Jonathan Kellerman: Breakdown

His father opened a door and said, “Hey, look who’s here.”

The boy looked up. Still small for his age at eleven, but his features had solidified, suggesting the man he’d turn into. At five, he’d worn his hair long. Now it was short and side-parted like Derek’s. He dressed like Derek, in a black polo shirt, pressed jeans, deck shoes with fresh white soles. Kids don’t go for timepieces anymore, preferring to live their entire lives on their phones. This kid wore a wristwatch.

I said, “Hi, Ovid.”

Fleeting smile. “Hi.”

The drawing in his sketch pad was an expertly drawn and shaded pencil rendition of an automobile. Not a vehicle I’d ever seen; a testosterone fantasy with a retro feel: swooping fenders, boat-tail rear, flames running along the flank, smoke pouring out of cannon-like exhaust pipes.

Typical boy fantasy but talent elevated it way above typical.

“That’s amazing,” I said.

Derek Sherman said, “He’s into cars now. Draws my Porsche with his eyes closed. We’re going to visit the automotive studio at Cal Arts. They train the best designers.”

The boy’s eyes widened. A corner of his mouth tugged upward.

I said, “Can I sit down?”

“Sure.” A beat. “Can I keep drawing?”

“You bet. If I was this good, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

He studied his creation, began filling in spaces. Flipped a page and began another drawing, this one huge and ponderous — a perfect rendition of a new Rolls-Royce Phantom.

For the next hour, he drew and I just sat and watched and I didn’t mind one bit. When I got up to leave, he nodded as if my exit had been pre-scheduled. Putting down his pencil, he shook my hand, then turned back to his art.

I left feeling better than I had in a long time.

I got home wanting to talk to Robin. Nothing in particular, just talk. She’d left a note: “Grocery shopping, back soon.”

I made coffee and checked my messages. A couple of new custody referrals; families kept falling apart and I was getting busier than I had been in a while.

One message was different, a call from Dr. Sally Abramson, an area code I didn’t recognize. Sally and I had interned together at Langley Porter. She’d also known Lou Sherman. Another revelation? Some tie to the case yet to be learned?

I called her back.

She said, “Alex, thanks for getting back so quickly. How’ve you been doing?”

“Really well. And you?”

“Can’t complain, four kids, full-time faculty Washington U., Dick and I both got tenure a while back.”

“Sounds great. What’s up?”

“I do some consulting for the government. NIMH and NIH, mostly visiting grant sites. I’ve been asked to take a look at a project over there in your neck of the woods, just finished reviewing their renewal summary and they list you as both a ‘clinical partner’ and someone who’ll have nice things to say about them. Which I found a bit... scratch that, I need to keep an open mind.”

I said, “Kristin Doyle-Maslow, the Los Angeles County Behavioral and Affective Re-Integration and Services Project.”

“So you do know it. What do you think?”

I laughed. Kept laughing.

When I finally stopped, Sally said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”