charge, with cuddles, fairy tales, the maternal breast.
Good child rearing or something evil?
Something else fit too' Another Lancet article by Dr. Roy Meadow, the pioneer researcher. A discovery, in I 984, after examining the backgrounds of thirty-two children with manufactured epilepsy: Seven siblings, dead and buried.
All expired from crib death.
I read some more until seven, then worked on the galley proofs of a
monograph I'd just gotten accepted for publication: the emotional adjustment of a school full of children targeted by a sniper a year ago.
The school's principal had become a friend of mine, then more. Then she went back to Texas to attend to a sick father. He died and she never returned.
Loose ends...
I reached Robin at her studio. She'd told me she was elbow-deep in a trying project-building four matching Stealth bomber-shaped guitars for a heavy metal band with neither budget nor self-controland I wasn't surprised to hear the strain in her voice.
'Bad time?'
'No, no, it's good talking to someone who isn't drunk.'
Shouts in the background. I said, 'Is that the boys?'
'Being boys. I keep booting them out and they keep coming back. Like mildew. You'd think they'd have something to keep them busy-trashing their hotel suite, maybe-but- Uh-oh, hold on.
Lucas, get away from there! You may need your fingers some day.
Sorry, Alex. He was drumming near the circular saw.' Her voice softened: 'Listen, I've got to go. How about Friday night if that's okay with you?'
'It's okay. Mine or yours?'
'I'm not sure exactly when I'll be ready, Alex, so let me come by and get you. I promise no later than nine, okay?'
'Okay.'
We said our goodbyes and I sat thinking about how independent she'd become.
I took out my old Martin guitar and finger-picked for a while. Then I went back into my study and reread the Munchausen articles a couple of times over, hoping to pick up something-some clinical cue that I might have missed. But no insights were forthcoming; all I could think of was Cassie Jones's chubby face turned into something gray and sepulchral.
I wondered if it was even a question of science-if all the medical wisdom in the world was going to take me where I needed to go.
Maybe time for a different kind of specialist.
I phoned a West Hollywood number. A sultry female voice said, 'You've reached Blue Investigations. Our office is closed. If you wish to leave a nonemergency message, do so after the first tone. In an emergency, wait until two tones have sounded.'
After the second beep, I said, 'It's Alex, Milo. Call me at home,' and picked up my guitar again.
I'd played ten bars of 'Windy and Warm' when the phone rang.
A voice that sounded far away said, 'What's the emergency, pal?'
'Blue Investigations?'
As in cop.'
