Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“You know he appreciated that because-”

“He thanked me.”

“When?”

“When I told him I was leaving.”

“How old was he, then?”

“Fifteen.”

“Two years in Specialized.”

“In Specialized technically,” he said. “But for all purposes, he had his own private ward. He thanked me, Dr. Delaware. He’d have no reason to harm me.”

“That assumes rationality on his part.”

“Do you have some concrete evidence that I’m in peril, Dr. Delaware?”

“We’re talking about a highly disturbed-”

He smirked. “You’re trying to fish out information.”

“This isn’t about you,” I said. “He needs to be stopped. Give me a name.”

I’d raised my voice, put some steel into it. For no obvious reason Cahane brightened. “Alex, would you be so kind as to check my bathroom? I believe I’ve left my glasses there and I’d like to spend a pleasant afternoon with Spinoza and Leibniz. Rationality and all that.”

“First tell me-”

“Young man,” he said. “I don’t like being out of focus. Help restore some visual coherence and perhaps we’ll chat further.”

I passed through the doorway to the lav. The space was cramped, white tiles crisscrossed by grubby grout. A threadbare gray towel hung from a pebbled glass shower door. The smell was bay rum, cheap soap, faulty plumbing.

No eyeglasses anywhere.

Something white and peaked sat atop the toilet tank.

Piece of paper folded, origami-style, the folds uneven, the flaps wrinkled by unsteady hands. Some sort of small squat animal.

Serrated edges said the paper had been ripped from a spiral notebook. I spotted the book in a ragged wicker basket to the left of the commode, along with a tract on philosophy and several old copies of Smithsonian.

Every page of the notebook was blank.

I unfolded. Black ballpoint block printing centered the page, made ragged by several hesitation breaks. GRANT HUGGLER (The Curious Boy)

I hurried back to Cahane’s living room, note in hand. The big leather chair was empty. Cahane was nowhere in sight.

To the left of the bathroom was a closed door.

I knocked.

No answer.

“Dr. Cahane?”

“I need to sleep.”

I turned the knob. Locked. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I need to sleep.”

“Thank you.”

“I need to sleep.”

Alex Shimoff’s second drawing aired on the six o’clock news. A bored talking-head noted the suspect’s “winter coat” and a possible history of “thyroid issues.” Total broadcast time: thirty-two seconds.

I froze the frame. This sketch was lifelike, the broad face impassive.

This was the man I’d seen huddled in a corner booth at Bijou, inches from a group of moms and tots.

Robin said, “He looks blank. Like something’s missing. Or maybe Shimoff didn’t have enough to work with.”

“He did.”

She looked at me. I’d already told her some of what Cahane had related. Took it no further.

Blanche studied each of us. We sat there.

Robin said, “Eleven years old,” and walked out of the room.

Milo’d been off the radar all day but he phoned about an hour after the broadcast. My searches using Grant Huggler’s name had proved fruitless.

He said, “Catch it? Big improvement, no? His Exaltedness pulled strings because ‘shit needs turning over so it won’t stink worse than it already is.’ Anyway, we’ve got a piece of fine art, even Shimoff’s satisfied. The tip lines just started to light up, so far it’s fewer than we got the first time, maybe Joe Public’s played out. But Moe caught one worth looking into. Anonymous female caller says a guy fitting Shearling’s description received his thyroid prescription at a clinic in Hollywood, she hung up when Reed asked her which one. A place in Hollywood fits a guy on the streets and puts him in proximity to Lem Eccles. All the clinics Petra called are closed until tomorrow, she’ll follow up and if God’s feeling generous we’ll get a name.”

“God loves you,” I said. “His name’s Grant Huggler.”

“What?”

I recapped the meeting with Cahane.

He said, “He leaves it for you to find in the damn bathroom? What was that, pretending he wasn’t actually a snitch?”

“He left it folded like origami. Setting up a little production but distancing himself from it. He’s a complicated guy, spends a lot of energy on self-justification.”

“Is he a reliable guy?”

“I believe what he told me.”

“Grant Huggler,” he said. “Eleven years old a quarter century ago makes him thirty-six, which fits our witness reports. Can’t be too many with that name, I’m plugging him in now-well looky here, male Cauc, six feet, two thirty-six, picked up five years ago in Morro Bay for trespassing, possible intent to commit burglary… a doctor’s office, that probably means they nabbed him just as he broke in to score dope… which fits with a street guy with psych issues… no prison sentence, he got pled down to jail time served… here’s the mug shot. Long hair, scruffy beard but the face behind all that pelt looks kinda chubby… talk about weird eyes. Dead, like he’s staring into the Great Abyss.”

“No busts before then?”

“Nope, that’s it. Not much of a criminal history for someone who’s now a serial gutter.”

I said, “Morro Bay’s not far from Atascadero, which is one of the places dangerous patients were transferred when V-State shut down. A first offense five years ago could mean he was locked up until then. If so, he’s been incarcerated for twenty years.”

“Plenty of time to stew.”

“And to fantasize.”

“He’d be treated with meds, right?”

“Possibly.”

“I’m asking that because if it was dope he was after, maybe he got hooked on something, tried to boost from a doctor’s office. Though once he got out, wouldn’t he be sent to some kind of outpatient facility where he could score legally?”

“That assumes he’d show up,” I said. “And few patients crave psychotropics, something recreational would be more likely. I’m betting he was noncompliant about aftercare, if for no other reason than he’d want to avoid waiting rooms.”

“Little medical phobia, huh? Yeah, getting your neck sliced for no reason can do that to you-so maybe he was trying to swipe thyroid meds because he hated waiting rooms.”

“Anxiety about medical settings could explain being so tense in Glenda Usfel’s scan room. Toss in some hormonal irritability, add Usfel’s aggressive nature, and you’d have a volatile situation. But he didn’t react impulsively, just the opposite. He bided his time, planned, stalked her, took action. I suppose spending most of your life in a highly structured environment could instill patience and an interesting sense of focus.”

“Losing an organ he didn’t have to lose,” he said. “Doing that to a kid. Barbaric. Now he’s out, practicing his own brand of surgery.”

“Avenging old wrongs and some new ones,” I said. “I’d like to know the name of the surgeon who operated on him. All Cahane remembered was that the office was in Camarillo.”

“Another victim before he got to L.A.? No similars have shown up anywhere.”

“One person who did meet an interesting end was the psychologist who orchestrated the thyroidectomy. When Cahane got back, he lost no time firing him and the following day he dropped dead in the hospital parking lot. Apparent heart attack. Sound familiar?”

“Lem Eccles’s wife-Rosetta. Oh, Jesus. Eccles was nuts but not wrong?”

“There’s more, Big Guy. The psychologist’s name was Bernhard Shacker.”

“Same as the guy who analyzed Vita for Well-Start? What the hell’s going on? Some sort of identity theft?”