"No, but any knowledgeable psychiatrist would know of Sarah-that's my classmate. Sarah might have a recollection of it, but surely it would be easier for you to just ask the judge."
"Right," I said, hopefully not too quickly. "Tell me about the course of care at Willow Wood, generally."
"Well, the course of care varies, of course, with the condition being treated. Willow Wood specializes, so to speak, in difficult, long-term cases of seriously ill, but not dangerous, individuals."
"Arts, crafts, and canoeing versus straitjackets and shock treatment?"
Stein snorted. "In a blunt sort of way, yes."
I returned to the file. Stephen seemed to improve month by month, if you compared a given week's entry to one four or five weeks later. The drugs dropped off, and the assessments of his progress steadily rose. About eight months after his initial admission, he was released to his father, with a forwarding referral to Dr. Stein.
I looked up at him. "Doctor, I don't quite understand something from the records here. What exactly was wrong with Stephen?"
"Well," said Stein, clearing his throat and shuffling through the file, "it's often difficult to diagnose exactly what was 'wrong' with a patient. One treats the apparent condition, or symptom, if you like, and then varies the treatment if earlier efforts prove unsuccessful. As you can see, Stephen was catatonic upon arrival at Willow Wood. Then slowly, by an evolving alternation of drugs, counseling, and therapeutic activities, he came back to us, so to speak."
"In layman's terms, you varied your prescriptions until he seemed to come out of it."
"Yes, but that can pretty generally be said about any patient."
"Then you can't really be sure of what was wrong with him to start with."
"Well, not in some microscopically, conclusively proved sense, no. When Stephen arrived at Willow Wood, he was literally in a trance. One can only identify the symptom or condition. One can't, despite magazine and television to the contrary, ever be sure of what's 'wrong with him,' in the sense I think you mean it."
I let it lay there while I returned to the file. The remaining pages were pale blue. "Are these blue pages yours?"
"Yes," he said, hopscotching with a pointed finger. "I first saw Stephen there, then a week later, then two weeks later, then one month later."
I read his entries. To me they seemed the sort of bland evaluation an assistant principal might give a kindergarten teacher. Stein's notes indicated good readjustment to home life, eagerness to return to school, intellectual curiosity, etc.
"I take it you came to no independent diagnosis of Stephen's illness."
"Well, no, but perhaps for a different reason. You see, by the time he came to me, he was no longer exhibiting any symptoms of any condition. He appeared to be a normal, well-adjusted boy of-he consulted his entries-"ten, nearly eleven years old. Since he wasn't sick, so to speak, there was nothing to diagnose. Hence only the few increasingly spaced visits."
"Do I understand then, Doctor, since neither Willow Wood nor you determined what was wrong with him, you don't know for sure that his mother's going off the bridge caused it?"
Stein blinked several times, and his mouth opened before he began to speak. Then he lapsed into a smile and gave me a patronizing look. "Given the chronological proximity of the event and the onset of the condition, what else could have caused it?"
I thanked him for his time and left.
EIGHTH
– ¦ I drove into downtown Boston and parked on the fourth floor of the Government Center Garage. I walked through the new Faneuil Hall Market area. Although the renovated space opened in 1976, I grew up in old Boston, so I'll probably always call it the new market.
I stopped at my camera shop, where Danny promised me he'd have fifty copies of Stephen's photo for me within an hour. I moved down State Street. Sturney and Perkins, Inc., was in an old, tasteful building near the waterfront. I took the elevator to the tenth floor. Sturney and Perkins occupied about half of it, the kind of offices a good medium-sized Boston law firm would have had twenty years ago, before the glass-eyed skyscrapers opened.
"John Francis to see Ms. DeMarco."
The receptionist gave me an uncertain look and dialed two digits. Her telephone had a cover on the mouthpiece, which prevented me from hearing what she said into it. She hung up.
"I'll take you down myself." As we wound down a labyrinthine corridor, I thought it odd that she would leave her post. She showed me into a spacious, leather-done corner office with a harbor view. A tall, graying man who looked like an ex-navy commander stood from behind an expensive desk.
"Mr. Cuddy, this is Nancy DeMarco. I'm Charles Perkins. What can we do for you?" he asked without extending his hand.
Ms. DeMarco stood up. Nancy DeMarco. Medium build, Harpo hair, and late of the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination. Empire had had one of the worst sex-discrimination-in-promotion records in the Northeast, and Ms. DeMarco had been the one who crammed it down our throats. I'd met her once across a crowded conference-room table. Aside from an Empire stenographer, she had been the only woman present. She'd won.
"Mr. Cuddy," she acknowledged. I stopped at a leather chair, and we all sat down together.
"Well," I said, "this doesn't seem to be my day for surprise attacks."
Silence from them.
And from me, too.
Then Perkins: "Why are you here'?"
"You must have discovered that in the process of finding out who I am."
"Amateurish, Mr. Cuddy, amateurish. That phone call, I mean."
"Look, Mr. Perkins," I said, "let's stop the urinating contest. Notice I avoided 'pissing' out of respect for your decor. You're one of the best in Boston at what you do. You've been asked to find Stephen Kinnington. So have I. He appears to have run away, so there is probably no criminal element behind the disappearance, and therefore nobody to tip off Why don't we share information and coordinate those efforts?"
"Our client does not appreciate your involvement, Mr. Cuddy."
"Does the judge appreciate that every hour we don't find Stephen increases the chances that we won't find him'?"
"We will find the boy-and as soon as this conference is over, Ms. DeMarco can resume her efforts in that direction."
I looked over at Ms. DeMarco. She was looking at Perkins without expression.
I rose and sidled toward the door. "Mr. Perkins, I guess I can understand why you don't want to tell me what you know. What I can't understand is why you don't want to find out what I know." I opened the door. "Amateurish, Mr. Perkins, amateurish."
NINTH
– ¦ I had a drink at Clarke's while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I'd had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you're-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
"I don't like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father's First at eight P.M."
I might have had some question about the voice, but not the "discriminating" tag. I wondered if she'd wear a disguise.
I dialed Mrs. Kinnington's number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
"What have you to report?" asked my client.
"Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face."
"Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?"
"It does," I said, and I summarized my day for her. She sounded like a little girl when she spoke again.