“The name came up.”
“With regard to?”
“A murder.”
“Quigg’s?”
“Yes,” I lied.
Cahane stared. “A murderous team?”
“It’s possible.”
“Pitty Petty,” he said. “No, that name isn’t familiar to me.”
“What happened to the boy after the hospital closed down?”
“I was gone by then.”
“You have no idea?”
“I was living in another city.”
“Miami?”
He reached for his glass, realized he’d tossed it. Clamped his eyes shut as if in pain, opened them and stared into mine. “Why would you suggest that?”
I said, “Gertrude moved to Miami and men have been known to follow beautiful, brilliant women.”
“Gertrude,” he said. “Did she ever speak of me?”
“Not by name. She did imply she was in love again.”
Another lie, blatant, manipulative. Use what you have.
Emil Cahane sighed. “No, I moved down here, to L.A. It wasn’t until years later that I showed up at her doorstep in Miami. Unannounced, hoping she was still single. I emptied my heart. She let me down easy. Said that what we’d had was wonderful but that was ancient history, there was no looking back. I was utterly crushed but pretended to be valiant, got on the next plane back here. Unable to settle myself, I moved to Colorado, took a job that proved lucrative but unsatisfying, quit, and did the exact same thing. It took four job changes before I realized I was little more than a prescribing robot. I decided to live off my pension and give away most of what I owned. My charity has extended to the point where I need to budget. Ergo, my mansion.”
He laughed. “Ever the narcissist, I can’t refrain from boasting.”
I said, “Where would you guess the boy went after V-State shut down?”
“Many of the Specialized patients were transferred to other institutions.”
“Which ones?”
“Atascadero, Starkweather. No doubt some of them ended up in prison. That’s our system, we’re all about punishment.”
“Help me understand the timeline,” I said. “What year did the boy arrive at V-State?”
“Just over twenty-five years ago.”
“Eleven years old.”
“A few months shy of twelve.”
“How long did he stay on the open ward?”
“A year and some months.”
“So he was thirteen when he got operated on and transferred.” Right around the time Marlon Quigg had left the hospital and abandoned a teaching career.
Had the switch been due to horror at what he’d witnessed behind the shed, or remorse over what his suspicions had led to?
Either way, he’d been called to pay.
I said, “What’s the boy’s name?”
Cahane turned away.
“Doctor, I need a name before other people die.”
“People such as myself?”
Ever the narcissist. “It’s possible.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dr. Delaware. If you’re correct that he killed Quigg out of revenge, I can’t imagine any personal danger to myself. Because Quigg got the ball rolling, without Quigg none of the rest of it would’ve ensued. I, on the other hand, did my utmost to help the boy and he recognized that.”
“Providing a nice room.”
“A protective environment that provided security vis-a-vis the other patients.”
“You know he appreciated that because-”
“He thanked me.”
“When?”
“When I told him I was leaving.”
“How old was he, then?”
“Fifteen.”
“Two years in Specialized.”
“In Specialized technically,” he said. “But for all purposes, he had his own private ward. He thanked me, Dr. Delaware. He’d have no reason to harm me.”
“That assumes rationality on his part.”
“Do you have some concrete evidence that I’m in peril, Dr. Delaware?”
“We’re talking about a highly disturbed-”
He smirked. “You’re trying to fish out information.”
“This isn’t about you,” I said. “He needs to be stopped. Give me a name.”
I’d raised my voice, put some steel into it. For no obvious reason Cahane brightened. “Alex, would you be so kind as to check my bathroom? I believe I’ve left my glasses there and I’d like to spend a pleasant afternoon with Spinoza and Leibniz. Rationality and all that.”
“First tell me-”
“Young man,” he said. “I don’t like being out of focus. Help restore some visual coherence and perhaps we’ll chat further.”
I passed through the doorway to the lav. The space was cramped, white tiles crisscrossed by grubby grout. A threadbare gray towel hung from a pebbled glass shower door. The smell was bay rum, cheap soap, faulty plumbing.
No eyeglasses anywhere.
Something white and peaked sat atop the toilet tank.
Piece of paper folded, origami-style, the folds uneven, the flaps wrinkled by unsteady hands. Some sort of small squat animal.
Serrated edges said the paper had been ripped from a spiral notebook. I spotted the book in a ragged wicker basket to the left of the commode, along with a tract on philosophy and several old copies of Smithsonian.
Every page of the notebook was blank.
I unfolded. Black ballpoint block printing centered the page, made ragged by several hesitation breaks. GRANT HUGGLER (The Curious Boy)
I hurried back to Cahane’s living room, note in hand. The big leather chair was empty. Cahane was nowhere in sight.
To the left of the bathroom was a closed door.
I knocked.
No answer.
“Dr. Cahane?”
“I need to sleep.”
I turned the knob. Locked. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I need to sleep.”
“Thank you.”
“I need to sleep.”
