Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“By Marlon Quigg.”

“By a senior staff member who’d been informed by an intern who’d been informed by a teacher.” He sighed. “Yes, your Mr. Quigg, one of those breathlessly idealistic young men who thought he’d found a calling.”

“What did he report?”

“Regression,” said Cahane. “Severe behavioral regression.”

“Back to what brought the boy to you.”

“Dear God,” said Cahane. He laughed oddly.

I said, “Anatomical curiosity?”

His hands pressed together. He mumbled.

I said, “What was his original crime?”

Cahane shook a finger at me. I expected reproach. The finger curled, arced back toward him, hooked in an ear. He sat back. “He killed his mother. Shot her in the back of the head as she watched television. No one missed her at the farm where she cleaned barns because it was the weekend. She didn’t socialize much, it was just her and him, their home in Kan- They lived in a trailer at the edge of the farm.”

“He stayed with her corpse.”

Nod.

I went on, “Once he was sure she was dead he used a knife.”

“Knives,” said Cahane. “From the kitchen. Carving tools, as well, a Christmas gift from her. So he could whittle. He used a whetstone she’d employed when she slaughtered chickens that she brought home for their dinner. She used to slaughter the birds in front of him, wasted nothing, reserved the blood for sausage. When the police finally found her, the stench was overpowering. But he didn’t seem to mind, displayed no emotion at all. The police were stunned, didn’t know where to take him and ended up using a locked room at a local clinic. Because the jail was filled with adult criminals, no one knew what would happen to him in that environment. He didn’t protest. He was a polite boy. Later, when one of the nurses asked him why he’d stayed with the body he said he’d been trying to know her better.”

I described the wounds Shearling had left on Quigg.

He said, “The troopers who brought him also brought crime scene photos from the trailer. When I’m feeling remorseful about something, I dial those images up and make myself downright miserable. The home was a sty, utter disorder. But not his room, his room was neat. He’d decorated the walls. Anatomical charts. Hanging everywhere. Where a child that age would obtain such things baffled me. The police hadn’t been interested enough to ask but I pressed them and they made inquiries. A physician, a general practitioner to whom the boy had been taken far too infrequently, had befriended him. Because he seemed like such a good little boy with his interest in biology. Might very well make a splendid doctor, one day.”

“What do you know about his mother?”

“Reclusive, hardworking. She’d moved to town from parts unknown with a two-year-old, got the job cleaning barns and kept it. The trailer she lived in was at the far end of a wheat field. Owned by the farmer and she was allowed to live there gratis.”

“Was there evidence of premeditation?”

“He shot her while she was watching her favorite TV show. Apart from that, I couldn’t say.”

“Any remorse?”

“No.”

“How was she discovered?”

“On Monday she didn’t show up for work. The first time she’d ever missed, she was dependable, you could set your clock by her. She had no phone so a farmhand went to check, smelled the stench, and cracked the door and saw her. The boy was sitting next to her. Exploring. He’d fixed himself a sandwich. Peanut butter but no jelly.” He smiled. “The details policemen put in their reports. They found a few smudges on the charts in his room, didn’t know what to make of that. My guess is he was looking for confirmation. Between what was on the chart and what he’d… palpated. Her intestines, in particular, seemed… of interest.”

I said, “Homeschooling himself in biology. Kansas couldn’t deal so you got him.”

“Several institutions were solicited and refused. We accepted him because I was arrogant. I’m sure you’re familiar with V-State’s history, all those terrible things carried out in the name of medicine. By the time I got there-the reason I went there-all that had been expunged and we had a well-justified reputation for being humane.” He studied me. “When you were there did you find indications to the contrary?”

“Not at all. I got great training.”

“Glad to hear you say that. Glad and proud… there was the notion that he wouldn’t be safe in Kansas. Too much notoriety.”

“What caused Marlon Quigg to be concerned?”

“I’m sure you recall the beauty of our grounds.”

Apparent non sequitur. I nodded.

He said, “ Pastoral was a term I heard bandied about quite often. Abundant flora and fauna.”

I said, “Animals. He trapped them. Resumed exploring.”

“Small animals,” said Cahane. “Analysis of the bones identified squirrels, mice, lizards. A garter snake. A stray cat. Birds, as well, we never figured out how he caught them. Caught any of them. He was clever enough to conceal his handiwork for months. Found a quiet spot behind a remote storage shed, conducted his experiments, buried the remains and tidied the ground. He’d been allowed to leave the ward for two hours a day, once in the morning, once before dinner. From the body count, we estimated he worked with one creature a day.”

Tidying. I thought of the clean dirt at Marlon Quigg’s kill-site. “How was he discovered?”

“Young Mr. Quigg had grown suspicious and chose to follow him one evening. The chosen creature was a baby mole.”

“What made Quigg suspicious?”

“The boy had grown uncommunicative, even surly. Should someone else have noticed? Perhaps. What can I tell you?”

“Teachers and nurses spend a lot more time with patients than we do.”

“They do… In any event, faced with a new set of facts, we needed to shift our paradigm but we weren’t sure how. Some of the staff, most vocally Marlon Quigg, agitated for an immediate transfer to Specialized Care. Others disagreed.”

Cahane’s eyes shifted to the right. “I listened to everyone, said I’d take some time and decide. As if I was being deliberative. The truth was I was unable to make a decision. Not only because he posed problems I was ill prepared for. My own life was in shambles. My father had just died, I’d applied for positions at Harvard and UC San Francisco, had been turned down at both places. My marriage was falling apart. There had always been issues but I’d brought them to a head by straying with another woman, a beautiful, brilliant woman but, of course, that doesn’t excuse it. In a pathetic attempt to reconcile with my wife, I booked a cruise through the Panama Canal. Even under the guise of sensitivity I was being selfish, because sailing through the canal was something I’d always wanted.”

He picked up his glass, changed his mind, put it down hard. “Twenty-four days on a ship, preceded by several weeks on the Outer Banks of North Carolina because Eleanor hailed from there. I was away from the hospital for forty-three days and during my absence, someone took it upon himself to deal with the boy. The psychologist who’d come to me with Quigg’s original complaint. He agreed with Quigg, viewed the boy as untreatable and tainted. His term. He was a foolish, authoritarian man, too confident in his own meager abilities. I’d long had my reservations about him but his credentials, though foreign, were excellent. As a state employee he had all sorts of contractual protection, had never made an error that would jeopardize that.”

Cahane’s shaky fingers entangled in his hair. “Then, he did. And now this moment has arrived.”

His eyes lost focus. “There I was, on a beautiful ship, dining, dancing. Marveling at the canal.” He poured bourbon, spilled some, studied the droplets on his sleeve. “Dear God.”