Over the Edge

15

I HAD lunch at a cafe in Sherman Oaks and mentally replayed the interview with Mainwaring. For all his pharmacologic expertise, he'd given me no insight into Jamey, the person. That no doubt wouldn't have troubled him at all had it been called to his attention. He was a self-proclaimed biochemical engineer with scant interest in any organism above the cellular level. Years ago he would have been viewed as an extremist, but now he was au courant well in step with the new wave in psychiatry — a love affair with biological determinism at the expense of insight. Part of the motivation behind the shift was valid; psychotherapy, by itself, had proved minimally useful in the treatment of psychosis, and drugs had wrought remarkable, if unpredictable, symptomatic control.

But some of it was also political — through reasserting themselves as physicians, psychiatrists could distance themselves from psychologists and other nonmedical therapists — as well as economic, for insurance companies were reluctant to pay for something as ambiguous as talking therapy but had no problem reimbursing for blood tests, brain scans, injections, and other medical procedures.

Psychology had its share of engineers, too — behavioural technologists, like Sarita Flowers, who steered clear of disorderly annoyances like feelings and thoughts and viewed the human condition as a set of bad habits in need of Skinnerian salvation.

Either perspective was a kind of tunnel vision, ad extremum, the blind worship of anything that could be quantified, combied with premature self-congratulation and a black/white view of the world. But there was a lot of grey space in the middle, and a patient could get lost there.

I wondered if that had happened to Jamey.

Arriving home at two, I called Souza and asked him to set up an appointment with Marthe Surtees.

"Ah, Marthe, a kind woman. I'll call the registry that employs her and see if I can reach her. Do you have anything to report, Doctor? I'm not asking for conclusions, only a feel for where you're going."

"Nothing yet. I'm still asking questions."

"I see. When do you envision yourself sufficiently prepared to write a report?"

"That's hard to say. Perhaps in a week or so."

"Good, good. We'll be going to court for preliminaries at the end of the month. I'd like my armoury well stocked by then."

"I'll do what I can."

"Yes, I'm sure you will. By the way, we spoke previously about the possibility of some kind of drug intoxication. Have you reached any conclusions about that?"

"Dr Mainwaring was adamant that drugs had nothing to do with Jamey's condition, and he thought even raising the possibility would damage a dim cap defence."

"Mainwaring's not an attorney. If I can show that Chancellor pushed drugs on the boy, not only wouldn't it hurt, but it would help."

"Be that as it may. there's no evidence of drug abuse. The symptoms I noticed were probably tardive dyskinesia — a reaction to the medications. He'd started to show them at Canyon Oaks. It's an atypical reaction after short-term treatment, but Mainwaring feels he's an atypical schizophrenic."

"Atypical." He thought out loud. "Framed properly, that could work in our favour, make us less dependent upon precedent. Very well, keep probing, and let me know if anything else comes up. By the way, do you have anything scheduled later on today?"

"No."

"Excellent. Heather arrived last night from Montecito, took a helicopter down at midnight in order to avoid the press. The children stayed behind, so if you want to speak to her, it would be a good time."

"Sure."

"Shall we say five o'clock then?"

"Five would be fine."

"Excellent. I know you'll find her a superb young woman. Speaking of which, I greatly enjoyed speaking with your Robin."

His words were gracious, but something in his tone betrayed an undercurrent of lechery. Nothing you could put your finger on; nevertheless, I felt my stomach tighten.

"She's terrific," I said.

"Quite. Good for you, Doctor."

He gave me the address of the Cadmus house and signed off cheerily.

Hancock Park reeks of old money.

In Beverly Hills, an unlimited budget in the absence of good taste has often produced freakish architectural excess: turreted castles, texture-coated pseudovillas, Technicolour postmodernistic monstrosities, and cheesy imitations of Tara, each costing millions, competing for applause on a single palm-lined block.

Four miles east, in Hancock Park, the quieter the better. There's some diversity of style — Tudor, Georgian, Regency, Mediterranean — but it fits together unobtrusively. Very hushed, very stately. For the most part the houses are larger than their noisy cousins in Beverly Hills, remnants of a time when multiple servants were the order of the day. They sit smugly behind expansive, knife-edged lawns, set far back from wide, maple-shaded streets. The landscaping is subdued: a solitary stately pine on the lawn, yew hedges, and an occasional splash of flower petal. Wood-sided station wagons, Volvos and Mercedes sedans in neutral shades fill the driveways. As is the case with most residential areas of L.A., the streets are ghost-town empty, save for isolated perambulators pushed by uniformed nannies or permapressed young matrons holding platinum-haired toddlers in tow. A few Jews and Asians have moved in, but for the most part Hancock Park is still WASP country. And though some of the city's meanest streets surround the neighbourhood and crime is higher than anyone wants to admit, Hancock Park remains an enclave of understated wealth.

The Cadmus House was on June Street north of Beverly, not far from the Los Angeles Country Club, a two-storey brick Tudor whose bricks and contrasting stone and woodwork had been painted beige. A clover-laced flagstone path divided the lawn. On either side stood a security guard, wearing the same grey uniform as the men in the lobby of Cadmus Construction. But these guards were armed with pistols and billy clubs. The reason for their presence was obvious: A flock of reporters milled on the sidewalk. When one moved toward the house, a guard stepped forward. The reporters kept trying, and the guards kept reacting, a curious minuet. Off to the side, under a porte-cochere, sat Souza's Rolls, nosed up against a high wrought-iron gate. Standing next to the giant car was Tully Antrim, running a chamois over its glossy flanks while keeping one eye on the street. He saw the Seville and gestured for me to pull behind the Phantom.

The reporters had spied the exchange, and as I swung up the drive, they surged forward amoebically. The guards kicked up their legs and went right after them. Taking advantage of the diversion, one of the journalists, a young, bespectacled man in a brown corduroy suit, made a dash for the front door.

Antrim moved fast. In three long strides he was at the reporter's side. One more step brought him between the man and the door. He glared at the journalist and ordered him away. The reporter argued with him. Antrim shook his head. The reporter moved suddenly, and the chauffeur's right hand shot out and caught him in the solar plexus. The young man went pale, formed a tortured O with his mouth, and clutched his gut in agony. Antrim shoved him hard, and he tripped backward. By this time one of the security guards had reached the scene, and he pulled the still-gasping journalist off the property.

I'd watched the whole thing from the car, with a flood of shouting faces pressed against the windows and hand-held tape recorders brandished across my line of vision. As the man in the brown suit stumbled toward his car, he shouted something at his colleagues that caused them to howl in outrage at Antrim and the guards. But at the same time they stepped away from the Seville, and I used the opportunity to get out of the car and dash behind the Rolls. Antrim saw me and bounded over. By the time the reporters had stopped shouting and realised what was happening, he'd taken me by the arm, whipped out a set of keys, and unlocked the wrought-iron gate.

"Fucking assholes," he muttered, and pushed me through, none too gently.

The reporters pressed toward the limousine, straining to look over its towering chassis. The guards followed them, and the whine of confrontation grew louder.

Antrim led me to a side entrance and knocked. Next to the door was a small curtained window. The curtains parted, a face peered out, the curtains closed, and the door opened. A big-bellied guard was on the other side.

"It's the doctor she's been waiting to see," said Antrim, pushing past him.

The guard touched the butt of his gun and said, "Go right in," sternly, in an attempt to maintain the illusion of authority.

I followed the chauffeur through a large-custard-yellow kitchen. In the centre of the room was a gingham-covered table. Scattered across the tabletop were a flashlight, a thermos bottle, two plastic-wrapped ham sandwiches, and a copy of the National Enquirer Draped over one chair was a grey uniform jacket. Antrim shoved a swinging door, and we passed through a butler's pantry and a dark-panelled dining room fitted with brass wall scones. An abrupt left turn led to a domed entry hall. At the rear of the hall was a carved oak staircase. From the top of the stairs came the roar of a vacuum cleaner.

He led me across the hall and down two steps into a large oyster-coloured living room, carpeted in beige wool. Blackout drapes had been drawn over every window, leaving two table lamps the sole source of illumination.

The room was expensively underfurnished: stiff sofas upholstered in dull mushroom damask; a pair of Queen Anne chairs similarly covered; spindly-legged Chippendale tables redolent of lemon oil. Off to one corner was an ebony Steinway grand. Hanging from the walls were second-rate English still lifes and landscapes framed in mahogany, their pigments faded to genteel obscurity. A limestone mantel hovered over a dead fireplace. Atop it was the room's sole incongruity: a collection of primitive sculptures — half a dozen squat, slant-eyed faces hewn of rough grey stone.

A woman sat on the sofa. She stood as I entered, tall and fashion-model thin.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Delaware," she said in a wispy, little-girl voice. "I'm Heather Cadmus." To Antrim: "Thank you, Tully. You may go now."

The chauffeur left, and I walked toward her.

I knew she was close to her husband's age, but she looked ten years younger. Her face was long, pale, and unlined, tapering to a sharp, firm chin. Except for a hint of eyeliner, she wore no make-up. Her hair was chestnut brown, cut shoulder length, flipped at the ends, and trimmed to feathery bangs covering a high, flat forehead. Under the bangs were large, round grey eyes. Perpendicular to them was a thin but strong nose, gently uptilted, the nostrils slightly pinched — a debutante face, scrubbed, pedigreed, and girlishly pretty. The picture of casual wealth was rounded out by her attire: pink oxford shirt with button-down collar, charcoal wool A-line skirt, flat brown doeskin loafers, no jewellery save for a single diamond-studded wedding band. Her hands were small-boned and narrow, with long, tapered fingers. She held out a hand, and I took it.

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cadmus."

"Heather, please," she said in that same oddly tinkling voice. "Won't you sit down?" She settled down again but remained on the edge of the sofa. Maintaining an erect posture, she smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs at the ankles. I sat in one of the Queen Annes and tried to ignore the discomfort.

She smiled nervously and folded her hands in her lap. A moment later a Hispanic maid in a black uniform appeared at the entrance to the room. Heather acknowledged her with a nod, and they talked briefly in rapid Spanish.

"Can I get you something, Doctor?"

"Nothing, thanks."

She dismissed the maid.

Muffled shouts filtered through the curtains from the street. Turning toward the sound, she winced.

"It was too soon to come back. They've placed the house under siege. I'm just thankful my children don't have to see it. They've been through so much already."

"Your husband told me Jamey was very rough on them," I said, taking out my notepad.

"He was," she said softly. "They're only little girls, and he scared them so." Her voice broke. "I can't stop worrying about how all this is going to affect them. And the stress on my husband is unbelievable." I nodded sympathetically.

"Please don't misunderstand me," she said. "I care deeply about Jamey. Just thinking about what's happened to him is… unbearable."

"From what I understand you and he were very close."

"I — I used to think so. I thought I'd done right by him. Now I'm not sure of anything."

Her voice broke again, and one of the hands in her lap gathered up a handful of wool and squeezed until the knuckles turned white.

"Heather, I need to ask some questions that may be upsetting. If this isn't a good time, I can come back."

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Please do what you have to."

"All right. Let's start with the time of your marriage. Jamey was five. How did he react to your entering the family?"

She flinched, as if the question had wounded her, then turned pensive, phrasing her response. "It was a difficult period for all of us. Overnight I went from single girl to instant stepmother. It's a terrible role, so fraught with evil connotations. Not the way I saw myself at twenty-four. I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't."

"What kinds of problems were there?"

"What you'd expect. Jamey was very jealous of my husband's attention, which was understandable — Dwight had been more of a father to him than anyone. Then, all of a sudden, there I was. He perceived me as his rival and did his best to try to eliminate me. From a child's perspective it must have been the logical thing to do,"

"What did he do?"

"Insulted me, refused to mind, made believe I wasn't there. He could use his intelligence to be quite cruel, but I understood that it came from fear and was determined to endure. I developed a thick skin and dug in my heels. Eventually he accepted my presence, and after a while we got to the point where we could talk. Dwight was heavily involved with the company, and I stayed home; that meant I did most of the parenting. We ended up doing quite a bit of talking. Not that most of it was on a very personal level — he was a loner and kept his feelings to himself; after I had my own children, I realised how close mouthed he really was — but from time to time he even confided in me."

She paused and looked down at her hands, which were gripping her skirt like talons. Then she took a deep breath and consciously relaxed them.

"In view of what's happened, I know that doesn't sound like much, Doctor, but at the time I thought I was doing great."

Her bottom lip trembled, and she turned away. The light from one of the lamps cast an aura around her profile, giving her the look of a life-sized cameo.

"Did he ever talk to you about homosexuality?" Her husband had reacted to the gay issue with anger and denial, but she remained outwardly unruffled.

"No. By the time he — is the expression 'came out'? — he was already spending most of his time with Dig Chancellor and having little to do with us."

"Do you think Chancellor had something to do with his coming out?"

She gave that some thought.

"I suppose he might have eased the way by serving as a role model, but if you're asking if he bent a straight twig, no, I don't believe that."

"Then you do feel he's homosexual?"

The question surprised her.

"Of course he is."

"Your husband believes quite differently."

"Doctor" — she sighed — "my husband is a very fine man. Hard-working, a dedicated father. But he can also be very stubborn. When he gets an idea in his head, even one that's illogical, it's impossible to budge him. He loves Jamey deeply; until recently he thought of him as a son. The idea that he isn't sexually normal is something he just can't face up to."

In view of the much harsher realities about Jamey, I wondered why the boy's sexual proclivities loomed so large in the assault upon Cadmus's defence system. But there was no point bringing that up now.

"When did you realise he was gay?" I asked.

"I suspected it for a while. Once when I was supervising the maid as she tidied up his room, I came across some homosexual pornography. I knew if I told Dwight there'd be an explosion, so I simply threw the pictures away and hoped it was a transitory thing. But a few weeks later he'd replaced what I'd got rid of and added to the collection. It made me realise that he really had a problem. After that I started to put things together: how he'd never been interested in sports or playing with other boys; the way he avoided girls. We're quite active socially, and there was no shortage of opportunities for him to meet young ladies, but when we made suggestions or tried to introduce him to someone, he got angry and stalked away. After he had started seeing Dig, my suspicions were confirmed."

"How did he and Chancellor meet?"

She gnawed her lip and looked uncomfortable.

"Do we really need to get into that? It's a very… sensitive issue."

"It's bound to come out at the trial."

She leaned forward and took a platinum cigarette case from the coffee table. Next to it was a matching lighter, which I picked up. By the time she'd placed a filter-tipped cigarette between her lips I had a flame ready.

"Thank you," she said, sitting back and blowing out a lacy stream of smoke. "I quit two years ago. Now I'm putting away half a pack a day."

I waited as she consumed a third of the cigarette. Resting what was left of it on the rim of a crystal ashtray, she continued:

"Are you certain… about its becoming public?"

"I'm afraid so. Even if the prosecution doesn't bring it up, the relationship between Jamey and Chancellor is likely to be a key part of the defence."

"Yes," she said grimly. "Horace talked to us about that. I suppose he knows best." She dragged once on the cigarette and put it down. "If you must know, they met here. At a dinner party. It was a business affair, black tie, the inauguration of a new company project. Dig's bank had invested in it, as had several other institutions. Dwight's idea was to bring all the investors together in order to make a show of unity and get things off on the right foot. It started off as a beautiful evening — catering by Perino's, champagne, an orchestra, and dancing. My girls were allowed to stay up and be little hostesses. Jamey was invited, too, of course, but he stayed in his room all night, reading. I remember it clearly, because I'd had a set of evening wear made up for him, as a surprise. When I presented it to him, he refused even to look at it."

"So he never joined the party?"

"Not for a second. Dig must have wandered upstairs, and somehow they ran into each other and started talking. Midway through the party Dwight found them. He'd gone up to take an aspirin and saw the two of them sitting on Jamey's bed, reading poetry. He was outraged. Everyone was well aware of Dig's… tastes. Dwight felt that he was abusing our hospitality. He stepped in immediately and escorted him back downstairs — politely but firmly. It ruined the party for him, though he put on a good face. That night we talked about it, and he admitted that he'd also been worried about Jamey's sexuality for quite some time. Maybe it was naive, but at that point both of us still felt that he was a confused teenager who could go either way and that Dig was the last person in the world he needed. We prayed nothing would come of the chance meeting, but of course it did. Immediately. The next morning, after Dwight left for work, Dig picked Jamey up, and they disappeared together for the entire day. The same thing happened the following day. Soon Jamey was spending more time at Dig's house than here. My husband was livid — doubly so because he blamed himself for the initial meeting. He wanted to drive to Dig's place and drag Jamey away, but I convinced him it would do more harm than good."

"In what way?"

"I didn't want things to get physical. My husband's fit, but Dig was a huge man. He worked out with weights. And I was afraid of how Jamey would react if confronted."

"Were you worried about violence?"

"No. Not then. Only that he'd become verbally abusive and impossible to live with."

"Did the mental deterioration start before or after he met Chancellor?"

"Horace asked me the same thing, and I've racked my brain trying to remember. But it's hard to pinpoint. It wasn't as if he were a normal boy who had suddenly started acting bizarre. He was never like other children, so the change was more gradual. All I can say is it was around the time Dig started showing an interest in him."

"Did you or your husband ever discuss Jamey with Chancellor?"

"Not a word. We suffered in silence."

"That must have put quite a strain on your relationship with Chancellor."

"Not really. The only relationship that had ever existed had been a business one."

"Did that continue?"

The grey eyes smouldered with anger, and a flush rose in her cheeks. The delicate muscles of her jaw fluttered, and when she spoke, her voice had risen in pitch.

"Doctor, if you're suggesting that we backed off in order to put more change in our pockets, let me assure you—"

"I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort," I broke in. "Merely trying to get a picture of how the relationship with Chancellor affected the family."

"How it affected us? It tore us apart. But no, we didn't sever business connections. You don't go dismantling a multimillion-dollar project upon which thousands of people depend because of personal matters. If that were the case, nothing in this world would ever get done."

She retrieved the cigarette and puffed on it furiously. I gave her some time to cool down. When she finished smoking, she stubbed it out, patted her hair, and forced a smile.

"Forgive me," she said. "It's been very difficult."

"There's nothing to forgive. These are tough questions."

She nodded. "Please go on."

"Does your husband still blame himself for what happened between Jamey and Chancellor?"

"Yes. I've tried to tell him it would have happened one way or another, that homosexuality is inborn, not something you can be talked into, but as I mentioned before, he's a very stubborn man."

The roots of Cadmus's denial had grown clearer, and I understood why raising the issue of Jamey's relationship with Chancellor had ended my interview with Dwight.

"He's consumed with guilt," she added, "to the point where I'm concerned about his health."

I remembered the ravenous way he'd eyed the bottle of Glenlivet and guessed what kind of health problem she was worried about. Changing the subject, I asked:

"As far as you know, did Dig Chancellor use drugs?"

"As I said, I didn't know him well, so I really couldn't tell you for certain. But intuitively I'd say no. Like so many of them, he was obsessed with his body — vegetarianism, organic foods, weight-lifting; the man was the picture of health, massively muscular. He influenced Jamey to the point where he wouldn't eat in our home. So I can't see him polluting himself."

What she was saying sounded logical on the surface, but it didn't mean much; the most zealous health freaks had a way of making an exception when it came to a cocaine buzz or an amyl nitrate orgasm.

"What about Jamey? Do you know of his taking drugs?"

"When he started acting bizarrely, I wondered about it. In fact, it was the first thing I thought of."

"Why's that?"

"The way he was behaving seemed similar to a bum LSD or PCP trip, maybe even a reaction to bad speed."

The drug talk seemed out of place coming from her patrician lips. She saw my surprise and smiled.

"I volunteer at a drug rehab centre sponsored by the Junior League. It's a halfway house and counselling centre for teenagers trying to get off hard drugs. We established it after the First Lady made a plea for citizen involvement. I've spent five hours a week there for the last eighteen months, and it's been very educational. Not that I was naive about drugs — I attended Stanford in the sixties — but things have got a lot worse since the sixties. The stories some of the kids tell are unbelievable: ten-year-olds on heroin; designer drugs; babies born addicted. It's sensitized me to the enormousness of the problem. That is why when Jamey started acting strangely, I panicked and called one of the counsellors at the centre. She agreed that it could be hallucinogens but said that the possibility of some kind of mental breakdown shouldn't be overlooked. Unfortunately I heard only the part about drugs and blocked out the rest."

She stopped, suddenly embarrassed.

"What I'm going to tell you now may sound stupid, but you have to understand that he was falling apart and I was frightened, for the entire family."

"Please go on. I'm sure it's not stupid at all."

She leaned forward penitently.

"I turned into a snoop, Doctor. Kept a close watch on him for telltale signs when I thought he wasn't looking — examining his pupils, surreptitiously checking his arms for needle marks. Several times I sneaked into his room and took it apart in hope of finding a syringe or a pill or some powder — anything I could have analysed at the centre. All I found were more of his dirty pictures. Once I even borrowed a pair of his underpants, thinking a urine trace could be done from it. In the end I came up with nothing and he kept deteriorating. I finally realised it had to be mental illness."

She took another cigarette out of the case, had second thoughts, and put it down on the table.

"I've lost a lot of sleep wondering if catching it sooner would have made a difference. Dr. Mainwaring assured us that the schizophrenia was genetically programmed and would have occurred with or without treatment. What do you think?"

"Schizophrenia's not like cancer. Response to treatment has more to do with individual biology than with how quickly you start. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

"I appreciate that," she said. "I really do. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"You said before he confided in you—"

"Infrequently."

"I understand. During those infrequent times what kinds of things did he talk about?"

"Hurts, fears, insecurities. The usual plagues of childhood. He was curious about his parents and went through a period where he felt they'd rejected him. I tried to support him, to build up his sense of self-esteem."

"How much did he know about them?"

"Do you mean about the kind of people they were? Pretty much all of it. At first I glossed over some of the rougher parts, but he could tell I was being elusive and kept pressing me. I thought it was best to be honest. The fact that they'd used drugs really bothered him, which is another reason — now that I'm thinking rationally — that I don't believe he would have taken anything."

"Was he aware of the details of his father's suicide?"

"He knew that Peter had hanged himself, yes. He wanted to know why, which, of course, is an unanswerable question."

"What kinds of feelings did he express about it?"

"It enraged him. He said that suicide was a wretched act and that he hated his father for destroying himself. I tried to tell him that Peter hadn't done it to hurt him, that he'd acted only out of tremendous inner pain. I emphasised his parents' good points, too — how charming and good-looking Peter had been, his mother's talent as a dancer. I wanted him to feel good about his roots and about himself."

Uttering a raw sound that was half laugh, half sob, she breathed in sharply and dabbed at her eyes.

I waited for her to calm down before continuing.

"I'd like to hear about his childhood behaviour patterns."

"Certainly. What would you like to know?"

"Let's start with sleep. Was he a good sleeper as a child?"

"No. He was always restless and easy to wake."

"Did he have frequent nightmares, night terrors, or episodes of sleepwalking?"

"There were occasional bad dreams, nothing out of the ordinary. But several months before he was hospitalised, he began to wake up screaming. Dr. Mainwaring said those were night terrors and probably related to some neurological problem."

"How often did this happen?"

"Several times a week. It's one of the reasons we let him move into the guesthouse; the noise was frightening the girls. I assume they continued or got worse after he moved out, but I can't be sure because he was out of earshot."

"Did he ever say anything when he screamed?"

She shook her head.

"Only moans and shrieks." She shuddered. "Horrible."

"Did he ever wet the bed?"

"Yes. At the time of my marriage he was a bed-wetter. I tried everything to help him stop — bribery, scolding, a bell and pad machine — but nothing worked. When he was nine or ten, it stopped by itself."

"What about fire setting?"

"Never," she said, puzzled.

"How did he get along with animals?"

"Animals?"

"Pets. Did he enjoy them?"

"We've never had dogs or cats because I'm allergic. There was an aquarium full of tropical fish in the library that he used to enjoy looking at. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She continued to appear mystified, and I knew that my questions seemed disjointed. But I'd asked them for a reason. Bed-wetting is common in children and, by itself, not considered pathological. But bed-wetting, fire setting, and cruelty to animals constitute a predictive triad: Children who exhibit all three symptoms are more likely to develop a psychopathic behaviour pattern as adults than those who don't. It's a statistical phenomenon, and far from ironclad, but worth looking into when you're dealing with serial murder.

I finished the developmental history and asked her to review Jamey's breakdown. Her account matched her husband's with one exception: She described herself as having wanted to get psychiatric help for Jamey years before but having been stymied by Dwight's refusal.

Characteristically, she followed the implicit criticism of her husband by singing his praises as a spouse and father, and excusing his resistance as well-meaning stubbornness. When she was through, I thanked her and closed my notepad.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"Unless there's something else you want to tell me."

She hesitated.

"There is one thing. Up until recently I hadn't told anyone about it because I wasn't sure if it would help Jamey or hurt him. But I talked to Horace yesterday, and he said it could be helpful in terms of establishing that Dig Chancellor was a pernicious influence. He also asked me to cooperate with you fully, so I guess I should."

"I wouldn't do anything that would hurt Jamey if that's what you're worried about."

"After meeting you, I know that's true. He called you when he was in pain, so you must have been a meaningful person in his life."

She put her hand to her mouth and bit the inside surface of one finger.

I waited.

"I had a dress," she said, "an evening gown in lavender silk. One day I looked for it in my closet, and it was gone. I asked the maid about it, checked at the cleaner's. Their records showed it had been picked up, but it was nowhere to be found. I was very upset at the time, but eventually I forgot about it. Then, one night, when Dwight was out of town and I was sitting up reading in bed, I heard a car door slam and the sound of laughter from the rear of the house. There's a balcony outside my bedroom overlooking the street. I stepped out onto it and saw Dig and a young girl, which made no sense at all. He'd parked his car in the rear driveway and was sitting in it with the motor running. I could tell it was Dig because the car was a convertible with the top down — one of those little classic Thunderbirds — and the light over the garage was directly on his face. The girl was standing by the passenger door, as if she'd just got out. She was a cheap sort — bleached blonde, a lot of costume jewellery — and she was wearing my gown. She was taller than I am, and on her it looked like a minidress. I was furious at Jamey for stealing it and giving it to such a tawdry little tramp. It seemed such a malicious thing to do. I stood on the balcony and watched them laugh and talk, and then the girl leaned over and they kissed."

She stopped talking. In an instant she'd snatched up the cigarette she rejected earlier, jammed it into her mouth, and picked up the lighter before I could get to it. Her hands were shaking, and it took several attempts before she produced a flame. Putting the lighter down with a clatter, she sucked greedily on the cigarette, holding the smoke down in her lungs before letting it out. Behind the haze I could see that her eyes had filled with tears. She let them brim over, and the water meandered down her cheeks in leaky rivulets.

"They kissed again," she said hoarsely. "Then the girl pulled away and looked up into the light. It was at that point I saw it wasn't a girl at all. It was Jamey, in a wig, high heels, and my lavender dress. He looked grotesque, ghoulish, like something out of a bad dream. Just talking about it makes me ill."

As if to illustrate, she had a brief coughing fit. I searched for a tissue box and spied one made of cloisonne on a small table near the piano. I pulled out a tissue and handed it to her.

"Thank you." She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. "This is terrible, I thought I'd done all my crying."

I patted her wrist and told her it was all right. It was a while before she was able to continue, and when she did, her voice was weak.

"I sat up all that night, frightened and sickened. The next day Jamey packed a suitcase and took it to Dig's. After he'd left, I rushed to the guesthouse and searched for the dress, wanting to rip it to shreds and burn it. As if by doing so I could destroy the memory. But it wasn't there. He'd taken it with him. As part of some kind of… trousseau."

"Did you ever talk to him about the theft?"

"No. What would have been the point?"

I had no answer for that.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"More than a year ago."

Before the Lavender Slashings started.

She read my mind.

"A while later the murders began. I never made any connection. But when they picked him up at Dig's house and I found out what they were charging him with, it hit me like a blow. The thought of my dress being used that way—"

Her words trailed off, and she put the cigarette in the ashtray without killing it.

"Horace says the transvestism could add to the picture of severe mental disturbance. He also thought the fact that the dress had been taken to Dig's was important: That it would show the killings had taken place there and that Dig was the mastermind. But he wanted to hear what you had to say."

All that seemed to pale beside one essential fact: She'd produced another bit of evidence linking Jamey — and, by association, Chancellor — to the Lavender Slashings. Souza's logic was starting to baffle me.

"Was I wrong to bring it up, Doctor?"

"No, but for the time being, I wouldn't go any further with it."

"I was hoping you'd say that," she said, relieved.

I put away my notepad and stood. We exchanged pleasantries and begun walking out of the room. She'd composed herself and was once more the gracious hostess. On the way out I again noticed the carvings on the mantel and went over to take a closer look. Hefting one of the heads — a half-frog, half-human visage topped by some kind of plumed helmet — I examined it. Dense and stolid, crudely fashioned yet powerful, emitting a powerful sense of timelessness.

"Mexican?"

"Central American."

"Did you pick it up while doing field work?"

She was amused.

"What gave you the idea I'd ever done field work?"

"Mr. Souza told me you were an anthropologist. And your Spanish is excellent. I played detective and guessed you'd studied a Hispanic culture."

"Horace was exaggerating. After I graduated, I took a master's degree in anthropology because I didn't know what else to do with myself."

"Cultural or physical?"

"A little of both. When I met Dwight, all that fell by the wayside. Without regrets. Making a home is what I really want to do."

I sensed that she was asking for validation.

"It's an important job," I said.

"I'm glad somebody recognises that. The home is everything. Most of the kids at the centre had no home life. If they had, they would never have got into trouble."

She made the pronouncement with a false bravado born of despair. The irony seemed to elude her. I kept my thoughts to myself and smiled empathetically.

"No," she said, looking up at the carving in my hand. "I got these when I was a little girl. My father was in the Foreign Service in Latin America, and I grew up there. Until I was twelve, I was totally bilingual. It may sound fluent, but actually my Spanish is pretty rusty."

I replaced the stone on the mantel.

"Why don't you use the side door again? Those vultures are still out there."

We retraced my entrance and walked through the kitchen. The heavy-set guard was sitting at the table reading the Enquirer. When he saw Heather he stood and said, "Ma'am." She ignored him and walked me to the door. Up close she smelled of soap and water. We shook hands, and I thanked her for her time.

"Thank you, Doctor. And please excuse my loss of control. You know" — she smiled, placing one hand on a narrow hip — "I was really dreading your visit, but I actually feel better, having spoken to you."

"I'm glad."

"Much better actually. Was it useful in terms of helping Jamey?"

"Sure," I lied. "Everything I learn helps."

"Good." She stepped closer, as if sharing a secret. "We know he's done terrible things and shouldn't be walking the streets. But we want him placed where he'll be safe and cared for. Please, Dr. Delaware, help us get him there."

I smiled, mumbled something that could have been mistaken for agreement, and took my leave.