A steady flow of collected rainwater rattled the drainpipe on the porch.
It made it a little harder for Shulman and myself to hear one another?s side of the argument that was developing.
?I left my home around five, five-fifteen this morning,? I said in a quick, agitated bluegrass drawl.
?I took an awful Southern Airways flight up to Kennedy Airport ? awful flight ? stopped at places like Dohren, Alabama ? Then I drove an Econo-Car out to God-knows-where-but-I-don?t, Long Island. And now, you?re not going to let me in to see Toy ? Is that right Doctor Shulman? That?s right, isn?t it??
Shulman just nodded the curly black head.
Then he said something like this to me: ?Ben Toy had a very bad, piss-poor night last night. He?s been up and down since he got in here ? I think he
to get better now ? I don?t think he wants to kill himself right now ? So maybe you can talk with him tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. Not now, though.?
?Aw shit,? I shook my head. I loosened up my tie and a laugh snorted out through my nose. The laugh is a big flaw in my business style. I can?t really take myself too seriously, and it shows.
When Shulman laughed too I started to like him. He had a good way of laughing that was hard to stay pissed off at. I imagined he used it on all his patients.
?Well, at least invite me in for some damn coffee,? I grinned.
The doctor took me into a back door through Bowditch?s nurse?s station.
I caught a glimpse of nurses, some patients, and a lot of Plexiglas surrounding the station. We entered another room, a wood-paneled conference room, and Shulman personally mixed me some Sanka.
After some general small talk, he told me why he?d started to feel that Ben Toy was somehow involved in the murders of Jimmie Horn, Bert Poole, and Lieutenant Mart Weesner.
I told him why most of the people at the
doubted it.
Our reasons had to do with motion pictures of the Horn shooting. The films clearly showed young Poole shooting Horn in the chest and face.
Alan Shulman?s reasons had to do with gut feelings. (And also with the nagging fact that the police would probably never remove Ben Toy from an institution to face trial.)
Like the man or not, I was not overly impressed with his theories.
?Don?t you worry,? he assured me, ?this story will be worth your time and air fare ? if you handle it right.?
As part of the idea of getting my money?s worth out of the trip, I drove about six miles south after leaving the hospital.
I slipped into a pair of cut-offs in my rent-a-car, then went for my first swim in an ocean.
If I?d known how little time I?d be having for the next five months, I would have squeezed even more out of the free afternoon.
The rainy day turned into beautiful, pink-and-blue-skied night.
I was wearing bluejeans and white shirttails, walking down the hospital?s cobblestone road again. It was 8:30 that same evening and I?d been asked to come back to Bowditch.
A bear-bearded, rabbinical-looking attendant was assigned to record and supervise my visit with Ben Toy. A ring of keys and metal badges jangled from the rope belt around his Levi?s. A plastic name pin said that he was MR. RONALD ASHER, SENIOR MENTAL HEALTH WORKER.
The two of us, both carrying pads and pencils, walked down a long, gray-carpeted hall with airy, white- curtained bedrooms on either side.
Something about being locked in the hall made me a little tense. I was combing my hair with my fingers as I walked along.
?Our quiet room?s about the size of a den,? Asher told me. ?It?s a seclusion room. Seclusion room?s used for patients who act-out violently. Act-out against the staff, or other patients, or against themselves.?
?Which did Ben Toy do?? I asked the attendant.
?Oh shit.? Big white teeth showed in his beard. ?He?s been in there for all three at one time or another. He can be a total jerk-off, and then again he can be a pretty nice guy.?
Asher stopped in front of the one closed door in the hallway. While he opened it with two different keys, I looked inside through a book-sized observation window.
The room
tiny.
It had gunboat metal screens and red bars on small, mud-spattered windows. A half-eaten bowl of cereal and milk was on the windowsill. Outside was the stockade wall and an exercise yard.
Ben Toy was seated on the room?s only furniture, a narrow blue pinstriped mattress. He was wearing a black cowboy Stetson, but when he saw my face in the window he took it off.
?Come on the hell in,? I heard a friendly, muffled voice. ?The door?s only triple-locked.?
Just then Asher opened it.
Ben Toy was a tall, thin man, about thirty, with a fast, easy, hustler?s smile. His blond hair was oily, unwashed. He was Jon Voight on the skids.
