted, hypotheses are often based on logic but the problem is you don’t have facts and now you’re asking me to break confidentiality.”
“Your position at V-State wouldn’t necessarily obligate you to confidentiality,” I said.
His eyebrows dipped. “What do you mean?”
“A case can be made that administrators aren’t bound the way clinicians are. Of course, if you did treat the person in question, that assertion might be challenged.”
He lifted his empty glass. “Would you mind fetching the bottle?”
I complied and he poured himself another two fingers, finished half. His eyes had grown restless. He closed them. His hands had begun to shake. Then they stilled and he didn’t move.
I waited.
For a moment I thought he’d fallen asleep.
The eyes opened. He looked at me sadly and I braced myself for refusal.
“There was a boy,” he said. “A curious boy.”
CHAPTER
30
Emil Cahane poured another half inch of bourbon. Studying the liquid as if it held both promise and threat, he took a tentative sip then swigged like a sot.
His head tilted up at the ceiling. His eyes closed. His breathing grew rapid.
“All right,” he said. But he spent another half minute sitting there. Then: “This child, this… unusual boy was sent to us from another state. No sense specifying, it doesn’t matter. They had no idea how to deal with him and we were considered among the best. He arrived in a pale green sedan… a Ford… he was accompanied by two state troopers. Large men, it emphasized how small he was. I tried to interview him but he wouldn’t talk. I placed him in G Building. Perhaps you remember it.”
I’d spent most of my time there. “An open ward rather than Specialized Care.”
“There were no youngsters in Specialized Care,” said Cahane. “I felt it would’ve been barbaric to subject someone of that age to the offenders housed there. We’re talking murderers, rapists, necrophiles, cannibals. Psychotics judged too disturbed for the prison system and sheltered from the outside world for their sake and ours.” He massaged his empty glass. “This was a child.”
“How old was he?”
He shifted in his chair. “Young.”
