Victims (20 page)

Several years before that, well after Quigg had already quit, I’d rotated through as an intern, augmenting my training at Langley Porter with a month of observation at the largest mental hospital west of the Mississippi.

That spring, I’d set out from San Francisco at sundown, slept on the beach in San Simeon and watched elephant seals lolling, ended up in Camarillo by midmorning where I showered and dressed in the
restroom of a public beach, checked my map, and got back on the freeway.

A poorly marked road slanting east of the 101 had guided me inland over a dry creek, past empty fields, copses of native sycamore and oak, and Australian eucalyptus that had long made themselves comfortable in Southern California. For the next few miles nothing hinted at the hospital’s presence. Then a twenty-foot gate of heavy-duty iron painted red snapped into view just around a severe bend and forced me to brake hard.

A watchful guard checked my I.D., frowned, pointed to a
Five MPH
sign, and buzzed me through. Snailing through more twisting, shaded road, I came to a stop at the mouth of a stadium-worthy parking lot full of cars. Rising behind the auto glare were buildings sheathed in dun stucco and prettied by moldings, medallions, pediments, and arched loggias. Most of the windows were grilled in that same rusty red.

City of the Sad.

Decades before, Ventura State had gained infamy as a place where anything went if a doctor said so. A host of horrors had taken place behind its walls until World War II drew the doctors to Europe and the Pacific, and the Holocaust got people thinking harder about degradation of personal liberty: lobotomies and other untested surgeries, crude versions of shock and insulin therapy, forced commitment of those labeled a nuisance, forced sterilizations of those deemed unfit to breed. Reforms had been drastic and thorough and the hospital had gained a reputation for enlightenment and humanism; I was eager to experience a new clinical setting and to be back in Southern California.

I spent my first two days in orientation sessions delivered by a nursing supervisor, accompanied by freshly minted psychiatric residents, other psychology interns, new-hire nurses and orderlies. Once educated, we were free to explore the grounds, with the exception of
the easternmost end where a compound marked
Specialized Care
sat. An orderly asked the training nurse what specialized meant. She said, “Unique situations, it varies,” and went on to the next topic.

With hours to go before my first assignment, I wandered the campus staggered by the dimensions and ambitions of the place. The near-worshipful silence of the other rookies as they explored told me I wasn’t alone in my reaction.

Built in the twenties as the California State Mental Hygiene Sanitarium at Ventura, the place that had come to be known as V-State was graced by a combination of Old World craftsmanship and New Deal optimism that had created some of the finest public buildings in the state. In the case of the hospital, that meant twenty-eight buildings on over two hundred fifty acres. Pink flagstone pathways slinked through the grounds like rosy streams, flower beds were riotous with color, shrubs appeared trimmed by nail scissors. The entire property sat in a shallow valley graced by fog-capped mountains on three sides.

Auxiliary structures on the west end kept the hospital self-sufficient: refrigeration house, butcher, dairy, vegetable and fruit gardens, bowling alley, two movie theaters and a concert stage, employee dorms, on-site police and fire departments. Self-sufficiency was partly the product of noble rehabilitative intentions. It also shielded the rest of Ventura County from neighbors locked up by reason of insanity, deficiency, and “unique situations.”

I spent my entire month with children more advanced than the unfortunates I evaluated years later but still too impaired to handle school. More often than not an organic factor was at play: seizure disorders, post-encephalitic brain injury, genetic syndromes, and puzzling groups of symptoms that, decades later, would be labeled autism-spectrum disorder but were classified back then by a variety of terms. The one I remembered was “idiopathic neurosocial irregularity.”

I spent sixty hours a week honing my observational skills, doing some testing, and receiving solid training in child psychopathology, play therapy, cognitive restructuring, and applied behavioral analysis.
Most important, I learned humility and the value of reserving judgment. V-State was no place for those craving heroism; when improvement occurred it was gradual and minuscule. I learned to fuel each day with a mantra:

Keep your goals specific and realistic, be happy when anything goes well
.

At first glance, the hospital was a pastoral retreat from reality but I came to learn that turgid silence could be shattered without warning by screams and mewls and the crack of what sounded like wood on flesh from the easternmost tip of the campus.

Specialized Care
was a hospital within a hospital, a cluster of low, mean structures nudging up against an eastern butte of granite, sectioned by the ever-present red iron fencing topped by razor wire. The bars were stouter, the windows skimpier. Behind the fence, uniformed guards patrolled irregularly. Mostly, the surrounding yard was unoccupied. Never once did I spot a patient.

One day I asked my supervisor what went on there.

An elegant, gray-haired psychologist, Gertrude Vanderveul was American but British-trained at the Maudsley Hospital, fond of beautifully tailored suits and inexpensive, sensible shoes, passionate about Mahler but otherwise dismissive of post-Bach music, a former research assistant to Anna Freud during the London years.
(“Lovely woman but far too attached to Daddy to acquire a conventional social life.”)

The day I posed the question, Gertrude was supervising me outdoors because the weather was perfect. We walked the hospital grounds under a cloudless sky, the air fragrant as fresh laundry, drinking coffee and reviewing my cases. That done, she shifted the focus to a discussion of the limitations of Piaget’s methodology, encouraging me to give my opinions.

“Excellent,” she said. “Your insights are acute.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Could I ask you about Specialized Care?”

She didn’t answer.

Thinking she hadn’t heard, I began to repeat myself. She held up a silencing finger and we continued our stroll.

A few moments later she said, “That place isn’t for you, dear boy.”

“I’m too green?”

“There’s that,” she said. “Also, I like you.”

When I didn’t reply, she said, “Trust me on this, Alex.”

Had Marlon Quigg learned the same thing through direct experience?

Interesting career switch
.

Smart girl, Robin.

I went out back to tell her she might be onto something but she’d left the pond and her studio windows were lit and I could hear the whir of a saw. I returned to my office and phoned Milo.

“Quigg didn’t teach at a school, he worked at Ventura State Hospital.”

“Okay.” Distracted.

I said, “He may have given his wife a phony reason for changing careers and that makes me wonder if something—or someone—at V-State scared him.”

I recounted the unsettling sounds I’d heard from Specialized Care, Gertrude’s protectiveness. “That could be Quigg’s connection.”

He said, “Patient with an old grudge? How long ago are we talking, Alex?”

“Quigg was out of there twenty-four years ago but our guy could have a long memory.”

“Twenty-four years and something sets him off?”

“Killing sets him off,” I said. “He got into the swing, thought back to his bad old days at V-State.”

“Kill Teach. So Quigg wasn’t such a softie back then?”

“Not necessarily. For someone with paranoid tendencies it could’ve been a wrong look, anything.”

“Wonderful … but other than you think Quigg fibbed, there’s no proof he actually worked that special ward.”

“Not yet, but I’ll keep digging.”

“Fine. Let’s talk after I get back.”

“Where you going?”

“To meet Victim Number Five.”

“Oh, no. When?”

“Body just turned up. This time it was Hollywood Division that got lucky. Petra caught it. She’s a tough girl but she sounded pretty shaken. I’m on my way over now.”

“What’s the address.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s already a circus and you know what you’re gonna see.”

“Okay.”

He exhaled. “Look, I’m not sure I’m gonna be kept on, word is His Grandiloquence is ‘reassessing.’ So there’s no sense you ruining your night. Top of that, I’m fielding a pile of useless tips and I have a sit-down with Usfel’s and Parnell’s families at an airport hotel first thing tomorrow morning. Both sets of parents, this is gonna be rollicking.”

A murder so soon after the media play felt like a taunt and I reassessed my theory about the question marks, figured Milo had been right. I went to my office, sat at the computer, and shuffled varying combinations of
ventura state hospital criminally insane child murderer young disembowel question mark
. When that pulled up nothing useful, I spent some time wondering if Shimoff’s drawing had stimulated my memory because, years ago, I’d seen a younger version of the round-faced man on the grounds of V-State.

A patient I’d worked with? Or just passed in the wards? A dangerous kid who’d eluded Specialized Care because he’d been smooth enough to fool the staff and remain on an open ward?

Hospital teachers spent more time with patients than anyone. Had Marlon Quigg noticed something about a deeply disturbed boy that everyone else had missed? Had he spoken up and convinced the doctors about the need for extreme confinement?

Motive for a major-league grudge.

But Milo’s question remained: Why wait so long to wreak vengeance?

Because the dangerous kid had turned into a truly frightening adult and had been locked up all these years.

Now released, he sets about righting wrongs. Locating Quigg, stalking him, grooming him with cordial greetings during Quigg’s dog-walk in the park.

Recognizing Quigg but no reason for Quigg to associate a child with a grown man in a shearling.

?

Guess why I’m doing this.

Ha ha ha.

Gertrude Vanderveul had known enough about what went on at Specialized Care to keep me away.

Trust me on this, Alex
.

Maybe now she’d agree to tell me why.

I looked for her in cyberspace, starting with the APA directory and the state psychology board website and fanning out from there.

She wasn’t listed anywhere, but a Magnus Vanderveul, M.D., practiced ophthalmology in Seattle. Maybe kin, maybe not, and too late in the day to find out. I played with the computer some more, hit nothing but sour notes, was feeling cranky when Robin and Blanche returned to the house, worked hard at faking pleasant.

Blanche sensed my true mood right away but she licked my hand and nuzzled my leg, a cobby little wrinkly bundle of empathy.

Robin was there a second later. “What’s the matter?”

I told her about Quigg’s lie. “You might have put it together, Lady Sherlock.”

She said, “What kind of things did the scariest kids do?”

“Don’t know because I never saw them.” I described Specialized Care, Gertrude’s protectiveness. “Couldn’t get her to explain. I’m trying to locate her, maybe she’ll be more open.”

“Work on her maternal instincts.”

“How so?”

“Tell her all you’ve accomplished. Make her proud. And confident.”

Milo hadn’t gotten in touch by ten the following morning. Nothing about the latest victim appeared in the news and I figured the chief had kept things tight.

I tried Dr. Magnus Vanderveul’s office in Seattle. A woman answered, “LASIK by Design.”

Doctor was busy with procedures all day but if I wanted information about myopia or presbyopia she’d be happy to transfer me to an educational recording.

“Appreciate that but I need to speak to Dr. Vanderveul personally.”

“Regarding?”

“His mother and I are old friends and I’m trying to get in touch with her.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the receptionist. “She passed last year. Doctor flew to the funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling that on multiple levels. “Where was the funeral?”

A second of silence. “Sir, I’ll give him your message. Bye, now.”

I found the death certificate. Palm Beach, Florida. Downloaded the obituary from the archives of a local paper.

Professor Gertrude Vanderveul had succumbed to a brief illness. Her tenure at V-State was noted, as was a subsequent move to Connecticut
to teach at the university level. She’d published a book on child psychotherapy and served as a consultant to a White House commission on foster care. Ten years ago, she’d relocated to Florida where she’d advised various welfare agencies and pursued a lifelong interest in lily cultivation. Predeceased decades ago by an orchestra conductor husband, she was survived by a son, Dr. Magnus Vanderveul, of Redmond, Washington, daughters Dr. Trude Prosser of Glendale, California, and Dr. Ava McClatchey of Vero Beach, and eight grandchildren.

Contributions to the Florida Foundation for Child Development were requested in lieu of flowers.

Trude Prosser practiced clinical neuropsychology from a Brand Boulevard office. A voicemail greeting recited by an automated voice greeted me. Same deal at Ava McClatchey’s obstetrics group.

Having left messages for all three of Gertrude’s erudite progeny, I went for a run, wondering if any of them would bother to call.

By the time I returned, all three had.

Keeping it local, I started with Trude. This time she picked up, announcing “Dr. Prosser” in a sweet girlish voice.

“This is Alex Delaware. Thanks for getting back.”

“You were one of Mother’s students.” Statement, not a question.

“She supervised me during an internship rotation. She was a wonderful teacher.”

“Yes, she was,” said Trude Prosser. “How can I help you?”

I started to explain.

She said, “Did Mother ever talk about a murderous little monster? No, she never talked about
any
of her patients. And I should tell you that while I don’t know you, I know
about
you through Mother. She found what you do now quite fascinating. The investigative work.”