Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

I described the murder, giving him the level of detail I figured Milo would approve. Wanting to communicate the horror without divulging too much and making sure not to mention the other victims lest Cahane interpret that as pointing away from V-State.

He said, “That is beyond brutal.”

“Does the question mark mean anything to you, Dr. Cahane?”

His lips folded inward. He rubbed chin stubble. “How about fetching that bourbon? Bring two glasses.”

The kitchen was as spare as the front room, clean but shabby. The glasses were cut crystal, the bourbon was Knob Creek.

Cahane said, “A finger and a half for me, calibrate your own dosage.”

I allotted myself a thin amber stripe. We clinked crystal. No one toasted.

I sat down and watched him drain his glass in two swallows. He rubbed his stubble again. “You’re wondering why I live this way.”

“It wasn’t the first thing on my mind.”

“But you are curious.”

I didn’t argue.

He said, “Like most people, I spent quite a bit of my adult life accumulating things. After my wife died I began to feel smothered by things so I gave most of them away. I’m not stupid or impulsive, nor am I ruled by neurotic anhedonia. I held on to enough passive income to ensure freedom from worry. It was an experiment, really. To see how it felt to cleanse oneself of the rococo trim we think we crave. Sometimes I miss my big house, my cars, my art. Mostly, I do not.”

Long monologue. Probably a stall. I had no choice but to listen.

Cahane said, “You’ve put me in a difficult position. You’ve come to me with nothing more than hypotheses. Granted, hypotheses are often based on logic but the problem is you don’t have facts and now you’re asking me to break confidentiality.”

“Your position at V-State wouldn’t necessarily obligate you to confidentiality,” I said.

His eyebrows dipped. “What do you mean?”

“A case can be made that administrators aren’t bound the way clinicians are. Of course, if you did treat the person in question, that assertion might be challenged.”

He lifted his empty glass. “Would you mind fetching the bottle?”

I complied and he poured himself another two fingers, finished half. His eyes had grown restless. He closed them. His hands had begun to shake. Then they stilled and he didn’t move.

I waited.

For a moment I thought he’d fallen asleep.

The eyes opened. He looked at me sadly and I braced myself for refusal.

“There was a boy,” he said. “A curious boy.”

Emil Cahane poured another half inch of bourbon. Studying the liquid as if it held both promise and threat, he took a tentative sip then swigged like a sot.

His head tilted up at the ceiling. His eyes closed. His breathing grew rapid.

“All right,” he said. But he spent another half minute sitting there. Then: “This child, this… unusual boy was sent to us from another state. No sense specifying, it doesn’t matter. They had no idea how to deal with him and we were considered among the best. He arrived in a pale green sedan… a Ford… he was accompanied by two state troopers. Large men, it emphasized how small he was. I tried to interview him but he wouldn’t talk. I placed him in G Building. Perhaps you remember it.”

I’d spent most of my time there. “An open ward rather than Specialized Care.”

“There were no youngsters in Specialized Care,” said Cahane. “I felt it would’ve been barbaric to subject someone of that age to the offenders housed there. We’re talking murderers, rapists, necrophiles, cannibals. Psychotics judged too disturbed for the prison system and sheltered from the outside world for their sake and ours.” He massaged his empty glass. “This was a child.”

“How old was he?”

He shifted in his chair. “Young.”

“Pre-adolescent?”

“Eleven,” he said. “You can see how we were faced with a unique set of circumstances. He had his own room in G with an atmosphere that emphasized treatment, not confinement. You remember the array of services we offered. He made good use of our programs, caused no trouble whatsoever.”

I said, “His crime justified Specialized Care but his age complicated matters.”

He shot me a sharp look. “You’re trying to draw out details I’m not sure I’m willing to offer.”

“I appreciate your talking with me, Dr. Cahane, but without details-”

“If I’m not performing to your satisfaction, feel free to walk through that door.”

I sat there.

“I apologize,” he said. “I’m having a difficult time with this.”

“I can understand that.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Delaware, you really can’t understand. You’re assuming I’m waffling because of medico-legal constraints but that’s not it.”

He poured yet more bourbon, tossed it back. Tamped white hair, succeeded only in mussing the long, brittle strands. His eyes had pinkened. His lips vibrated. He looked like an old, wild man.

“I’m too old to care about the medico-legal system. My reservations are selfish: covering my geriatric buttocks.”

“You think you screwed up.”

“I don’t think. I know, Dr. Delaware.”

“With patients like that, it’s often impossible to know-”

He waved me quiet. “Thanks for the attempt at empathy but you can’t know. That place was a city. The director was a do-nothing ass and that left me the mayor. The buck stopped at me.”

Tears filled his eyes.

I said, “Still-”

“Please. Stop.” The soft voice, the sympathetic look. “Even if you are being sincere and not using rapport to crack me open, sympathy without context churns my bowels.”

I said, “Let’s talk about him. What did he do at eleven that his home state couldn’t handle?”

“Eleven,” he said, “and every bit a child. A small, soft, prepubescent boy with a soft voice and soft little hands and soft, outwardly innocent eyes. I held his hand as I led him to the room that would be his new home. He clutched me with fear. Sweaty. ‘When can I go back?’ I had no comforting answer but I never lie so I did what we mind-science types do when we’re flummoxed. I veered into bland reassurances-he’d be comfortable, we’d take good care of him. Then I used another tactic: peppered him with questions so I wouldn’t have to provide answers. What did he like to eat? What did he do for fun? He turned silent, and slumped as if he’d given up. But he marched on like a good little soldier, sat on his bed and picked up one of the books we provided and began reading. I stuck around but he ignored me. Finally, I asked if there was anything he needed and he looked up and smiled and said, ‘No, thank you, sir, I’m fine.’ ”

Cahane winced. “After that, I resorted to cowardice. Inquiring periodically about his progress but having no direct contact with him. The official reason was it wasn’t part of my job description, by that time I was essentially an administrator, saw no patients whatsoever. The real reason, of course, is I had nothing to offer him, didn’t want to be reminded of that.”

“He confused you.”

Instead of responding to that, he said, “I did keep tabs on him. The consensus was that he was doing better than expected. No problems at all, really.”

Bracing his hands on the arms of his chair, he tried to get up, fell back and gave a sick smile. When I moved to help him, he said, “I’m fine,” and struggled to his feet. “Bathroom.” Tottering, he trudged through the doorway that bisected his bookshelves.

Ten minutes passed before a toilet flushed and sink-water burbled. When he returned, his color had deepened and his hands were trembling.

Settling back down, he said, “So he was doing fine. Then he wasn’t. Or so I was told.”