Росс Макдональд: The Doomsters

“Did you say Tom Rica?”

But the doctor had reached for his phone: “Miss Parish. This is Dr. Brockley. Tom Rica’s folder, please – No, bring it to my office.”

“I used to know a Tom Rica,” I said when he put down the phone. “Let’s see, he was eighteen about ten years ago, when he left Compton High. That would make him twenty-eight or -nine now. How old is Carl Hallman’s friend?”

“Twenty-eight or -nine,” Brockley said drily. “He looks a good deal older. Heroin has that effect, and the things that heroin leads to.”

“This Rica has a record, eh?”

“Yes, he has. I didn’t think he belonged here, but the authorities thought he could be rehabilitated. Maybe he can, at that. Maybe he can. We’ve had a few heroin cures. But he won’t get cured wandering around the countryside.”

There was a tap at the door. A young woman carrying a folder came in and handed it to Brockley. She was tall and generously made, with a fine sweep of bosom and the shoulders to support it. Her black hair was drawn back severely in a chignon. She had on a rather severely tailored dress which seemed intended to play down her femininity, without too much success.

“Miss Parish, this is Mr. Archer,” Brockley said. “Mr. Archer ran into Carl Hallman this morning.”

Her dark eyes lit with concern. “Where did you see him?”

“He came to my house.”

“Is he all right?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“There’s been a little trouble,” Brockley put in. “Nothing too serious. I’ll fill you in later if you like. I’m a bit rushed right now.”

She took it as a reproof. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I know you’re interested in the case.”

He opened the folder and began to scan it. Miss Parish went out rather hastily, bumping one hip on the doorframe. She had the kind of hips that are meant for child-bearing and associated activities. Brockley cleared his throat, and brought my attention back to him: “Compton High School. Rica’s your boy all right.”

I WASN’T SURPRISED, just disappointed. Tom had played his part in the postwar rebellion that turned so many boys against authority. But he had been one of the salvageable ones, I thought. I’d helped to get him probation after his first major conviction – car theft, as usual – taught him a little boxing and shooting, tried to teach him some of the other things a man should know. Well, at least he remembered my name.

“What happened to Tom?” I said.

“Who can say? He was only in a short time, and we hadn’t got to him yet. Frankly, we don’t spend much time on personal work with addicts. It’s mostly up to them. Some of them make it, some don’t.” He looked down into the folder on his desk. “Rica has a history of trouble. We’ll have to notify the police of his escape.”

“What about Carl Hallman?”

“I’ve been in touch with his family. They’re contacting Ostervelt, the sheriff in Purissima – he knows Carl. I’d rather handle it unofficially, if it’s all right with you. Keep this car trouble off the books until Carl has a chance to think twice about it.”

“You think he’ll come to his senses and bring it back?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. We could at least give him a chance.”

“He’s not dangerous, in your opinion?”

“Everybody’s dangerous, given the wrong circumstances. I can’t predict individual behavior. I know that Carl got rough with you. Still, I’d be willing to take a chance on him. His hospital record is good. And there are other considerations. You know what happens when a patient goes out of here, with or without leave, and gets into any kind of trouble. The newspapers play it up, and then there’s public pressure on us to go back to the snake-pit days – lock the loonies up and forget about them.” Brockley’s voice was bitter. He passed his hand over his mouth, pulling it to one side. “Are you willing to wait a bit, Mr. Archer? I can get you transportation back to town.”

“I’d like a few questions answered first.”

“I’m overdue on the ward now.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist, then shrugged. “All right. Shoot away.”

“Was Carl being kept here by his brother Jerry, after he needed it?”

“No. It was a staff matter, essentially my decision.”

“Did he tell you he blamed himself for his father’s death?”

“Many times. I’d say that guilt feeling was central in his illness. He also attached it to his mother’s death. Her suicide was a great shock to him.”

“She killed herself?”

“Yes, some years ago. Carl thought she did it because he broke her heart. It’s typical of psychotic patients to blame themselves for everything that happens. Guilt is our main commodity here.” He smiled. “We give it away.”

“Hallman has a lot on his mind.”

“He’s been getting rid of it, gradually. And shock therapy helped. Some of my patients tell me that shock treatment satisfies their need for punishment. Maybe it does. We don’t know for certain how it works.”

“How crazy is he, can you tell me that?”

“He was manic-depressive, manic phase, when he came in. He isn’t now, unless he’s starting to go into a windup. Which I doubt.”

“Is he likely to?”

“It depends on what happens to him.” Brockley stood up, and came around the desk. He added, in a casual voice, but glancing sharply down at me: “You needn’t feel that it’s any responsibility of yours.”

“I get your message. Lay off.”

“For a while, anyway. Leave your telephone number with Miss Parish down the hall. If your car turns up, I’ll get in touch with you.”

Brockley let me out, and walked rapidly away. A few steps down the hall, I found a door lettered with Miss Parish’s name and her title, Psychiatric Social Worker. She opened it when I knocked.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come by, Mr. Archer, is it? Please sit down.”

Miss Parish indicated a straight chair by her desk. Apart from the filing cabinets, the chair and desk were about all the furniture the small office contained. It was barer than a nun’s cell.

“Thanks, I won’t take the time to sit down. The doctor asked me to leave my telephone number with you, in case our friend changes his mind and comes back.”

I recited the number. She sat down at her desk and wrote it on a memo pad. Then she gave me a bright and piercing look which made me self-conscious. Tall women behind desks had always bothered me, anyway. It probably went back to the vice-principal of Wilson Junior High, who disapproved of the live bait I used to carry in the thermos bottle in my lunch pail, and other ingenious devices. Vice-Principal Trauma with Archer’s Syndrome. The hospital atmosphere had me thinking that way.

“You’re not a member of Mr. Hallman’s immediate family, or a close friend.” The statement lifted at the end into a question.

“I never saw him until today. I’m mainly interested in getting my car back.”

“I don’t understand. You mean he has your car?”

“He took it away from me.” Since she seemed interested, I outlined the circumstances.

Her eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “I can’t believe it.”

“Brockley did.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean I doubt your word. It’s simply – this eruption doesn’t fit in with Carl’s development. He’s been making such wonderful strides with us – helping us look after the less competent ones – But of course you’re not interested. You’re naturally resentful about the loss of your car.”

“Not so very. He’s had a good deal of trouble. I can afford a little, if he had to pass it on.”

She looked more friendly. “You sound as though you talked to him.”