Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“Not yet.”

“He gets back to you, fine. He doesn’t, we’ll figure out what to do. Sayonara.”

I returned to the list of V-State senior staffers, tried the next name, the head social worker, a Helen Barofsky. Her personal data had managed to elude me for nearly an hour by the time my service rang in.

“A Dr. Cahane called,” said the operator. “He said it wasn’t an emergency.”

Depends on your definition.

The number she gave me matched the one I’d received from Milo.

I waited seven rings before a soft voice said, “Yes?”

“Dr. Cahane? This is Alex Delaware returning-”

“Dr. Delaware.” Soft, wispy voice, tremulous at the tail end of each word, like an amp set on slow vibrato. “I’m afraid your name isn’t familiar.”

“No reason it should be,” I said. “I floated through V-State years ago as an intern. Gertrude Vanderveul was my supervisor. Years later, when the hospital closed down, I did some consulting on getting the patients in E Ward some decent aftercare.”

“Aftercare,” he said. “Promises were made, weren’t they?” Sigh. “I was gone by then. Gertrude… have you been in contact with her?”

“Unfortunately, she passed away.”

“Oh. How terrible, she was young.” A beat. “Relatively… my nephew’s secretary said something about a Mr. Quib passing but I can’t say I know who that is, either.”

“Marlon Quigg.” I spelled it.

“No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Yet he’d returned my call.

As if reading my mind, he said, “I responded to your message because at my age any bit of novelty is welcome. In any event, sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

“Marlon Quigg worked as a teacher at V-State during your tenure.”

“We employed many teachers,” said Cahane. “At the height of our glory, we were quite the enlightened institution.”

“This teacher was murdered and the police have reason to believe his death relates to his work at the hospital.”

Silence.

“Dr. Cahane?”

“This is a bit to digest, Dr. Delaware. The police have reason to believe, yet they’re not calling me, you are.”

“I work with them.”

“In what capacity?”

“A consultant.”

“Meaning?”

“Sometimes they think psychology has something to offer. Could you spare a few minutes to meet?”

“Hmm,” he said. “And if I phoned the police, Alex, they’d confirm that you’re a consultant?”

I rattled off Milo’s name, rank, and private number. “He’d be more than happy to speak to you, Doctor. He’s the one who asked me to get in contact with you.”

“Why is that?”

“You were the deputy director at V-State when Marlon Quigg worked there, had access to information.”

“Patient information?”

“Specifically dangerous patients.”

“That, as I’m sure you know, raises all kinds of issues.”

“The situation,” I said, “is way beyond Tarasoff. We’re not talking imminent danger, we’re talking empirical brutality with a significant risk of more.”

“That sounds rather dramatic.”

“I saw the body, Dr. Cahane.”

Silence.

He said, “What exactly are you looking for?”

“The identity of a child Quigg was teaching whose behavior frightened him, perhaps to the point of suggesting a transfer to Specialized Care.”

“And this person killed him?” said Cahane. “All these years later?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re supposing, you really don’t know.”

“If I knew I wouldn’t need to speak to you, Dr. Cahane.”

“Specialized Care,” he said. “Did you ever rotate through there?”

“Gertrude felt I shouldn’t.”

“Why was that?”

“She said it was because she liked me.”

“I see… well, there are always judgments to make and for the most part Gertrude made sound ones. But Special-C wasn’t a hellhole, far from it. Whatever steps were taken to control patients were taken judiciously.”

“This isn’t about hospital procedure, Dr. Cahane. It’s about a particularly calculating, vicious murderer acting out years of resentment and fantasy.”

“Why exactly do the police believe Mr. Quigg’s death had something to do with a patient at V-State?”

Because I told them so.

I said, “It’s complex. Could we meet face-to-face?”

“You want a prolonged opportunity to convince me.”

“I don’t think you’ll need much convincing.”

“Why’s that?”

“Something was left on Mr. Quigg’s body,” I said. “A piece of paper upon which the killer had printed a question mark.”

I could hear Cahane’s breathing, rapid and shallow.

Finally, he said, “I don’t drive anymore. You’d need to come to me.”

The address Milo gave me matched an apartment building a few miles east of Cahane’s nephew’s office in Encino, a plain-faced, two-story rhombus stuccoed the color of raspberry yogurt and planted with yuccas, palms, and enough agave to cook up a year’s worth of margaritas.

The freeway passed within a couple of blocks, its roar the awakening yawn of an especially cranky ogre. The building’s front door was closed but unlocked. The center-spine hallway was freshly painted and immaculately maintained.

Five units above, five below. Cahane’s flat was ground floor rear. As I approached the door, the ogre’s growl muted to a disgruntled hum. I knocked.

“Open.”

Cahane sat ten feet away in a scarred leather easy chair that faced the door. His body tilted to the left. His face was even thinner than in the tribute photo, white hair longer and shaggier, a couple days’ worth of stubble snowing chin and cheeks. He had long legs and arms, not much upper body, was dressed in a clean white shirt and pressed navy slacks under a fuzzy plaid bathrobe. Black suede slippers that had once been expensive fit over white socks that hadn’t been. A mahogany piecrust table held a cup of still-steaming tea and a book. Evelyn Waugh’s hilarious take on travel.

Extending a quivering hand, he said, “Forgive me for not rising but the joints aren’t cooperating today.”

His palm was cool and waxy, his grip surprisingly strong but contact was as brief as he could manage without being rude. He shook his head. “Can’t say I remember you.”

“No reason-”

“Sometimes images register anyway. Would you care for something to drink?” Pointing to a kitchen behind the front room. “I’ve got soda and juice and the kettle’s still warm. Even bourbon, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then please sit.”

No puzzle about where to settle. The sole option was a blue brocade sofa pushed to the wall opposite Cahane’s chair. Like the slippers, it looked pricey but worn. Same for the piecrust table and the Persian rug that stretched unevenly atop soot-colored wall-to-wall. Disparate bookcases covered every inch of wall space save for doorways into the kitchen and the bedroom. Every case was full and some shelves were double-stacked.

A quick scan of the titles showed Cahane’s reading taste to be unclassifiable: history, geography, religion, photography, physics, gardening, cooking, a wide range of fiction, political satire. Two shelves directly behind his chair held volumes on psychology and psychiatry. Basic stuff and not much of it, considering.

Chair, beverage, robe and slippers, reading material. He had enough money to endow a program, had pruned to the basics.

He kept studying my face, as if trying to retrieve a memory. Or just reverting to what he’d learned in school.

When in doubt, do nothing.

I half expected to be presented a Rorschach card.

I said, “Doctor-”

“Tell me about Marlon Quigg’s end.”