'Believe me,' she insisted, 'it's not worth it. They don't know anything that I haven't told you.'
'I'm sure you're right, but I'd be irresponsible if I didn't interview the people who've been his friends for the last five years.'
SOUZA WAS surprised at my request.
'Doctor, all you're going to see is a large blood-spattered room, but if you think it's necessary, it can be arranged.'
'It would be helpful.'
He paused long enough for me to wonder if we'd been cut off.
'In what way, Doctor?'
'If he's ever lucid enough to talk about the murders, I want to be as knowledgeable as possible about the details.'
'Very well,' he said sceptically. 'I've never had an expert ask for it, but I'll talk to the police and have them clear you for a visit.'
'Thank you.'
'On a more conventional note, I'd like to hear about any progress you've made in your evaluation.'
I gave him a summary of my interview with Sarita Flowers. He latched immediately on to the grid hallucination and my inquiries about drug use.
'What are these grids exactly?'
'People on LSD sometimes report seeing brightly lit multicoloured checkerboard designs. But Jamey spoke of seeing bloody grids, so it may have been something totally different.'
'Interesting. If he did in fact see these grids, how significant is it?'
'Probably not at all. While visual hallucinations aren't as common in schizophrenia as auditory disturbances, they do occur. And Dr. Flowers seemed fairly certain that he never took drugs.'
'But seeing this kind of thing is common in LSD users?'
'Yes, but not exclusive to them.'
'It raises possibilities, Doctor.'
'That Chancellor fed him drugs and turned him into a robot?'
' Something along those lines.'
'I wouldn't push that theory yet. The facts strongly support a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Schizophrenics often exhibit severe distortions of language; words acquire new, bizarre definitions. It's called verbal paraphasia. To him, bloody grids could have meant 'spaghetti''.'
'I don't require scientific certainty, Doctor, only implied possibilities.'
'At this point you don't have even that. There are no other indications he took any kind of drugs. Mainwaring must have run tests when he admitted him. Did he say anything about substance abuse?'
'No,' he admitted. 'He said it was a clear-cut case of schizophrenia. That even if the boy had taken drugs, they couldn't have made him crazy.'
'That's an accurate appraisal.'
'I understand all that, Doctor. But should you come across other evidence of drug abuse - anything at all - please call me immediately.'
'I will.'
'Good. Incidentally, Dwight will be able to see you this afternoon at three.'
'Three will be fine.'
'Splendid. If you have no objection, he'd prefer to meet at Cadmus Construction. Away from prying eyes.'
'No problem.'
He gave me the corporation's Westwood address and made another offer to pay me. My first impulse was to refuse, but then I told myself I was being childish, confusing self-denial with independence. Money or no money, I was involved in the case and had come too far to turn back. I told him to send me half the retainer, and he said he'd write out a cheque for five thousand dollars the instant we got off the phone.
I arrived at the jail at eleven and was kept waiting in the entrance lobby for forty-five minutes without explanation. It was a hog, smoggy day, and the pollution had seeped indoors. The chairs in the room were hard and unaccommodating. I grew restless and asked about the delay. The voice from the mirrored booth claimed ignorance. Finally a female deputy arrived to take me to the High Power block. In the elevator she told me that an inmate had been knifed to death the day before.
'We have to double-check procedures, and it slows everything down.'
'Was it gang-related?'
'I'd imagine so, sir.'
A stocky black deputy named Sims took over at the entrance to the High Power block. He ushered me to a small office and searched me with a surprisingly light touch. When I got to the glass room, Jamey was already there, Sims unlocked the door, waited until I was seated before leaving. Once outside, he stayed close to the glass and, just as Sonnenschein had, kept an unobstructive but watchful eye on the proceedings.
Jamey was awake this time, straining and twisting against his shackles. His lips were pursed, the eyes above them careening like pinballs. Someone had shaved him. but it had been a slapdash job, and dark patches of stubble checkered his face. His yellow pyjamas were clean but wrinkled. The pungence of stale body odour quickly filled the room, and I wondered when they'd last bathed him.
'It's me again, Jamey. Dr. Delaware.'
The eyes stopped moving, froze, then sank slowly until they settled on me. A brief flicker of clarity illuminated the irises, as if lightning had flashed within the orbital sockets, but the blue quickly filmed over and remained glassy. Not much of a response, but at least he was showing minimal awareness.
I told him I was glad to see him, and he broke out into a sweat. Beads of moisture moustached his upper lip and glossed his forehead. He closed his eyes again. As the lids fluttered shut, the cords of his neck grew taut.
'Jamey, open your eyes. Listen to what I have to say.'
The lids remained fastened tight. He shuddered, and I waited for other signs of dyskinesia. None came.
'Do you know where you are?'
Nothing.
'What day is it, Jamey?'
Silence.
'Who am I?'
No response.
I kept talking to him. He rocked and fidgeted, but unlike the movements he'd displayed during the first visit, these appeared to be voluntary. Twice he opened his eyes and stared at me cloudily, only to close them again quickly. The second time they remained shut, and he showed no further response to the sound of my voice.
Twenty minutes into the session I was ready to give up when his mouth began to work, churning, the lips stiff and extended, as if he were struggling to talk but unable to do so. The effort made him sit straighter. I leaned close. In the corner of my eye I saw a khaki blur: Sims edging closer to the glass and peering in. I ignored him, kept my attention fixed on the boy.
'What is it, Jamey?'
The skin around his lips puckered and blanched. His mouth became a black ellipse. Out came several shallow exhalations. Then a single word, muttered under his breath:
'Glass.'
'Glass?' I moved within inches of his mouth, felt the heat of his breath. 'What kind of glass?'
A strangled croak.
'Talk to me, Jamey. Come on.'
I heard the door open. Sims's voice said:
'Please move back, sir.'
'Tell me about the glass,' I persisted, trying to build a dialogue out of one whispered word.
'Sir,' said Sims forcefully, 'you're too close to the prisoner. Move back.'
I complied. Simultaneously Jamey retreated, hunching his shoulders and bowing his head; it seemed a primitive defence, as if self-reduction would make him unappealing prey.
