“It was often a problem of his medications, Mr. Chapman. When he was under a doctor’s care and taking his meds, he had constructive periods in his adult life. But as smart as Eddie is, the disease prevented him from holding most jobs for any long period of time,” Sorenson went on. “He’s also struggled with alcohol abuse since his twenties.”
“Living here?” I asked.
“No, no. On his own for most of the time when he was working. A small apartment in Queens, near where he was raised. Never in a significant relationship, so far as we know. I must say he was a real favorite of Miss Lavinia’s-as is Bernice-so he was welcome here whenever he chose.”
Bernice Wicks wiped her cheek with her hand. “Oh, yes. He’d love to sneak in up-”
“He didn’t sneak, Bernice,” Sorenson chided her. “We were happy to have him.”
But it was hard to imagine that Eddie Wicks-or anyone else who could get through the servants’ entrance at the rear of the Dakota-couldn’t hide himself up here for days at a time.
“Was he ever arrested?” I asked.
“Never.” His mother gave a firm response to that one.
“He was hospitalized a number of times against his will when he had episodes of bipolar depression. Usually, those had to do with threats to hurt himself,” Sorenson said. “Once he got back on his meds, he was released within days.”
“Was he able to support himself?”
“With my help,” Wicks said proudly.
“And with Miss Lavinia’s assistance, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “And this time? Bellevue?”
Jillian Sorenson looked over at Bernice before she began to speak. “It’s coming up on a year. Last summer, in July, Eddie had a major crisis, although I have no idea what provoked it.”
“He was staying upstairs then,” Bernice said. “And I couldn’t have him here, around Miss Lavinia, constantly stinking of alcohol and being so aggressive.”
“He threatened Bernice,” Sorenson said. “She told Eddie that he’d have to leave the Dakota, late one night. And he threatened to kill her. He said it was her fault that his father had killed himself. He was extremely irritable and aggressive. Other people who’d seen him up here in the preceding weeks said he was up all night wandering around.”
“So we called 911,” Bernice said. “To get him out.”
“I called 911.”
“The police came?” Mike said.
“But they didn’t arrest him,” Sorenson continued. “We didn’t want them to. We just wanted him out of here so that he didn’t hurt Bernice any more than his words already had.”
“They took him out?”
“Yes, Mr. Chapman. And I understand that they tried to calm him down. It was my mistake not telling them his history and his diagnosis. In any event, by the time they thought he was ready to be let go, and he convinced them he still had an apartment to go to in Queens, it was about four o’clock in the morning.”
“Eddie left the station house,” Mike said.
“He did. But then he went into Central Park and broke into one of the gate houses-the north one that’s right on the Reservoir.”
The north and south gate houses sat directly on the jogging path, jutting out into the Reservoir. The one that Eddie Wicks breached was closest to the West 94th Street entrance to the Park.
“How did he get into it?” Mike asked.
“This is someone who’d played in that Park since he was a kid, Detective. How did you knock down the door just now? Maybe he broke the glass, maybe he picked the lock,” Sorenson said. “Eddie got inside and up to the roof. He jumped into the Reservoir.”
The suicide fence, I thought, is what the chain-link structure that enclosed the Reservoir had been nicknamed long ago. In earlier days, the Reservoir had been a common place for people to try to kill themselves-the reason for the tall fence around its perimeter today.
“Not a sure way to die,” Mike said. “It’s not all that deep.”
“It works, Mr. Chapman, if you don’t know how to swim and you’re wearing sneakers and long pants. Or at least it almost worked.”
“There were joggers,” Bernice said, “who saw my Eddie flailing his arms around. They called 911, and there were police close by who got him out. Thank the Lord.”
“So the cops took him to Bellevue for a psych evaluation,” Mike said. “Someone signed the papers confirming that Eddie has a mental illness and was in danger of harming himself or somebody else.”
“Yes,” Sorenson said. “After five days, Bernice and I testified at a hearing before a civil judge, a very kindly man, and Eddie was committed. That was the end of last July, and I believe the second time we testified was in September. But the doctors hadn’t yet found the right combination of medicines, and Eddie was still being detoxed.”
“A hospital’s the best place for my son, really and truly.”
“We’ll be notified if there’s a plan for release.”
“Have you seen him lately, Mrs. Wicks?” Mike asked.
She bit her lower lip and shook her head. “The doctors prefer that I don’t visit, Detective. Eddie- Well, I’m- What’s the word, Miss Jillian?”
“Trigger, Bernice. You’re his trigger,” Sorenson said, turning back to me. “Eddie blames all his troubles on his mother at this point. Eddie’s chosen not to see her anymore, and his doctors agree with that decision.”
“Last time we saw him was at his hearing after the summer,” Wicks said. “He’s not the boy I raised, Detective.”
“Not your fault, Mrs. Wicks. But if he’s getting the care he needs, that’s a good thing,” Mike said. “Detective Wallace will stay with you till the Crime Scene guys go through that room and help us try to figure out who was there.”
“Thank you,” Sorenson said.
“In the meantime, I’d suggest you have your security system checked. Whoever got in there is capable of figuring out your other locks, too.”
“There’s been enough tragedy under this roof, Detective. I’ll get on that right away.”
THIRTY
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. I checked my phone when we got to the sidewalk and saw that I had a full mailbox, most of the calls originating from Battaglia’s office.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Want to hit Bellevue?” Mike said.
“Exercise in futility.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t get enough double-talk from Vergil Humphrey?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question,” Mike said, opening the car door for me. “This guy isn’t crazy like Verge.”
“No. He’s smart but self-destructive. He hates his mother.”
“He’s spent more time in the Dakota than Minnie Castevet,” Mike said, referring to the eccentric old neighbor played by Ruth Gordon in Rosemary’s Baby. “He’s the maven of the ninth-floor corridor, and he’s responsible for the last change of lock and key.”
“You want to put a name on the shadowy figure in the Panoscan photography. I get it.”
“Maybe Eddie Wicks can help me do it.”
“Let’s go.”
Mike headed south toward First Avenue in the 20s, home of the oldest continually operating hospital in America, founded as a haven for the indigent four years before George Washington’s birth.
“Is Battaglia looking for you?” he asked.
“Seems to be.”
“Ease up on him, Coop. He’s worried about you.”
“He should know that if he can’t find me, it’s unlikely that Raymond Tanner can.” I slumped down in the seat and put my feet up on the dashboard. “Any word from Manny Chirico about the love judge?”
“Nope. If you’re not nicer to me, I might leave you at Bellevue.”
“The place totally creeps me out.” The hospital did great public service work, but the psych facility still remained the most substantial part of its daily business. “I feel badly for old Mrs. Wicks having to kowtow to Jillian Sorenson.”