Over the Edge

8

AT FIRST I couldn't see him. He was submerged in a phalanx of deputies, all of them huge. The red-haired giant who'd stuck his head out the door to the High Power unit led the way, checking me out and scanning the room. When he gave the okay, the rest of them entered, moving in concert like some massive tan arachnid that parted slowly to reveal the shackled boy in its grasp.

I wouldn't have recognised him had he passed me on the street. He'd grown to six feet but didn't weigh more than 130 pounds. The yellow pyjamas hung loosely on his spindly frame. Puberty had stretched his face from sphere to oval. The features were regular but ascetic, the bones peaking sharply under a thin tent of flesh. His black hair was still long; it hung down over his forehead and fell in greasy clumps upon bony shoulders. His skin was the colour of parchment, shadowed with unearthly overtones of grey-green. Black stubble lightly dotted his chin and upper lip. A large, florid pimple blossomed from one hollow cheek. Both eyes were closed. He gave off a sour smell.

The deputies moved with silent precision. Meaty hands remained clasped around sticklike arms. One pair propelled him to the table. Another sat him down. Wrist and ankle cuffs were secured to the stationary chair. It left him in an awkward position, but he allowed himself to be manipulated with the limp passivity of a marionette.

When they were through, the redhead came over and introduced himself as Sergeant Koocher.

"How long will this take, Doctor?" he asked.

"It's hard to tell before I talk to him."

"We'd prefer that you keep it to one hour maximum, and we'll be back to pick him up in sixty minutes. If you need more time, let Deputy Sonnenschein know beforehand. He'll be right outside."

Sonnenschein frowned and nodded assent.

"Any questions?" asked Koocher.

"No."

He signalled to the others, and they left. Sonnenschein was the last to exit. He remained on the other side of the glass, arms folded across his chest, positioned at an angle that allowed him a clear view of both the glass room and the interview area. I turned from him to the boy on the other side of the table.

"Hello, Jamey. It's Dr. Delaware."

I searched the pallid face for signs of response, found none.

"I'm here to help you," I said. "Is there anything you need?"

When he didn't answer I let the silence simmer. Nothing. I started to talk, softly, soothingly — about how frightened he must be, how glad I was that he'd reached out to me, how much I wanted to help.

After twenty minutes he opened his eyes. For an instant I was hopeful that I'd broken through. Then I looked at him closely, and hope scurried back into its burrow.

His eyes were filmed over and unfocused, the whites a soiled-linen grey shot through with red. He was looking at me without seeing.

A trickle of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth and flowed down his chin. I took out a handkerchief and wiped it away, held his chin, and tried to snag eye contact. It was futile; his stare remained vacant and lifeless.

Lowering my hand, I placed it on his shoulder. The movement caught the corner of Sonnenschein's eye. He wheeled around and stared sharply through the glass. I gave him an everything's okay look, and after a few seconds he relaxed his stance but didn't avert his gaze.

Jamey remained motionless. His pyjamas were sweat-soaked. Through the moist fabric he felt stiff and cold; I might have been touching a corpse. Then abruptly he sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips, blowing out rancid air. His head lolled, and he shuddered. The tremor coursed its way from his core to my fingertips, faded, and repeated itself. So abrupt was the surge of energy that I had to restrain myself from pulling away. But I'd made that mistake once before and wouldn't let it happen again.

Instead, I intensified the pressure of my fingers. A sobbing sound rose from deep within his abdomen; his shoulders heaved, then slumped. He closed his eyes again, and his head swung pendulously before dropping to the table. He lay there, cheek to the metal, mouth gaping, breathing nasally and heavily. Nothing I said or did roused him.

He slept stuporously. I watched him and felt my spirits sink with each heave of his scrawny chest. I'd been prepared for psychosis, but for nothing this regressed. The standard battery of mental status questions — orientation to time and place, inquiries about distorted thought processes and scrambled perceptions — was irrelevant. On the phone he'd responded, if only minimally. He'd told Milo he'd called me; that meant some degree of consciousness. Now he was a zombie. I wondered if it was a transitory phase — the severe depression that sometimes follows a schizophrenic outburst — or something more insidious: the beginning of the end.

Schizophrenia is a baffling collection of disorders. Psychiatry's come a long way since the days when psychotics were burned as witches, but the roots of madness remain a locked box. Psychiatrists control schizophrenic symptoms with drugs without really understanding why they work. It's palliative treatment that has little to do with cure. A third of all patients recover by themselves. Another third responds favourably to medication and supportive psychotherapy. And there exists a group of unfortunates who are resistant to any form of treatment; no matter what is attempted, they slide inexorably toward total mental deterioration.

I looked at the limp body splayed across the table and wondered which group would claim Jamey.

There was a third possibility, but it was a remote one. His symptoms — the tremors, the drooling, the sucking and blowing — bore the earmarks of tardive dyskinesia, nerve damage brought on by heavy doses of anti-psychotic medication. The disorder usually appears in older patients treated over a period of several years, but in rare cases acute dyskinesia has been noted after only minimal drug ingestion. Souza had told me that Mainwaring was continuing to medicate Jamey in the jail, and I made a note to learn more about the drugs he was getting and the dosage levels.

He started to snore loudly. As he sank deeper into sleep, his body seemed to retreat from my touch, going limp, almost liquid, as if his bones had melted. His breathing slowed. I kept my hand on his shoulder and talked to him, hoping some small bit of comfort would find its way through the stupor.

We stayed that way for the rest of the hour. I let go only when the cadre of deputies arrived and carried him back to his cell.

Sergeant Koocher told Sonnenschein to escort me out of the jail.

"I see what you meant by good luck," I said as we walked. "Getting him to respond."

"Yup."

"How often is he like that?"

"Most of the time. Sometimes he starts crying or screaming. Usually he just sits and stares until he falls asleep."

"Has it been that way since he got here?"

"He was pretty hyped up when they brought him in a couple of days ago. Like a duster. We had to keep him in restraints. But it didn't take long before he started to fade away."

"Does he talk to anyone?"

"Not that I've seen."

"How about his attorney?"

"Souza? Nah. He does the whole fatherly thing — puts his arm around him, feeds him juice and cookies. Cadmus shines him on. Totally out of it."

We turned a corner and nearly collided with a group of inmates. At the sight of Sonnenschein's uniform they veered away sharply.

"I guess it's good for his case," he said.

"What is?"

"His being so — decompensated."

He noted my surprise at his use of the technical term and grinned.

"Psych major," he explained. "Got one more year for a B.A. Working here got me interested in it."

"You're saying he's faking psychosis in order to be judged incompetent."

He shrugged.

"You're the doctor."

"What about your opinion? Off the record."

He didn't answer right away.

"Off the record I don't know. With some clowns it's obvious what they're up to. The minute they get here they start putting on the Looney Tunes act. Only they usually overdo it because they're uneducated; everything they know about psychosis comes from TV and splatter flicks. Know what I mean?"

"Sure. Draft dodger mania."

"You got it. Cadmus doesn't pull that kind of crap, but I heard he used to be some kind of genius, so maybe he's just playing the game a little smarter."

"You said he screamed once in a while. What does he say?"

"Nothing. He just screams. No words. Like a deer that's been gutshot."

"If you do make out something, could you write it down and show it to me the next time I'm here?"

He shook his head.

"No way, Doc. If I report it to you, I've got to report it to the DA. If I do it in this case, everyone will start to ask. After a while I'd be doing investigative freebies for everyone and neglecting my job."

"Okay," I said. "Just asking."

"No harm in that."

"Let me ask you something else then. Do you keep some kind of log — a record of the High Power inmates' behaviour?"

"Sure. Incident reports, unusual occurrences. Only screaming's not unusual. Some nights it's all you hear."

We reached the elevator and waited for it to arrive.

"Tell me," he said, "do you like your work?"

" Most of the time."

"It stays interesting?"

"Very."

"Good to hear. I've really enjoyed my psych classes, especially the abnormal stuff, been thinking about going on for a master's or something. But it's a lot more school, a heavy-duty decision, so I've been asking the psychiatrists who come here if they like what they do. Last one I asked — Cadmus's other doctor — looked at me funny, like it was a trick question, like what did I really mean by that."

"It's an occupational hazard," I said. "Overinterpreting."

"Maybe so, but I got the feeling he just didn't like cops."

I thought of what Souza had said about Mainwaring's being tagged as a defence expert, said nothing.

A few seconds passed.

"So," said Sonnenschein, "you really do like it."

"Can't think of anything I'd rather do."

"Excellent." He smiled, then grew grave. "You know, you spend some time up here, see these guys and hear about the things they've done, makes you want to understand how people get like that, know what I mean?"

"I sure do."

The elevator doors opened. We boarded and descended in silence. When they opened again, he'd forged his face into a stoic mask. I wished him luck with his studies.

"Thanks," he said, stepping out and using his hand to keep the door from closing. "Listen, I hope you figure out what's going on with the kid. If I could help you, I would. But I can't."

I stepped into the sally port. Beyond the blue bars I saw two men in the entry room. Their backs were to me as they stashed their guns in one of the lockers. I collected my ID and stepped out as they walked up to the trough. One of them was Cal Whitehead. The other was a big man, too, heavy and droopy, with pale skin, thick black hair, and startling green eyes under shaggy black brows. The hair was clipped short around the back and sides, except for long, unfashionable sideburns, and left thick on top. A wave of it swept across his forehead. His face was broad with thick features — a prominent, high-bridged nose, fleshy ears, and full, soft lips — its boyishness marred by the acne scars that pitted the flesh. His clothes were baggy and rumpled — brown corduroy jacket with button flaps and a half belt in back, tan double-knit trousers over scuffed desert boots, brown rayon shirt, and mustard-coloured tie.

"Hey, it's the psychiatrist," said Whitehead.

I ignored him and looked at the other man.

"Hello, Milo."

"H'lo, Alex," said my friend, with obvious discomfort.

An awkward silence took root and sprouted, interrupted finally by a bark from behind the glass. Milo unclipped his LAPD ID card from his lapel and dropped it into the trough. Whitehead did the same with his sheriffs ID.

"How've you been?" I asked.

"Fine," he said, looking at his shoes. "Yourself?"

"Fine."

He coughed and turned away, rubbing a big, soft hand over his face, as if washing without water.

The awkward silence blossomed. Whitehead seemed amused.

"Hey, Doc," he said, "how's your patient? Ready to spill his guts and save us a hassle?"

Milo winced and flashed me a knowing look that faded instantaneously.

"Don't tell me," taunted Whitehead, "he's totally zonked out, right? Pissing down his leg, eating his own shit, and unable-to-tell-right-from-wrong."

I started to walk away. Whitehead moved his bulk between me and the door.

"Yesterday you had nothing to say, mister. Today you're an expert."

"Cool it, Cal," said Milo.

"Yeah, I forgot," said Whitehead, not budging. "He's your buddy, so when he pulls the dim cap shit, it's okay."

The door to the sally port slid open.

"Come on, Cal," said Milo, and I saw his hands clench.

Whitehead looked at me, shook his head, smiled, and stepped aside. He pivoted, stomped into the port, and Milo followed him.

The bars slammed shut. Whitehead moved immediately to the left and began kibitzing with the deputies in the booth. Milo stood by himself on the other side of the port. Before I left, I tried to catch his attention, but he'd fixed his gaze on the grimy floor and never raised his eyes.