Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

I said, “The boy was sent to Specialized Care.”

“If only that was all of it,” said Cahane. “That man, that overconfident ass, decided-on his own, with no evidence or prior discussion-that the boy’s problems were primarily hormonal. Glandular irregularity was the way he termed it. Like something out of a Victorian medical book. He prepared papers, had the boy transported to a clinic in Camarillo where he was operated on by a surgeon who lacked the judgment to question the request.”

“Thyroidectomy,” I said.

Cahane’s head jerked back. “You already know?”

“A witness described a scar across the front of his neck.”

He gripped his glass with both hands, hurled it awkwardly across the room. It landed on the carpet, rolled. “A complete thyroidectomy for absolutely no reason at all. After a week’s recuperation, the boy was transferred to Specialized Care. The quack claimed he was looking out for the boy-trying to regulate his behavior because clearly nothing else had worked. But I always suspected there was an element of base, vicious revenge.”

“You like to operate, Sonny? See how it feels?”

“One of the animals the boy had chosen to explore had been the fool’s unofficial pet. A stray cat that he fed from time to time. Of course he denied that this was all about helping the lad. I returned from my cruise, learned what had happened, was horrified, livid at my staff for not intervening. Everyone claimed they’d been unaware. I sat the bastard down, had a long talk with him, told him he was retiring and that if he ever applied for a position at another state hospital, I’d write a letter. He protested, switched to sniveling, tried to bargain, ended up making a pathetic threat: Anything he’d done had been under my supervision so I wouldn’t escape scrutiny. I called his bluff and he deflated. He was over the hill, anyway. Pushing eighty.”

He smiled. “Younger than I am today. Some of us rot more quickly than others.”

“Foreign credentials,” I said. “From where?”

“Belgium.”

My chest tightened. “University of Louvain?”

Cahane nodded. “A fussy little twit with a fussy, comical Teutonic accent who wore ridiculous bow ties and slicked his hair and strutted around as if he’d kissed Freud’s ring.”

“What was his name?”

Unnecessary request.

Cahane said, “Why the hell not? His name was Shacker. Buhrrrn- hard Shacker. Don’t waste your time looking for him, he’s quite dead. Suffered a heart attack the day after I fired him, collapsed right in the hospital parking lot. No doubt stress was a factor but those sandwiches he brought to staff lunches couldn’t have helped. Fatty pork and the like, slathered with butter.”

“What happened to the boy?”

“Did I remove him from Special-C?” said Cahane. “That didn’t seem advisable, given signs of impending puberty and the enormity of what had been done to him. Instead, I created a custom environment for him within the walls of Special. Kept him out of a barred cell and put him in a locked room that been used for storage but had a window and a nice view of the mountains. We painted it a cheerful blue, moved in a proper bed not a cot, installed wall-to-wall carpeting, a television, a radio, a stereo, audiotapes. It was a nice room.”

“You kept him in Special-C because you expected him to grow increasingly violent.”

“And he defied my expectations, Dr. Delaware. Developed into a pleasant, compliant adolescent who spent his days reading. At that point, I was a good deal more hands-on, visiting him, making sure everything was going well. I brought in an endocrinologist to monitor his Synthroid dosage. He responded well to T4 maintenance.”

“Did he receive any psychiatric treatment?”

“He didn’t want any and he wasn’t displaying symptoms. After what he’d been through, the last thing I wanted to do was coerce. Which isn’t to say he wasn’t monitored thoroughly. Every effort was made to ensure that he didn’t regress.”

“No access to animals.”

“His recreational time was supervised and confined to the Special-C yard. He shot hoops, did calisthenics, walked around. He ate well, groomed himself just fine, denied any delusions or hallucinations.”

“Who supervised him?”

“Guards.”

“Any guard in particular?”

“No.”

“Do you recall a guard named Pitty or Petty?”

“I didn’t know any of their names. Why?”

“The name came up.”

“With regard to?”

“A murder.”

“Quigg’s?”

“Yes,” I lied.

Cahane stared. “A murderous team?”

“It’s possible.”

“Pitty Petty,” he said. “No, that name isn’t familiar to me.”

“What happened to the boy after the hospital closed down?”

“I was gone by then.”

“You have no idea?”

“I was living in another city.”

“Miami?”

He reached for his glass, realized he’d tossed it. Clamped his eyes shut as if in pain, opened them and stared into mine. “Why would you suggest that?”

I said, “Gertrude moved to Miami and men have been known to follow beautiful, brilliant women.”

“Gertrude,” he said. “Did she ever speak of me?”

“Not by name. She did imply she was in love again.”

Another lie, blatant, manipulative. Use what you have.

Emil Cahane sighed. “No, I moved down here, to L.A. It wasn’t until years later that I showed up at her doorstep in Miami. Unannounced, hoping she was still single. I emptied my heart. She let me down easy. Said that what we’d had was wonderful but that was ancient history, there was no looking back. I was utterly crushed but pretended to be valiant, got on the next plane back here. Unable to settle myself, I moved to Colorado, took a job that proved lucrative but unsatisfying, quit, and did the exact same thing. It took four job changes before I realized I was little more than a prescribing robot. I decided to live off my pension and give away most of what I owned. My charity has extended to the point where I need to budget. Ergo, my mansion.”

He laughed. “Ever the narcissist, I can’t refrain from boasting.”

I said, “Where would you guess the boy went after V-State shut down?”

“Many of the Specialized patients were transferred to other institutions.”

“Which ones?”

“Atascadero, Starkweather. No doubt some of them ended up in prison. That’s our system, we’re all about punishment.”

“Help me understand the timeline,” I said. “What year did the boy arrive at V-State?”

“Just over twenty-five years ago.”

“Eleven years old.”

“A few months shy of twelve.”

“How long did he stay on the open ward?”

“A year and some months.”

“So he was thirteen when he got operated on and transferred.” Right around the time Marlon Quigg had left the hospital and abandoned a teaching career.

Had the switch been due to horror at what he’d witnessed behind the shed, or remorse over what his suspicions had led to?

Either way, he’d been called to pay.

I said, “What’s the boy’s name?”

Cahane turned away.

“Doctor, I need a name before other people die.”

“People such as myself?”

Ever the narcissist. “It’s possible.”

“Don’t worry about me, Dr. Delaware. If you’re correct that he killed Quigg out of revenge, I can’t imagine any personal danger to myself. Because Quigg got the ball rolling, without Quigg none of the rest of it would’ve ensued. I, on the other hand, did my utmost to help the boy and he recognized that.”

“Providing a nice room.”

“A protective environment that provided security vis-a-vis the other patients.”