Killing Hour

‘You have to look into that sneaker,’ Charlie said, his eyes fixed on Sherwood, as if it was the missing piece of a puzzle. He jabbed his finger. ‘That could be the key, the missing sneaker, right?’

‘I promise, I’ll do my best.’ The detective nodded obligingly. He stood up and caught my eye. ‘Got a second?’

I stood up across from him. ‘Of course.’

He went around and opened the door and walked me outside to the hallway. ‘Your brother said you’re a doctor?’

‘Vascular surgeon. At the Westchester Medical Center. In Valhalla.’

‘Vascular . . .’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You work on hearts?’

‘Veins, predominantly. Endovascular repairs. I keep the works flowing. Guess you could call me more of a plumber than a mechanic.’ I smiled.

Sherwood nodded. ‘I’m a liver recipient myself. Going on two years now. So far so good I guess. I’m still here.’

‘Good for you,’ I said. Liver transplants resulted either from cirrhosis from booze, or from hepatitis, the C kind, the killer, but something made me suspect the first.

‘Now all I got is this TMJ.’ He massaged his jaw. ‘Hurts like the devil whenever things get stirred up. In fact, I’m starting to feel it now . . . You say you’re from back in New York . . .’

‘Westchester.’ I nodded.

‘I got a cousin back there. Nyack.’

‘That’s across the river. In Rockland County.’

‘Well, wherever it is’ – the detective looked at me directly – ‘trust me, Dr Erlich, it’s a whole different world out here . . . Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings – I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know how hard it is to hear – but this kid plainly wanted out of the game. You know what I’m saying, don’t you? He’d made statements that he wanted to end his own life. He claimed to the doctors that the gun he was looking to purchase was intended expressly for him. I shouldn’t go into this yet, but your nephew’s toxicology report came back. He was clean. Nothing in him at the time of his death – nada. Not even Seroquel, Doc. You catching what I mean . . .?’

I caught exactly what that meant. Evan hadn’t been on his meds.

That explained how he had managed to climb all the way up there. How he still would have had the urge to follow through with it.

It pretty much explained everything.

‘So how the hell did he manage to find his way all the way up there?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘But I do know how the death certificate is going to read. Death by suicide.’ He reopened the door and looked at me before he headed back in. ‘What the hell else would the kid be doing up there in the first place?’

Chapter 9

After they left, Sherwood slipped back into the interrogation room, shutting the door.

He took out his cell and pressed the number for the hospital over at County, worriedly thumbing the edge of Evan Erlich’s file.

Stories like his happened every day out there. Gang executions, drug ODs. Runaways. They all had mothers who wept and didn’t understand. Suicide or accident? What did it really matter? The kid was dead. A tragedy was a tragedy. If it hadn’t ended like this, the next time – and there would have been a next time, Sherwood knew – he would have likely taken the mother and father out too.

His job was to try to make sense of the rotten outcomes. Just not too much sense.

Tomorrow, sure as sunrise, there’d be two more.

The hospital operator answered. Sherwood placed the phone to his ear. ‘Dr Derosa, please.’

He knew about tragedies. And not just on the job. He thought of his son, Kyle, more than twenty years ago, and his wife, Dorrie – almost two years now. He had this new liver. A gift. From a minister. Edward J. Knightly. Now he even peed righteous, Sherwood sometimes said with a laugh. This whole new chance at life. This new lease. What the hell was it even for?

How do you make sense of others’ tragedies when you can’t even figure out your own?

A voice came on the line. ‘Dr Derosa here.’

‘It’s Sherwood,’ he said, leaning back in the chair. ‘I’m calling about that Erlich kid. That jumper . . .’

‘Yeah . . .’ The doctor sighed, as if he didn’t need to be reminded. ‘We’re all really sorry about that one here. I got a call this morning from some relative of his. A doctor.’

‘And how did you handle it?’

‘How we always handle it, Don. You know we don’t put ourselves directly involved.’

‘Yeah, well maybe you want to get yourself a bit more directly involved. At least in this one.’

The psych ward doctor cleared his throat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘They want a look at his medical records. They’re right, of course. Funny, they want to know how the hell their son was dropkicked back on the street and a day later ended up dead. And you know what?’

‘What?’ The doctor sounded a little peeved.

‘I can’t say I really blame them on this one, Mitch. Just thought you’d want a heads-up.’

‘The kid was a ticking time bomb, Don. We do our best to stop ’em. This one went off.’

‘Well if I were you, Mitch, you might want to look at it again. That it’s all buttoned up.’

‘Buttoned up?’ The doctor’s tone now had an edge of irascibility to it.

‘Any loose ends . . .’ Sherwood stared at the file, at the copy of Evan’s medical records included there.

Ones the poor, grieving family would never see.

They didn’t need anyone tugging on loose ends here. Not the family; not some pushy outsider from New York. The problem with loose ends was, once pulled, you just never knew what would tumble out.

‘I think you know what I mean.’

Chapter 10

I tried the hospital again as soon as we got back to the apartment.

Again, no luck.

The doctor in charge, Derosa, still hadn’t called me back. Which was starting to piss me off, since several hours had passed, and it was professional courtesy to receive a reply. A secretary at his office said he was still at an outside consult.

Even a call to Brian, the mental health social worker there, went straight to his voice mail.

I was beginning to feel like a wall of silence was being erected, and the doctor and his staff were bricks in it.

Finally I got fed up. I was losing valuable time. I tried the nurse’s station at the psych ward. I got to a Janie Middleton, who identified herself as the chief nurse on the ward. ‘I’m told you wanted some information on Evan Erlich?’

‘Nurse Middleton’ – I softened my tone – ‘my name is Jay Erlich. I’m a surgeon in vascular medicine at the Westchester Medical Center back east in New York. Evan was my nephew . . .’

‘Oh,’ she said, betraying some nerves, ‘I assisted him while he was here. He seemed like a nice boy to me. We’re all so, so sorry for what took place . . .’

‘I appreciate that,’ I said. ‘Look, Janie, I know Doctor Derosa isn’t around . . .’

‘He’s –’ For a second I thought she was about to say He’s right here. Then she seemed to catch herself. ‘I was told he might not be back for the day, but the first step in any patient inquiry is to request the doctor’s report. The next of kin is entitled to it, of course . . .’

‘Of course.’ Everyone was hiding behind the damned report. I just wanted to speak to somebody . . .

‘Janie . . .’ I took a breath, trying to hide my frustration. ‘Are you a parent?’

‘Yes,’ she said, her reserve softening as well. ‘I am.’

‘Then you’ll understand. My brother and sister-in-law have just lost their only child. They want an answer.’

I took her through the events. How Evan went from being on suicide watch to being released, after just days. How he was placed in an unrestricted facility and a day later he was dead. ‘You can understand that. They’re feeling – they were making the responsible decision to put their son in the hands of the county when he got out of control. And no one’s giving them any information on how this happened.’

‘Of course I can understand,’ the nurse replied. ‘Look, just petition the medical records. Off the record . . . then the doctor has to officially respond to your questions. I honestly think that’s the best way.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I hope you understand what I’m saying . . .’

Was there some kind of cover-up going on? Was that why no one was willing to get on the phone with me? What was the hospital hiding?

‘I hear you,’ I said, sighing. ‘So how long does that generally take?’

‘Four or five business days, I think.’

‘Four or five days!’ I wouldn’t even be there then.

‘Ask for the medical reports,’ she said again. ‘That’s about the best I can say. We’re just all so sorry . . .’

Frustrated, I thanked her for her time.

‘See, now you’re starting to see what shits they are out here,’ my brother chortled, as if in vindication. ‘How no one lifts a finger for you if you’re poor. You’re just not used to that, little brother.’

‘I’m not done.’

I called the hospital one last time and asked for the head of the Psych Department, a Dr Emil Contreras. I explained to his assistant who I was. She told me Dr Contreras was at a conference in New Orleans and wouldn’t be back until Thursday.

Thursday I’d be going back home.

‘When he checks in, if you can please have him give me a call. It concerns Evan Erlich. It’s urgent.’

I left my cell number. I wanted to slam down the phone.

It was only two. And I wasn’t sure exactly what I had accomplished. ‘What’s next . . .?’

‘I think I need to see it,’ Gabby said.

‘See what?’

‘Where it happened.’

Charlie looked at her warily. ‘You’re sure?’

Detective Sherwood had given us detailed directions to the spot where they found Evan. Underneath the rock.

‘Yes. I have to see it.’ Gabriella nodded. ‘I have to see the place my son died.’

Chapter 11

It rose, gigantic and majestic. A single mound of volcanic rock dominating the coastline, six hundred feet high.

We could see it from miles away, before we even reached the quaint coastal town. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Partly because of its vast size. And partly because of what happened there.

‘This is crazy,’ Gabriella said, hiding her face in her hands and glancing toward Charlie. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Going to the spot where my son died.’

The massive rock was situated on a narrow strip of land, overlooking the tiny fishing bay. Sherwood had said to drive all the way to the parking lot along the south side of the rock, then go through a chain-link gate and across the shoals. A narrow path snaked up the rock face there. He said to look for a ledge, about a hundred feet up, above the jagged rocks.

The place where a couple of early-morning clammers had found Evan.

My heart poured out, thinking of Evan being drawn to the site as he walked there, alone and confused, voices clashing in his head.

‘Now you see, you see what my poor boy climbed?’ Gabby turned to me. ‘In the fucking dark. You have to be crazy to do that, right?’

I didn’t answer, but there was nothing in me that disagreed.

We parked the car and walked out onto the rocky shoals in the shadow of the mountain. A handful of people were milling around. Fishermen tossing out lines, tourists snapping photos, a few makeshift souvenir stands. The breeze picked up, and Charlie and Gabriella seemed to waver.

My brother said, ‘Maybe he went up there to see God. Evan was like that. Maybe that’s what he wanted to do.’

I had heard about as much of this ‘Evan was Jesus’ stuff as I could bear. ‘The kid was disturbed, Charlie. He wasn’t looking for God. He was sick.’ I heard myself echoing Sherwood. ‘What the hell do you think he was doing up there anyway?’

‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ Gabby said, suddenly white as a ghost.

I went over and put my arm around her. ‘You don’t have to, Gabby. We can go back.’

‘No, I do. I do have to.’ She brushed back her hair and fortified herself with a breath. ‘Let’s go.’

We walked, Charlie trailing, until we found the chain-link fence Sherwood spoke of. There was a gate to walk through, but also a sign: NO VISITORS PERMITTED PAST THIS POINT.

There was no park ranger around, no one stopping us. Sherwood had said to keep going as far as we could walk.

‘I think it’s over here!’ I shielded my eyes and looked up. A craggy overhang protruded high up the cliff face, nothing in its way to break a fall to the rocks below. I noticed a loose path winding up the face and another sign that cautioned against climbing.

Gabriella looked up, tears massing in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe this, Charlie, I really can’t. I can’t believe our boy would do this.’

Charlie leaned against me, his long hair whipped by the wind. ‘He didn’t kill himself. I know it. Don’t you see, that’s why they never found the other sneaker. He slipped somehow, climbing up. Maybe it lodged in the rock. It’s up there somewhere. He wouldn’t have jumped. I have to believe that, Jay, you understand?’

I wanted so much to tell him, Stop it, Charlie, just stop. Evan’s dead. Like Sherwood said, accident or suicide, what did it even matter now? Instead, I just squeezed his shoulder and nodded. ‘I understand.’

Gulls cawed, flapping in the breeze. We stood there for a while with my arms around both of them, solemnly staring at the place where Evan had fallen. Pain was etched in their drawn, anguished faces as they relived the image of their son’s backward descent, picturing him landing hard onto the unforgiving rocks. They had seen the photos: the blood on his face, his spine shattered.

Having to think of him lying there all night. The surf washing against him. Gulls picking over his body.

I remembered Gabby’s words: Your brother feels responsible, Jay.

Of course he feels responsible. Evan had become him. Charlie had passed his legacy of disease and blame onto him. Fanned it, like a brushfire, with their anger and how they lived, pointing the finger at everyone for what had gone wrong in their failed lives.

And not to mention they were the ones who had called the police and sent him away.

Gabriella shook her head in frustration and balled her fists. ‘Oh, Jay, you don’t know how tough this is. I held him in my arms. That first day. Every parent has a dream for their child. I told my son, “You are going to make us proud. You are going to live the life we’ve never led.” A child is supposed to go farther than their parent. That’s how it’s supposed to happen, right? That’s the law of nature. Not this . . .’

I gazed up at that ledge and knew whatever hope they still harbored that their son had simply slipped was just another of their delusions. Why would anyone have climbed all this way, other than to jump? Why would he have remained up there through the night? And, ultimately, like Sherwood grimly said, why did it matter? Evan was dead. No one would ever tell us what was in his mind.

Suddenly Gabriella picked up a stone and flung it against the rocks. Then another, freeing her pent-up rage. ‘You bastard!’ she yelled into the wind. ‘Damn you!’

Damn you.

I didn’t know if she meant Evan or God, or maybe even the giant rock.

She yelled, ‘I want to know why my son had to die! I know we’re poor. I know we don’t matter. But I deserve that, don’t I, Jay? Evan deserves that.’

She was right – this wasn’t the ending that had to be. It was the ending Evan received, because the system looked the other way

We all did, in our own way.

Gabby hurled another stone against the rocks.

Yes, Evan deserves that, I answered her in my mind. That’s the least he deserves.

Watching her, I knew why I was there.

Chapter 12

The Harbor View Recuperation Center was a converted, white Victorian house with a large front porch and a green awning on a quiet street, a few blocks from the town’s touristy center.

If Gabby wanted answers, this was the place to begin.

‘You’re sure you want to go in?’ I asked Charlie and Gabby as we pulled up across the street.

‘This woman killed our son!’ Gabriella declared bitterly. ‘She let him leave – when he was supposed to be in the care of people who would watch over him.’

‘Okay,’ I said. We parked the car and headed in.

A couple of Adirondack-type chairs with chipped paint sat on the porch. The lawn was thick and a bit overgrown, in need of trimming. Inside, we found a couple of elderly people milling about, just as Evan had described. I didn’t see any guards or orderlies around.

‘Look at this place,’ Gabriella said, her eyes flashing with barely controlled rage. ‘I can’t believe they dumped my son in this shit hole.’

I knocked on an office door and a squat, pleasant-looking woman in black pants and a floral blouse glanced up from her desk. She appeared Filipino.

‘My name’s Dr Jay Erlich,’ I said, introducing myself. ‘Evan was my nephew.’

Anna Aquino’s almond eyes grew wide. ‘Oh . . .’ She jumped up, came around the desk, and took my hand. ‘I am so, so sorry about what happened. I’ve run this facility for eight years. We’ve never had anything like that happen here before.’

‘These are Evan’s parents . . .’

Instead of being defensive, Anna Aquino took Gabriella’s hands warmly in hers and gave her a compassionate hug. ‘I spoke with you the night he disappeared. When he didn’t come back, I was so worried. He seemed like such a good kid, your son. If I knew he was in such a state, I never ever would have allowed him to be admitted.’

Gabriella pulled away. ‘What do you mean, if you knew he was in such a state? You let our boy just walk out of here. We trusted you to take care of him and now . . .’ She glared at the woman with reproach.

Over the years, I’ve seen my share of indifference when it came to caregivers. Nurses just going through the motions, care facilities doing the minimum, bilking the insurance companies. But Anna Aquino wasn’t like that at all.

‘Ms Erlich,’ she said, ‘I know how you must feel, but look around . . . This is an open facility. We don’t keep people here against their will. We’re not set up for that sort of thing here. We can’t even force our patients to keep on their medications. It’s strictly voluntary.

‘That first day, your son was like a zombie here. He was totally snowed on so much Seroquel he could barely talk. He wouldn’t even eat. But by the afternoon of the next day, he seemed so much better. I know he called you –’

‘Yes,’ Gabriella said, ‘he said he wanted to make the best of it here, but . . .’

‘That afternoon, he came up to me and told me he was going to go for a walk. I was actually excited to hear it. I thought he was coming back to life. He said he was just going to walk around the town. When he didn’t come back, of course, we were worried, and that’s when we called . . .’

‘I think what my brother and sister-in-law would like to know,’ I asked plainly, ‘is just how a violent, bipolar kid on suicide watch only a couple of days before could simply be allowed to walk out the door.’

Anna looked into my eyes and shook her head. ‘Because no one ever informed us of that, Doctor Erlich.’

I squinted, not sure I’d heard her properly. ‘What?’

‘No one told us your nephew had been suicidal. Or about any of his behavioral history. I had no record on him at all, other than he was bipolar and had spent time at County and was placed on a high dosage of Seroquel. Believe me, if I thought he was a danger to anyone – or to himself – there’s no way I would ever have admitted him here. You can see for yourself we’re not equipped for that sort of thing.’

‘You’re telling me you received no patient history?’

‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘Zero. They just drop them here. Like baggage. With a two-line diagnosis and a medication chart. When they saw I had an open bed, they brought him here. I’m a state-funded facility, Mr and Mrs Erlich, so I can’t simply refuse. This is my biggest frustration. They never give me any history. You see my patients here . . . We specialize in dementia and Alzheimer’s care. Believe me, if I knew your son was schizophrenic – not to mention suicidal! – I would never have let him stay here even for a night. Poor kid, I’m heartbroken over this . . .’

My anger was increasing. No history. Not even a medical report from the hospital. They might as well have pushed him off that ledge themselves. What was the hospital hiding? ‘Do you mind if I see his charts?’

‘Not at all,’ Anna Aquino said. ‘I have them right here.’ She went around the back of her desk and came back with Evan’s file.

A two-page transfer form from the County Medical Center read, ‘History of bipolar behavior.’ It listed his medication, Seroquel, and the dosage, two hundred milligrams. A hundred milligrams was normally the prescribed dose. A drop-dead maniac would be turned into zombie on that! The form said the patient had been released from care and was being transferred to the Harbor View Recuperation Center on a strictly voluntary basis.

It was signed Brian Smith, Social Worker, cosigned Mitchell Derosa, MD.

My blood stiffened. I saw that Evan had signed it too.

I had to restrain myself from crumpling it into a ball and hurling it against the wall.

There was no history of his previous psychological behavior. Not a single word about the nature of his treatment in the hospital. Nothing on the violent actions he had manifested when the cops took him away. Or his attempt to purchase a firearm.

Not even a mention of his urge to kill himself.

They had basically just thrown him here! As soon as a bed opened up. Like Anna Aquino said – baggage.

What had happened to the restrictive facility they had promised Charlie and Gabriella? Where their son would receive monitoring and attention? They were right – everything just fell between the cracks because no one felt they mattered.

‘Can I have a copy of this?’ I asked, handing Anna back the forms.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know how we’re going to handle this . . . But would you go on the record on any of this? What you just told us. To the head of the hospital, or even to an attorney? It would be helpful if we could count on your support.’

‘I’ve been on record on this for years,’ Anna Aquino replied. ‘Just look at the people who are here. They’re not threats to anyone . . . Look at our staff. We couldn’t even restrain someone like your son. It’s almost criminal . . .’

Yes it was. It was almost criminal!

She turned to Gabriella and, with tears in her eyes, said, ‘I’m so sorry . . . I thought I was doing the right thing . . .’

Charlie looked at me as if to be saying, Now you see, you see what it’s like to be poor. You see what it’s like to be in a place where no one cares . . .

I checked my watch. It was four now. No one from the hospital had called me.

But at this point, I was no longer giving a shit about procedures.

Chapter 13

Charlie and Gabriella had mentioned a local television station where they had first seen the story of the Morro Bay jumper, then a John Doe, two days before.

‘You’ve got to be careful, Jay,’ Charlie said, cautioning me. For twenty years they had lived under the radar, afraid that the state would cut them back. ‘You can’t just stir up trouble for us here. It’s not like with you. We live off the state. We can’t make waves.’

‘Sometimes you have to make waves!’ Gabby said. ‘This is about our son, Charlie. We need to do this.’

He sat back down.

I looked up the number for KSLN and asked for the news department. For the reporter who had handled the segment on the Morro Bay jumper. I gave my name, identifying myself as an uncle of the dead boy.