Breakdown

Chapter 9

The drive to Echo Park took forty-five minutes, during which I called a few private psych hospitals and rehab outfits in the faint hope someone would bend rules. No luck but doing something was better than wallowing in pessimism as Milo cursed his way through traffic.

The East Hollywood address LAPD had for Zelda matched three stories of flaking stucco zigzagged by hundred-year-old fire escapes. One of the few residential throwbacks in an area steadily ceding to strip malls, mail drops, and Central American restaurants.

No signs marking the place but I didn’t need my doctorate to know what it was. Defeated men idled on the sidewalk. Lots of empty eyes and slack mouths. As Milo’s unmarked pulled up, a shudder coursed through the group. By the time we got out of the car, everyone had returned inside.

Three security locks on the open door. A poster prohibited entry after nine p.m. The lobby was skimpy, painted bright aqua, with a whiteboard on an easel listing rules and regulations for residents of BrightMornings: A Place of Rebirth. A plaque on the wall listed sources of funding: a dozen churches and synagogues.

No residents in sight but footsteps thumped on an upper floor. Ornate carving on a battered wooden reception counter said the place had probably once been a hotel, maybe a decent one. I’d prepared myself for another stonewall but the face behind the counter was familiar.

Maybe this would be different.

Tiny young woman in her twenties, filing cards. A lovely Botticelli face was graced by enormous hazel eyes and a mass of dark ringlets. Her fingers were slender and child-sized. Her focus was intense.

Graduate student at the school where I had a faculty position. She’d been in the audience when I’d lectured on pediatric psych a couple of years ago, had asked bright questions. Industrious note-taker, Judith... something.

Our approach drew her away from the cards. Something to do with meal schedules.

“Dr. Delaware?” Her name tag filled in the blank. J. Meers.

“Hi, Judith. Is this your clinical placement?”

“No, just a part-time job to augment my funding. I had to stop T.A.’ing in order to concentrate on my dissertation.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s going.” She shrugged. Glanced at Milo.

“This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD. Milo, Judith Meers.”

“Hi, Lieutenant. Is one of our guys in trouble?”

I said, “No. We’re trying to find a woman named Zelda Chase who listed this as her address.”

“That must’ve been a while back, Dr. Delaware. The program separated the sexes around a year and a half ago and the women are housed in Santa Monica.”

Milo said, “Putting distance between males and females.”

Judith Meers said, “This is before my time but from what I can gather unisex did cause understandable problems.”

“Do you keep records from before the move?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. Everything pertaining to the women went with them.”

As she wrote out the address and number of the Santa Monica shelter, a man came down the stairs, gripping the banister, teetering, nearly tumbling.

Emaciated, with haunted eyes that looked nowhere. Flaccid lips moved but produced no sound. He could’ve been forty or a hundred.

He passed by without noting us, trudged through the doorway, and shuffled eastward.

Judith Meers handed me the information and sighed. “At least their basic needs are taken care of.”

I said, “What kinds of patients qualify?”

“We’re not allowed to offer treatment so they’re residents, not patients. Everyone’s classified as seriously mentally ill — not a DSM diagnosis, just an informal judgment. That’s part of what I do but it’s not at all technical.”

Milo said, “You know it when you see it.”

“Basically,” said Judith Meers. “The goal is to provide a warm, hopefully safe place for nonviolent psychotics and a well-equipped kitchen to serve their nutritional needs.”

I said, “Do any of them get treatment elsewhere?”

“Ideally, they obtain their meds and their therapy at various outpatient clinics. When we have drivers available, we take them, but some of the facilities are within walking distance.”

“Compliance isn’t an issue?”

“It’s a huge issue, Dr. Delaware. We try to guide but are careful to avoid power struggles. That’s our funding mandate.”

“You’re privately funded.”

“Totally,” she said. “The religious institutions have been fantastic. Without them there’d be nothing. There used to be some federal money but it dried up. Tight times, from what I’ve been told.”

Less for this, more for Kristin Doyle-Maslow.

Milo said, “The nonviolent part, that work out?”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much?”

Judith Meers said, “I’ve never had a problem personally, Lieutenant. The guys are pre-screened for lack of aggression and a lot of them actually look out for me. Or think they’re being protective.”

“Hmm,” he said.

“For the most part they’re gentle, Lieutenant. It’s a part-time job and I’m not here after dark, my husband picks me up at five. His job’s in Hollywood, so it works out well.”

Milo said, “Tell me he’s a bouncer and bigger than me.”

She laughed. “Almost as good, he’s a litigator for Capitol Records. And yes, he’s a substantial man.”

I wished her well and we headed for the door.

She said, “Your question about violence. Did the woman you’re looking for do something criminal?”

I said, “No. It’s her son we’re really after. She was found alone, having a major psychotic break. He’s eleven years old and so far we haven’t been able to trace him.”

“That age, living on the streets?” She frowned. “I’ll ask around, maybe some of the guys remember. But as you might imagine, most of them are pretty out of touch and she hasn’t lived here for a while.”

“Anything you can do would be appreciated, Judith.”

“Eleven years old. She refuses to say where he is?”

“She may not be sufficiently in touch to actually know.”

“Darn,” she said. “But it’s what we sign up for, right, Dr. Delaware?”

We drove to Santa Monica. BrightMornings — Westside was a former motel on Pico, a U-shaped collection of white units with blue doors, set behind a sun-seared asphalt lot. Once-white parking lines from the motel days were worn to gray stubble. The neighbors were a discount tire dealer and a plumbing supplies outfit.

No open-door policy here; a slatted electric gate blocked entry. Milo rang in and identified himself. The door to the central unit opened and a woman peered out then reclosed it. It took a while for the gate to begin sliding.

He said, “She probably verified my I.D. Whole different vibe here.”

By the time we’d exited the unmarked, the same woman was walking toward us. Fifties, broad-shouldered, with clipped beige hair and a military gait.

She said, “Sherry Andover.” Two graduate degrees on her badge: MSW and MPH.

Milo said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am. This is Dr. Delaware, he’s a psychologist.”

“I know. Judith at Hollywood said you’d be dropping by to talk about Zelda Chase. What’d she do, end up in someone’s backyard again?”

I said, “She lived here?”

“For maybe a month, right after we opened, thirteen months ago.”

“Backyards were her thing?” said Milo.

“She wandered away, I’d say three, four times. Never went far, mostly we’d find her behind one of the apartment buildings south of Pico, and she didn’t cause problems other than digging up some plants that could be tucked back in. In fact, she was kind of neat about it. Putting stuff in a row then she’d go to sleep and someone would find her in the morning and call the cops. Santa Monica PD knows us so they drove her back.”

A blue door to the right opened and two women stepped out. One was painfully obese and walked with two canes. The other appeared barely in her twenties and limped. Sherry Andover waved at them. They returned to their room.

“Where’s Zelda now, guys?”

I said, “On a 5150 hold until tomorrow.”

“Locked up? She’s gotten dangerous?”

“She shifted her trespassing to Bel Air.”

Sherry Andover said, “Aha, invading the high-line, yeah the system would respond differently to that. So she’s not violent.”

“Not that I’ve seen. She’ll be released tomorrow.”

“And you want to bring her here.”

Now that you mention it.

I said, “If you can accommodate her.”

“A couple of beds just opened,” she said. “For the wrong reasons. Yesterday, one of our gals had a fatal encounter with a car. Another left a week ago and ended up stabbed to death in Long Beach. Long domestic history with an abusive boyfriend. So what does she do? Heads straight for the alley where he hangs out.”

I said, “How’d they get out with the gate in place?”

“By using that button right there.” She pointed to a black dot on the right-hand post. “We’re not a locked facility, Doctor. Everyone’s free to come and go as they please, the gate’s locked only on the outside, to keep problems away from them.”

“No need for that at the men’s shelter.”

“If I was in charge there’d be the same setup there, but with tight funds, the board prioritized. All severely mentally ill people are vulnerable but being female is an additional factor.”

Milo said, “So the women leave when they feel like it but have to call in when they return.”

“We hope it’s a disincentive for wandering away, but it’s not as if we’re dealing with a rational population.”

“Rowing upstream,” said Milo. “I can relate.”

“Bet you can.” She turned to me. “Bet you both can. Anyway, sure, we’ll take Zelda if she wants to be here and she really is no danger to herself and others. The only caveat being, if those beds book up before tomorrow, she’s out of luck.”

I said, “If that happens, any suggestions where should I take her?”

“Take her? You’re transporting her, personally?”

“Seems the simplest way.”

“She’s been your patient for a while?”

“She was never my patient. I consulted to her psychiatrist.”

“Where’s he in all this?”

“Deceased.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll make sure there’s room for her. If you’re confident she won’t act out aggressively.”

“I can’t guarantee anything but nothing indicates she’s at risk.”

“Appreciate the honesty, Doctor. Let’s give it the old-school try.”

I said, “So she was here a month.”

“Give or take, we don’t collect clinical or personal data.”

“Why’d she leave?”

“No idea. One day she was just gone. Like so many of them.”

“Any alcohol or drug issues?”

“Not that I saw, Doctor. Why? Is she currently addicted?”

I shook my head. “Any issues at all, besides trespassing?”

“Nope. Is she currently being medicated for her illness? There’s a community mental health clinic a few blocks away and if she’s willing I can hook her up there.”

“The resident who committed her gave her a strong dose of Ativan and prescribed a week’s worth. Right now she’s pretty drowsy. I don’t know how she’ll feel once it wears off.”

“Same old story,” said Sherry Andover. “All right, welcome back, Zelda. Nice meeting you guys. Just push that button and let yourselves out.”

I said, “One more thing: I got involved with her because I’m a child psychologist and her psychiatrist asked me to evaluate her son. Would you have any idea where he is?”

Sherry Andover frowned. “She has a son? No indication of that when she was here but we don’t take kids so maybe he got placed somewhere.”

“If he did, I can’t find him.”

“And you’re concerned about that because...”

“I’d like to know he’s okay.”

“I don’t want to be Ms. Obvious but have you tried social services?”

I rattled off the agencies we’d called.

She said, “Can’t add to those.” She blew out air. “I need you to be brutally honest: You’re not thinking she hurt him, are you? ’Cause that brings us right back to the violence thing and a red flag the size of Alaska.”

I said, “Five years ago she was a caring, loving mother and she’s never acted out violently with anyone. She’s been living on the streets so you’re probably right about placement. I’d just like to confirm it.”

“Five years ago she was crazy but a good mom.”

“She managed to work a full-time job and make sure the boy was well cared for. Then she lost the job and we haven’t been able to trace her movements other than her stay at your other facility and here.”

“She won’t talk about the boy?”

“She’s still pretty much out of it. The only thing she did mention was her mother disappearing. Did that come up here?”

“Never that I heard but she might’ve told one of the other girls. They have all kinds of stories, our residents. Which isn’t to say none are true — hey, maybe that’s why she invades other people’s territory, trying to make it back home symbolically or something? How’s that for pop psychology? Think I can get my own talk show?”

I smiled.

“I shouldn’t joke but it helps,” she said. “I’m just the fool who took this job because my teaching position at Northridge was X’d out.”

Milo said, “Hardly.”

“Pardon?”

“You don’t seem like a fool to me, ma’am. What’d you teach?”

“Public administration. I’m an organizer, never done a minute of therapy. Not officially, anyway.”

He said, “But you still get to go home every night knowing you did something important.”

Sherry Andover stared at him then she blushed. “That’s got to be the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me since my husband proposed — and I won’t tell you how that worked out. You single?”

Milo smiled and shook his head.

She said, “Okay, I’ll take important. And now good manners means I have to say the same applies to you. Which it does. To both of you.” She laughed harder. “Look at us, a bunch of saints.”

As we drove away, Milo said, “Why’d you ask her about booze and dope?”

“Zelda got busted for drunk and disorderly twice, and I’m wondering if she’ll head for some dive bar if she grows restless.”

“Or to someone’s backyard.”

“That, too.”

“I wouldn’t overthink it, Alex. Like I told you, enforcement’s political and people like her don’t get put through Breathalyzers, they just get hauled in. The arresting officers were looking for a charge to pin on her so they called her drunk.”

“So I shouldn’t pub-hop?”

He laughed. “That’s a separate issue. What next, fellow important person?”