Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“I mentioned him but didn’t push it. I’m not sure she’s able to talk much. The only thing she got out was something about her mother disappearing. And that got her agitated, so I backed off.”

“Was that crazy stuff or do you think you touched a nerve?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mommy disappearing — hey, seeing as she was an actress, what about one of those where-are-they-now sites?”

“Tried it,” I said. “ SubUrban lasted two and a half seasons, episodes are listed and she’s on the cast, but there are no bios.”

“Maybe none of them ever worked again.”

“That gives me an idea, Big Guy. I’ll try to find her cast-mates. Thanks.” I got up. “Can I also have that Echo Park address?”

“Better yet, I’ll come with you.”

“You’ve got time?”

“Anything’s better than this.” Logging off the test, he shrugged into his jacket.

I said, “The great escape.”

“It’s called executive prioritizing, amigo. They teach it to you at seminars.”

The drive to Echo Park took forty-five minutes, during which I called a few private psych hospitals and rehab outfits in the faint hope someone would bend rules. No luck but doing something was better than wallowing in pessimism as Milo cursed his way through traffic.

The East Hollywood address LAPD had for Zelda matched three stories of flaking stucco zigzagged by hundred-year-old fire escapes. One of the few residential throwbacks in an area steadily ceding to strip malls, mail drops, and Central American restaurants.

No signs marking the place but I didn’t need my doctorate to know what it was. Defeated men idled on the sidewalk. Lots of empty eyes and slack mouths. As Milo’s unmarked pulled up, a shudder coursed through the group. By the time we got out of the car, everyone had returned inside.

Three security locks on the open door. A poster prohibited entry after nine p.m. The lobby was skimpy, painted bright aqua, with a whiteboard on an easel listing rules and regulations for residents of BrightMornings: A Place of Rebirth. A plaque on the wall listed sources of funding: a dozen churches and synagogues.

No residents in sight but footsteps thumped on an upper floor. Ornate carving on a battered wooden reception counter said the place had probably once been a hotel, maybe a decent one. I’d prepared myself for another stonewall but the face behind the counter was familiar.

Maybe this would be different.

Tiny young woman in her twenties, filing cards. A lovely Botticelli face was graced by enormous hazel eyes and a mass of dark ringlets. Her fingers were slender and child-sized. Her focus was intense.

Graduate student at the school where I had a faculty position. She’d been in the audience when I’d lectured on pediatric psych a couple of years ago, had asked bright questions. Industrious note-taker, Judith... something.

Our approach drew her away from the cards. Something to do with meal schedules.

“Dr. Delaware?” Her name tag filled in the blank. J. Meers.

“Hi, Judith. Is this your clinical placement?”

“No, just a part-time job to augment my funding. I had to stop T.A.’ing in order to concentrate on my dissertation.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s going.” She shrugged. Glanced at Milo.

“This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD. Milo, Judith Meers.”

“Hi, Lieutenant. Is one of our guys in trouble?”

I said, “No. We’re trying to find a woman named Zelda Chase who listed this as her address.”

“That must’ve been a while back, Dr. Delaware. The program separated the sexes around a year and a half ago and the women are housed in Santa Monica.”

Milo said, “Putting distance between males and females.”

Judith Meers said, “This is before my time but from what I can gather unisex did cause understandable problems.”

“Do you keep records from before the move?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. Everything pertaining to the women went with them.”

As she wrote out the address and number of the Santa Monica shelter, a man came down the stairs, gripping the banister, teetering, nearly tumbling.

Emaciated, with haunted eyes that looked nowhere. Flaccid lips moved but produced no sound. He could’ve been forty or a hundred.

He passed by without noting us, trudged through the doorway, and shuffled eastward.

Judith Meers handed me the information and sighed. “At least their basic needs are taken care of.”

I said, “What kinds of patients qualify?”

“We’re not allowed to offer treatment so they’re residents, not patients. Everyone’s classified as seriously mentally ill — not a DSM diagnosis, just an informal judgment. That’s part of what I do but it’s not at all technical.”

Milo said, “You know it when you see it.”

“Basically,” said Judith Meers. “The goal is to provide a warm, hopefully safe place for nonviolent psychotics and a well-equipped kitchen to serve their nutritional needs.”

I said, “Do any of them get treatment elsewhere?”

“Ideally, they obtain their meds and their therapy at various outpatient clinics. When we have drivers available, we take them, but some of the facilities are within walking distance.”

“Compliance isn’t an issue?”

“It’s a huge issue, Dr. Delaware. We try to guide but are careful to avoid power struggles. That’s our funding mandate.”

“You’re privately funded.”

“Totally,” she said. “The religious institutions have been fantastic. Without them there’d be nothing. There used to be some federal money but it dried up. Tight times, from what I’ve been told.”

Less for this, more for Kristin Doyle-Maslow.

Milo said, “The nonviolent part, that work out?”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much?”

Judith Meers said, “I’ve never had a problem personally, Lieutenant. The guys are pre-screened for lack of aggression and a lot of them actually look out for me. Or think they’re being protective.”

“Hmm,” he said.

“For the most part they’re gentle, Lieutenant. It’s a part-time job and I’m not here after dark, my husband picks me up at five. His job’s in Hollywood, so it works out well.”

Milo said, “Tell me he’s a bouncer and bigger than me.”

She laughed. “Almost as good, he’s a litigator for Capitol Records. And yes, he’s a substantial man.”

I wished her well and we headed for the door.

She said, “Your question about violence. Did the woman you’re looking for do something criminal?”

I said, “No. It’s her son we’re really after. She was found alone, having a major psychotic break. He’s eleven years old and so far we haven’t been able to trace him.”

“That age, living on the streets?” She frowned. “I’ll ask around, maybe some of the guys remember. But as you might imagine, most of them are pretty out of touch and she hasn’t lived here for a while.”

“Anything you can do would be appreciated, Judith.”

“Eleven years old. She refuses to say where he is?”

“She may not be sufficiently in touch to actually know.”

“Darn,” she said. “But it’s what we sign up for, right, Dr. Delaware?”

We drove to Santa Monica. BrightMornings — Westside was a former motel on Pico, a U-shaped collection of white units with blue doors, set behind a sun-seared asphalt lot. Once-white parking lines from the motel days were worn to gray stubble. The neighbors were a discount tire dealer and a plumbing supplies outfit.

No open-door policy here; a slatted electric gate blocked entry. Milo rang in and identified himself. The door to the central unit opened and a woman peered out then reclosed it. It took a while for the gate to begin sliding.