'Nice place,' he said. 'Any slide trouble?'
'Not yet.'
'My brother's a doctor, bought a place up in Coldwater Canyon a couple of years ago. Last big rain half the backyard melted away.'
'That's too bad.'
'Insurance covered most of it.'
Whitehead cleared his throat.
'Sir,' he said, 'we're here to talk about an alleged perpetrator by the name of James Wilson Cadmus.'
'Where's Milo?' I asked.
They looked at each other.
'He's tied up right now.' Cash smiled.
'With other aspects of the case,' added Whitehead.
'It's a three-territory case,' explained Cash. 'We split up responsibilities.' He smiled again and added: 'He said to send regards.'
I was certain the last statement was a lie.
Whitehead's face clouded with impatience. The pace of his gum chewing picked up. I wondered if it was good cop-bad cop time.
'Sir,' he said, 'we know Cadmus called you several hours before he was arrested.'
'That's correct.'
'What time was that, Doctor?' asked Cash, pulling out a pen and pad.
'Around three-fifteen.'
'How long did the conversation last?'
'About ten minutes.'
'What did the two of you talk about?'
'He talked, I mostly listened. He wasn't making much sense.'
'Not making sense about what?' asked Whitehead quickly. He had an unpleasant way of making questions sound like accusations.
'About anything. He was agitated, seemed to be hallucinating.'
'Hallucinating,' he repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before. 'You mean, seeing things?'
'Most of the hallucinations were auditory; he seemed to be hearing voices. He was convinced someone was out to kill him. He may have been seeing things also.'
'Try to remember everything he said, sir,' he said imperiously.
I repeated as much of Jamey's ramblings as I could recall - flesh eaters, white zombies, reeking blades, the glass canyon, the preoccupation with stink. Cash scribbled as I talked. When I got to the part about the burst of valve arterial, I realised it was a phrase from the Chatterton poem on death that he'd recited during our last session. Not wanting to get into the past, I kept that to myself.
'Sounds pretty violent,' said Cash, scanning his notes. 'And paranoid.'
'Like he was priming himself for something,' agreed Whitehead. 'Premeditating.'
'He was scared,' I said.
Whitehead narrowed his eyes.
'Of what?'
'I don't know.'
'Did he sound paranoid?'
'Are you asking for a diagnosis?'
'Sure.'
'Then the answer is, I don't know. His doctor could tell you more about his mental state.'
'I thought he was your patient, sir,'
' Was is correct. Five years ago.'
'How often have you seen him since?'
'Never. That phone call was the first I'd heard from him.'
'Uh-huh,' he said absently. 'You're a psychiatrist?'
'Psychologist.'
'And you can't tell if he was paranoid or not?'
'He was frightened. If the fear was irrational, it could be paranoia. If he had something to be afraid of, it wouldn't be.'
'So you're saying he had something to be afraid of.'
'No. I'm saying I don't know.'
Cash broke in:
'It's like that bumper sticker, Cal. 'Even paranoids have enemies.' ' He laughed, but no one joined in.
Whitehead pressed on.
'What were you treating him for five years ago?'
'That's confidential patient information.'
The girlish lips twisted into a tight, liver-coloured blossom.
'All right,' he said, smiling ferociously. 'Let's back it up. You said he thought people wanted to kill him. Which people?'
'He didn't say.'
'Do you think he meant the zombies - what's the wording, Dick?'
Cash flipped a page and read out loud:
'Flesh eaters and white zombies.'
'Great title for a movie, huh?' Whitehead grinned. When I didn't reply, he continued. 'Did he think these flesh-eating white zombies were the ones out to get him?'
'I don't know. At the time I thought the white zombies might have referred to the hospital staff.'
'Did he say anything about wanting to get even with the staff? For cooping him up?'
I shook my head. 'From your questions it sounds like you think he was talking normally. It wasn't like that at all. His speech was disjointed. He came nowhere near to developing a train of thought.'
'Uh-huh. Did he talk about wanting to kill people?'
'No.'
'Or cut them up with a stinking blade?'
'Reeking blade,' corrected Cash.
'Whatever,' said Whitehead. 'Did he say stuff like that?'
'No.'
'What do you think he meant by flesh eaters?'
'I have no idea.'
'Uh-huh. What I'm thinking,' he said, 'is that you could take flesh eating literally, as in darkies munching on missionaries, or...'
'Metaphorically,' suggested Cash.
'Yeah. Metaphorically. As in cocksucking.' He flashed the shit-eating grin of a kid who'd got away with saying a dirty word, then looked at me expectantly.
I remained silent.
'We know,' he continued, 'that Cadmus is a deviate. Deviates like to talk about eating each other. Flesh eating could mean deviant sex. Does that make sense to you?'
'Your guess is as good as mine.'
'I was hoping, sir' - he smiled sourly - 'that yours would be better.'
I didn't answer.
'How long have you been a psychiatrist, sir?'
'Psychologist. About thirteen years.'
'Pretty interesting work?'
'I enjoy it.'
'Treat a lot of people with sexual problems?'
