"Oddness," he said. "Take a walk in the park, walk out of a restaurant, there're some odd guys wanting spare change. Which one's gonna start wielding the cleaver?"
I didn't answer.
He said, "If Peake had any sort of thought system, he must have been in a helluva lot better shape than what we saw today."
"Probably. Though behind all the tardive symptoms there could still be some thinking going on."
"What does 'tardive' mean, exactly?"
"Late-onset. It's a reaction to Thorazine."
"Is it reversible?"
"No. At best, he won't get worse."
"And he's still crazy. So what good's the Thorazine doing him?"
"Neuroleptics are best at controlling delusions, hallucinations, bizarre behavior. What psychiatrists call the positive symptoms of schizophrenia. The negatives-poor speech, flat mood, apathy, attentional problems-don't usually respond. Drugs can't put back what's missing."
"Well-behaved vegetables," he said.
"Peake's an extreme case, possibly because he didn't start out with that much intellect. His T.D.'s also very severe. Though he's not getting that much Thorazine. Despite what Bollard told us about high-dosing, Peake's prescription has remained at five hundred milligrams, well within the recommended range. They probably haven't needed to high-dose him because he behaves himself. Behaves very little. Psychologically, he's disappeared."
Milo removed the cigar, placed it between his index fingers, and sighted over the tobacco bridge. "If Peake was taken offThorazine, would he be able to talk more?"
"It's possible. But he could also fall apart, maybe even revert to violence. And don't forget, he was on Thorazine when he talked to Heidi. So he's capable of speech while medicated. Are you still taking this in-a-box stuff seriously?"
"Nah… I guess I can't get away from the eye thing-hey, maybe I'm delusional and Peake's a true prophet. Maybe Satan has dispatched the Pluto Mantises."
"Maybe," I said, "but would he inform Peake?"
He laughed, chewed the cigar some more." 'Bad eyes in a box.' "
"For all we know, Claire tried talking to him about his crime and sparked some kind of memory. 'In a box' could mean his own incarceration. Or something else. Or nothing at all."
"Okay, okay, enough of this," he said, pocketing the cigar. "Back to basics: check out Claire's finances and StargilFs. Go over Richard's file again, too. For the hundredth time, but maybe there's something I missed. And if you're not jammed, now's as good a time as any to go see Dr. Theobold at County. Maybe one of us will come up with something remotely resembling a factoid."
He grinned. "Lacking that, I'll settle for some juicy delusions."
Chapter 13
I called Dr. Myron Theobold's office and got an appointment for ten-fifteen the next morning. By nine-forty-five I was clearing my head in the fast lane of the 10 East, enduring the crawl to the interchange, moving with the smog stream toward San Bernardino. I got off a few exits later, on Soto Street in East L.A., drove past the county morgue, and pulled into the main entrance of the dun-colored metropolis that was County General Hospital.
Perenially underfunded and overstressed, County's a wonder: first-rate medicine for the tired and the poor, last stop for the hopeless and the addled. I'd done some clinical training here, taught occasional seminars, but it had been two years since I'd set foot on the hospital campus. Outwardly, little had changed-the same sprawl of bulky, homely buildings, the constant parade of people in uniforms, the halting march of the ill.
One of those hot, overcast days that makes everything look decayed, but after Starkweather, County seemed fresh, almost perky.
Theobold's office was on the third floor of Unit IV, one of the half-dozen no-frills annexes sprouting at the rear of the complex like afterthoughts. Dazed-looking men and women in open-backed pajamas wandered white-tiled halls. Two grim nurses escorted a heavy black woman toward an open door. IV's in both her arms. Tears marked her cheeks like dew on asphalt. In an unseen place, someone retched. The overhead pager recited names emotionlessly.
Theobold's secretary occupied a space not much bigger man Peake's cell, surrounded by gunmetal filing cabinets. A stuffed Garfield clung to the handle of one drawer. Empty chair. A note said, "Back in 15 min."
Theobold must have heard me enter because he stuck his head out of me rear doorway. "Dr. Delaware? Come on in."
I'd met him a few years ago, and he hadn't changed much. Sixtyish, medium height and build, graying fair hair, white beard, large nose, close-set brown eyes behind aviator specs. He wore a wide-lapeled herringbone sport coat the color of iced tea, a beige vest checked with blue, a white shirt, a blue tie.
I followed him into his office. He was a psychiatry vice-chairman and a respected neurochemistry researcher, but his space wasn't much more generous than the secretary's. Haphazardly furnished with what looked like castoffs, it sported another collection of file cases, brown metal furniture, a storm of books. An attempt to freshen things up with a faux-Navajo rug had failed long ago; the rug's threads were unraveling, its color bands fading. The desk supported a turbulent swirl of paperwork.
Theobold squeezed behind the desk and I took one of the two metal chairs wrinkling the fake Navajo.
"So," he said. "It's been a while. You're still officially faculty, aren't you?"
"Courtesy faculty," I said. "No salary."
"How long since you've been down here?"
"Couple of years," I said. His attempts at cordiality were deepening the lines on his face. "I appreciate your seeing me."
"No problem." He cleared the area around the phone. Papers flew. "I had no idea you led such an interesting life- police consultant. Do they pay well?"
"About the same as Medi-Cal."
He managed a chuckle. "So what have you been up to, otherwise? Still at Western Peds?"
"Occasionally. I do some consulting, mostly legal work. A few short-term treatment cases."
"Able to deal with the HMO's?"
"I avoid them when I can."
He nodded. "So… you're here about poor Claire. I suppose that detective thought I'd confide secrets to you that I withheld from him, but thereTs really nothing more to tell."
"I think he felt it was more a matter of knowing the right questions to ask."
"I see," he said. "Persistent type, Sturgis. Smarter than he lets on. He tried to disarm me by playing to class consciousness-'I'm the humble working-class cop, you're the big smart doctor.' Interesting approach. Does it work?"
"He's got a good solve rate."
"Good for him… The problem is, he was wasting his acting talents on me. I wasn't holding back. I have no inside information about Claire. I knew her as a researcher, not as a person."
"Everyone seems to say that about her."
"Well, then," he said, "at least I'm consistent. So no one has much to offer about her?"
I nodded.
"And here I thought it was me-the way I run my projects."
"What do you mean?"
"I like to think of myself as a humane administrator. Hire good people, trust them to do their jobs, for the most part keep my hands off. I don't get involved in their personal lives. I'm not out to parent anyone."
He stopped, as if expecting me to pass judgment on that.
I said, "Claire worked for you for six years. She must have liked that."
"I suppose."
"How'd you find her?"
"I'd put in for my grant and she applied for the neuropsych position. She was completing a postdoc at Case Western, had published two papers as a grad student, sole author. Nothing earth-shattering, but encouraging. Her interest-alcoholism and reaction times-meshed with mine. No shortage of alcoholics here. I thought she'd be able to attract her own funding, and she did."
All facts I'd read in Claire's resume.