When the Bough Breaks (5 page)

“All hypnosis,” I ended, “is self-hypnosis. My role is simply to help your daughter do something that comes natural to her.”

She probably understood about 10 percent of it, but it seemed to calm her down.

“You can say that again, natural. She daydreams all the time.”

“Exactly. Hypnosis is like that.”

“Teachers complain all the time, say she’s driftin’ off, not doing her work.”

She was talking as if she expected me to do something about it.

Milo broke in.

“Has Melody told you anything more about what she saw, Mrs. Quinn?”

“No, no.” An emphatic shake of the head. “We haven’t been talkin’ about it.”

Milo pulled out his notepad and flipped through a few pages.

“What I have on record is that Melody couldn’t sleep and was sitting in the living room—in this room at around one in the morning.”

“Must’ve been. I go in by eleven-thirty and I got up once for a cigarette at twenty after twelve. She was asleep then and I didn’t hear her for the while it took me to fall off. I’d ’a’ heard her. We share the room.”

“Uh-huh. And she saw two men—here it says ‘I saw big men.’ The officer’s question was ’How many, Melody?’ And she answered, ’Two, maybe three.’ When he asked her what did they look like, all she could say was that they were dark.” He was talking to me now. “We asked her black, Latino. Nothing. Only
dark
.”

“That could mean shadows. Could mean anything to a seven-year-old,” I said.

“I know.”

“Which could mean two men, or one guy with a shadow, or—”

“Don’t say it.”

Or nothing at all.

“She don’t always tell the truth about everything.”

We both turned to look at Bonita Quinn who had used the few seconds we had ignored her to put out her cigarette and light a new one.

“I’m not sayin’ she’s a bad kid. But she don’t always tell the truth. I don’t know why you want to depend on her.”

I asked, “Do you have problems with her chronically lying—about things that don’t make much sense—or does she do it to avoid getting in trouble?”

“The second. When she don’t want me to paddle her and I know somethin’s broken, it’s got to be her. She tells me no, mama, not me. And I paddle her double.” She looked to me for disapproval. “For not tellin’ the truth.”

“Do you have other problems with her?” I asked gently.

“She’s a good girl, Doctor. Only the daydreams, and the concentration problems.”

“Oh?” I needed to understand this child if I was going to be able to do hypnosis with her.

“The concentratin’—it’s hard for her.”

No wonder, in this tiny, television-saturated cell. No doubt the apartments were Adults Only and Melody Quinn was required to keep a low profile. There’s a large segment of the population of Southern California that views the sight of anyone too young or too old as offensive. It’s as if nobody wants to be reminded from whence they came or to where they will certainly go. That kind of denial, coupled with face lifts and hair transplants and makeup, creates a comfortable little delusion of immortality. For a short while.

I was willing to bet that Melody Quinn spent most of her time indoors despite the fact that the complex boasted three swimming pools and a totally equipped gym. Not to mention the ocean a half-mile away. Those playthings were meant for the grownups.

“I took her to the doctor when the teachers kept sendin’ home these notes sayin’ she can’t sit still, her mind wanders. He said she was overactive. Somethin’ in the brain.”

“Hyperactive?”

“That’s right. Wouldn’t surprise me. Her dad wasn’t altogether right up there.” She tapped her forehead. “Used the illegal drugs and the wine until he—” she stopped cold, looking at Milo with sudden fear.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Quinn, we’re not interested in that kind of thing. We only want to find out who killed Dr. Handler and Ms. Gutierrez.”

“Yeah, the headshrinker—” she stopped again, this time staring at me. “Can’t seem to say anythin’ right, today.” She forced a weak smile.

I nodded reassurance, smiled understandingly.

“He was a nice guy, that doctor.” Some of my best friends are psychotherapists. “Used to joke with me a lot and I’d kid him, ask him if he had any shrunken heads in there.” She laughed, a strange giggle, and showed a mouthful of teeth badly in need of repair. By now I had narrowed her age to middle thirties. In ten years she’d look truly elderly. “Terrible about what happened to him.”

“And Ms. Gutierrez.”

“Yeah, her too. Only her I wasn’t so crazy about. She was Mexican, you know, but uppity Mexican. Where I come from they did the stoop labor and the cleanup. This one had the fancy dresses and the little sports car. And her a teacher, too.” It wasn’t easy for Bonita Quinn, brought up to think of all Mexicans as beasts of burden, to see that in the big city, away from the lettuce fields, some of them looked just like real people. While she did the donkey work.

“She was always carryin’ herself like she was too good for you. You’d say hello to her and she’d be lookin’ off into the distance, like she had no time for you.”

She took another drag on her cigarette and smiled slyly.

“This time I’m okay,” she said.

We both looked at her.

“Neither of you gents is a Mex. I didn’t put my foot in it again.”

She was extremely pleased with herself and I took advantage of her lifted spirits to ask her a few more questions.

“Mrs. Quinn, is your daughter on any sort of medication for her hyperactivity?”

“Oh yeah, sure. The doc gave me pills to give her.”

“Do you have the prescription slip handy?”

“I got the bottle.” She got up and returned with an amber vial half full of tablets.

I took it and red the label. Ritalin. Methylphenidate hydrochloride. A super-amphetamine that speeds up adults but slows down kids, it’s one of the most commonly prescribed drugs for American youngsters. Ritalin is addictive and potent and has a host of side effects, one of the most common of which is insomnia. Which might explain why Melody Quinn was sitting, staring out the window of a dark room at one in the morning.

Ritalin is a sweetheart drug when it comes to controlling children. It improves concentration and reduces the frequency of problem-behaviors in hyperactive kids—which sounds great, except that the symptoms of hyperactivity are hard to differentiate from those of anxiety, depression, acute stress reaction, or simple boredom at school. I’ve seen kids who were too bright for their classroom look hyper. Ditto for little ones going through the horrors of divorce or any other significant trauma.

A doctor who’s doing his job correctly will require comprehensive psychological and social evaluation of a child before prescribing Ritalin or any other behavior-modifying drug. And there are plenty of good doctors. But some physicians take the easy way out, using the pills as the first step. If it’s not malpractice it’s dangerously close.

I opened the vial and shook some pills onto my palm. They were amber, the 20-milligram kind. I examined the label. One tablet three times daily. Sixty mg was the maximum recommended dosage. Strong stuff for a seven-year-old.

“You give her these three times a day?”

“Uh-huh. That’s what it says, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Did your doctor start off with something smaller—white or blue pills?”

“Oh yeah. We had her takin’ three of the blue ones at first. Worked pretty good but I still got the complaints from the school, so he said it was okay to try these.”

“And this dosage works well for Melody?”

“Works real fine for me. If it’s gonna be a rough day with lots of visitors comin’ over—she don’t do real good with lots of people, lots of commotion—I give her an extra one.”

Now we were talking overdose.

Bonita Quinn must have seen the look of surprise and disapproval that I tried unsuccessfully to conceal, for she spoke up with indignation in her voice.

“The doc says it was okay. He’s an important man. You know, this place don’t allow kids and I get to stay here only on account as she’s a quiet kid. M and M Properties—they own the place—told me any time there’s complaints about kids, that’s it.”

No doubt that did wonders for Melody’s social life. Chances are she had never had a friend over.

There was cruel irony to the idea of a seven-year-old imprisoned amidst single-swingle splendor, tucked away in a slum pocket on an aerie high above the high Pacific, and dosed up with Ritalin to appease the combined wishes of the Los Angeles school system, a dim-witted mother and M and M Properties.

I examined the label on the vial to find out the name of the prescribing physician. When I found it, things began to fall into place.

L.W. Towle. Lionel Willard Towle, M.D. One of the most established and respected pediatricians on the West Side. I had never met him but knew him by reputation. He was on the senior staff of Western Pediatric and a half dozen other Westside hospitals. A big shot in the Academy of Pediatrics. A guest speaker, highly in demand, at seminars on learning disabilities and behavior problems.

Dr. Towle was also a paid consultant to three major pharmaceutical concerns. Translate: pusher. He had a reputation, especially among the younger doctors who were generally more conservative about drugs, as easy with the prescription pad. No one said it too loudly, because Towle had been around a long time and had lots of important patients and plenty of connections, but the whispered consensus was that he was a Dr. Feelgood for tots. I wondered how someone like Bonita Quinn had ended up in his practice. But there was no easy way to ask without appearing unduly nosy.

I handed the vial back to her and turned to Milo, who’d been sitting through the exchange in silence.

“Let me talk to you,” I said.

“Just one moment, ma’am.”

Outside the apartment I told him, “I can’t hypnotize this kid. She’s
drugged to the gills. It would be a risk to work with her, and besides, there’s little chance of getting anything worthwhile out of her.”

Milo digested this.

“Shit.” He scratched his head. “What if we take her off the pills for a few days?”

“That’s a medical decision. We get into that and we’re way out of bounds. We need the physician’s permission. Which blows confidentiality.”

“Who’s the doc?”

I told him about Towle.

“Wonderful. But maybe he’ll agree to let her off for a few days.”

“Maybe, but there’s no guarantee she’ll give us anything. This kid’s been on stimulants for a year. And what about Mrs. Q? She’s scared plenty as is. Take her darling off the pills and first thing she’ll do is lock the kid inside twelve hours a day. They like it quiet here.”

The complex was still silent as a mausoleum. At one-forty-five in the afternoon.

“Can you at least look at the kid? Maybe she’s not that doped.”

Across the way the door to the Handler apartment was open. I caught a glimpse of elegance in disarray—oriental rugs, antiques, and severe acrylic furniture broken and upended, blood-spattered white walls. The police lab men worked silently, like moles.

“By now she’s had her second dose, Milo.”

“Shit.” He punched his fist into his palm. “Just meet the kid. Give me your impression. Maybe she’ll be alert.”

She wasn’t. Her mother led her into the living room and then left with Milo. She stared off into the distance, sucking her thumb. She was a small child. If I hadn’t known her age I would have guessed it at five, maybe five-and-a-half. She had a long, grave face with oversized brown eyes. Her straight blond hair hung to her shoulders, held in place by twin plastic barettes. She wore blue jeans and a blue-green-and-white-striped T-shirt. Her feet were dirty and bare.

I led her to a chair and sat opposite her on the couch.

“Hello, Melody. I’m Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist. Do you know what that is?”

No response.

“I’m the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots. What I do is talk and draw and play with kids. I try to help kids who are sad, or angry, or scared.”

At the word
scared
she looked up for a second. Then she resumed staring past me and sucked her thumb.

“Do you know why I’m talking to you?”

A shake of the head.

“It’s not because you’re sick or because you’ve done anything wrong. We know you’re a good girl.”

Her eyes moved around the room, avoiding me.

“I’m here because you may have seen something last night that’s important. When you couldn’t sleep and were looking out the window.”

She didn’t answer. I continued.

“Melody, what kind of things do you like to do?”

Nothing.

“Do you like to play?”

She nodded.

“I like to play too. And I like to skate. Do you skate?”

“Uh-uh.” Of course not. Skates make noise.

“And I like to watch movies. Do you watch movies?”

She mumbled something. I bent closer.

“What’s that, hon?”

“On TV.” Her voice was thin and quivering, a trembling breathy sound like the breeze through dry leaves.

“Uh-huh. On TV. I watch TV, too. What shows do you like to watch?”

“Scooby-Doo.”

“Scooby-Doo. That’s a good show. Any other shows?”

“My mama watches the soap operas.”

“Do you like the soap operas?”

She shook her head.

“Pretty boring, huh?”

A hint of a smile, around the thumb.

“Do you have toys, Melody?”

“In my room.”

“Could you show them to me?”

The room she shared with her mother was neither adult nor childlike in character. It was no more than ten foot square, low-ceilinged with a solitary window set high in the wall, which gave it the ambience of a dungeon. Melody and Bonita shared one twin bed unadorned by a headboard. It was half unmade, the thin chenille spread folded back to reveal rumpled sheets. On one side of the bed was a nightstand filled with bottles and jars of cold cream, hand lotion, brushes, combs and a piece of cardboard onto which a score of bobby pins were clasped. On the other side was a huge, moth-eaten stuffed walrus, made of fuzzy material and colored an atrocious turquoise blue. A baby picture was the sole adornment on the wall. A sagging bureau made of unfinished pine and covered with a crocheted doily, and the TV, were the only other pieces of furniture in the room.