Private Eyes

3

Dutchy was fiftyish, mid-size and plump, with slicked-down too-black hair parted on the right, apple cheeks, and razor-slash lips. He had on a well-cut but old-fashioned double-breasted blue serge suit, starched white shirt, linen pocket square, Windsor-knotted navy tie, and mirror-bright black bluchers with extra heel. When I came out of the inner office he and the girl were standing in the middle of the waiting room, she looking down at the carpet, he examining the artwork. The look on his face said my prints weren’t passing muster. When he turned to face me, his expression didn’t change.

All the warmth of a Montana hailstorm, but the girl clutched his hand as if he were Santa Claus.

She was small for her age but had a mature, well-formed face- one of those children endowed early with the countenance they’ll grow old with. An oval face, just this side of pretty, beneath bangs the color of walnut shells. The rest of her hair was long, almost to her waist, and topped with a pink flowered band. She had big round gray-green eyes with blond lashes, an upturned nose lightly freckled, and a pointy pixie chin under a narrow, timid mouth. Her clothes were too formal for school: puffed-sleeve dress of pink dotted swiss sashed with white satin tied in a bow at the back, pink lace-topped socks, and white patent-leather buckle shoes. I thought of Carroll’s Alice encountering the Queen of Hearts.

The two of them stood there, immobile. A cello and a piccolo, cast in odd duet.

I introduced myself, bending and smiling at the girl. She stared back. To my surprise, no terror.

No response at all, other than flat appraisal. Considering what had brought her to the office, I was doing great, so far.

Her right hand was swallowed by Dutchy’s meaty left one. Rather than have her relinquish it, I smiled again and held out my hand to Dutchy. He seemed surprised by the gesture and took it with reluctance, then let go at the same time he released the girl’s fingers.

“I’ll be off now,” he announced to both of us. “Forty-five minutes- correct, Doctor?”

“Correct.”

He took a step toward the door.

I was looking at the girl, bracing myself for resistance. But she just stood there, staring down at the carpet, hands pressed to her sides.

Dutchy took another step and stopped. Chewing his cheek, he turned back and patted the girl’s head. She gave him what appeared to be a reassuring smile.

“ ’Bye, Jacob,” she said. High, breathy voice. Same as on the tape.

The rose tint spread from Dutchy’s cheeks to the rest of his face. He chewed his cheek some more, lowered his arm stiffly, and mumbled something. One last glare at me and he was gone.

After the door closed I said, “Looks like Jacob’s a good friend.”

She said, “He’s my mother’s retainer.”

“But he takes care of you, too.”

“He takes care of everything.”

“Everything?”

“Our house.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “I don’t have a father, and my mother doesn’t leave the house, so Jacob does lots of things for us.”

“What kinds of things?”

“House things- telling Madeleine and Sabino and Carmela and all the service people and the delivery people what to do. Sometimes he makes food- snacks and finger food. If he’s not too busy. Madeleine cooks the big hot meals. And he drives all the cars. Sabino only drives the truck.”

“All the cars,” I said. “Do you have a lot?”

She nodded. “A lot. My father liked cars and bought them before he died. Mother keeps them in the big garage even though she doesn’t drive them, so Jacob has to start them and drive them so they don’t get sticky inside the engine. There’s also a company that comes to wash them every week. Jacob watches them to make sure they do a good job.”

“Sounds like Jacob keeps busy.”

“He does. How many cars do you have?”

“Just one.”

“What kind?”

“It’s a Dodge Dart.”

“Dodge Dart,” she said, pursing her lips and thinking. “We don’t have one of those.”

“It’s not very fancy. Kind of beat-up, actually.”

“We have one like that. A Cadillac Knockabout.”

“Cadillac Knockabout,” I said. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of that model.”

“It’s the one we took today. To here. A 1962 Cadillac Fleetwood Knockabout. It’s black and old. Jacob says it’s a workhorse.”

“Do you like cars, Melissa?”

Shrug. “Not really.”

“What about toys? Do you have any favorites?”

Shrug. “Not really.”

“I’ve got toys in my office. How about we go check them out?”

She shrugged a third time but allowed me to usher her into the consult room. Once she was inside, her eyes took flight, darting and alighting upon desk, bookshelves, toy chest, back to the desk. Never settling. She knitted her hands, pulled them apart, and began a curious rolling, kneading motion, turning one set of tiny fingers over the other.

I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. “I’ve got lots of stuff in here. Box games and dolls and clay and Play-Doh. Paper and pencils, too. And crayons, if you like to draw in color.”

“Why should I do that?” she said.

“Do what, Melissa?”

“Play or draw? Mother said we were going to talk.”

“Your mother was right. We are going to talk,” I said. “But sometimes kids who come here like to play or draw before they start talking. While they get used to this place.”

The hands kneaded faster. She looked down.

“Also,” I said, “playing and talking can help kids express how they feel- help get their feelings out.”

“I can get my feelings out,” she said, “by talking.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

She took a place on the leather sofa and I sat opposite her in my chair. She looked around some more, then placed her hands in her lap and stared straight at me.

I said, “Okay. Why don’t we start by talking about who I am and why you’re here. I’m a psychologist. Do you know what that means?”

She kneaded her fingers and kicked the couch with her heel. “I have a problem and you’re the kind of doctor who helps children who have problems and you don’t give any shots.”

“Very good. Did Jacob tell you all that?”

She shook her head. “My mother. Dr. Wagner told her about you- she’s my mother’s friend.”

I remembered what Eileen Wagner had said about a brief chat, about a little girl wandering and hiding in a big, spooky house, and wondered what friendship meant to this child. “But Dr. Wagner met your mother because of you, didn’t she, Melissa? Because of your call to the help line.”

Her body tightened and the little hands kneaded faster. I noticed that her finger pads were pink, slightly chafed.

“Yeah, but she likes my mother.”

Her eyes left mine and stared at the carpet.

“Well,” I said, backtracking, “Dr. Wagner was right. About the shots. I never give shots. Don’t even know how to give shots.”

Unimpressed, she looked at her shoes. Sticking her legs straight out, she began bobbling her feet.

“Still,” I said, “even going to a doctor who doesn’t give shots can be scary. It’s a new situation. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Her head shot up, the green eyes defiant. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Good.” I smiled. “And I’m not scared of you either.”

She gave me a look that was part bafflement, mostly scorn. So much for the old Delaware wit.

“Not only don’t I give shots,” I said, “but I don’t do anything to the children who come here. I work with them. As a team. They tell me about themselves and when I know enough about them, I show them how not to be scared. Because being scared is something we learn. So we can unlearn it.”

Spark of interest in the eyes. Her legs relaxed. But more kneading, faster.

She said, “How many other kids come here?”

“Lots.”

“How many?”

“Between four and eight a day.”

“What are their names?”

“I can’t tell you that, Melissa.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a secret- just like I couldn’t tell anyone that you came here today unless you gave me permission.”

“Why?”

“Because kids who come here talk about things that are private. They want privacy- do you know what that means?”

“Privacy,” she said, “is going to the bathroom like a young lady, all by yourself, with the door closed.”

“Exactly. When kids talk about themselves, they sometimes tell me things they’ve never told anyone. Part of my job is knowing how to keep a secret. So everything that goes on in this room is a secret. Even the names of the people who come here are secret. That’s why there’s that second door.” I pointed. “It goes out to the hall. So people can leave the office without going into the waiting room and seeing other people. Would you like to see?”

“No, thank you.” More tension.

I said, “Is something bothering you right now, Melissa?”

“No.”

“Would you like to talk about what scares you?”

Silence.

“Melissa?”

“Everything.”

“Everything scares you?”

Look of shame.

“How about we start with one thing.”

“Burglars and intruders.” Reciting, without hesitation.

I said, “Did someone tell you the kinds of questions I’d be asking you today?”

Silence.

“Was it Jacob?”

Nod.

“And your mother?”

“No. Just Jacob.”

“Did Jacob also tell you how to answer my questions?”

More hesitation.

I said, “If he did, that’s okay. He’s trying to help. I just want to make sure you tell me how you feel. You’re the star of this show, Melissa.”

She said, “He told me to sit up straight, speak clearly, and tell the truth.”

“The truth about what scared you?”

“Uh-huh. And then maybe you could help me.”

Accent on the maybe. I could almost hear Dutchy’s voice.

I said, “That’s fine. Jacob’s obviously a very smart person and he takes good care of you. But when you come here, you’re the boss. You can talk about anything you want.”

“I want to talk about burglars and intruders.”

“Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do.”

I waited. She said nothing.

I said, “What do these burglars and intruders look like?”

“They’re not real burglars,” she said, scornful again. “They’re in my imagination. Pretend.”

“What do they look like in your imagination?”

More silence. She closed her eyes. The hands kneaded furiously, her body took on a faint rocking motion, and her face screwed up. She appeared to be on the brink of tears.

I leaned in closer and said, “Melissa, we don’t have to talk about this right now.”

“Big,” she said, eyes still closed. But dry. I realized that the facial tightness wasn’t a presage to tears, just intense concentration. Her eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

Chasing images.

She said, “He’s big… with this big hat…”

Sudden stillness beneath the eyelids.

Her hands untangled, floated upward, and made wide circles. “… and a long coat and…”

“And what?”

The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.

Hypnotic.

Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick…

The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

I said, “The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat.” Unconsciously, I’d lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

More tension. No reply.

“Anything else?” I said gently.

She was silent.

I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. “He’s got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn’t he, Melissa? Something in his hand?”

“Bag.” Barely audible.

I said, “Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?”

No reply.

“To put stuff in?”

Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.

“Do you want to talk about what goes into the bag, Melissa?”

She closed her eyes and kept rocking. Trembled and hugged herself. A tear rolled down her cheek.

I patted her again, got a tissue, and wiped her eyes, half expecting her to pull away. But she allowed me to dab the tears.

Dramatic first session, movie-of-the-week perfect. But too much, too fast; it could jeopardize the therapy. I dabbed some more, searching for some way to slow it down.

She killed that notion with a single word:

“Kids.”

“The burglar puts kids in the sack?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So the burglar is really a kidnapper.”

She opened her eyes, stood up, faced me, and held up her hands as if praying. “He’s a murderer!” she cried, emphasizing each word with a shake. “A Mikoksi with acid!”

“A Mikoksi?”

“A Mikoksi with acidthatmeanspoison! Burning poison! Mikoksi threw it on her and he’s going to come back and burn her again, and me, too!”

“Who did he throw poison on, Melissa?”

“Mother! And now he’s going to come back!”

“Where is this Mikoksi now?”

“In jail, but he’s going to get out and hurt us again!”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he doesn’t like us. He liked Mother but then he stopped liking her and he threw poison acid on her and tried to kill her but it only burned her on the face and she was still beautiful and could get married and have me!”

She began pacing the office, holding her temples, stooped and muttering like a little old woman.

“When did all this happen, Melissa?”

“Before I was born.” Rocking, face to the wall.

“Did Jacob tell you about it?”

Nod.

“Did your mother talk to you about it, too?”

Hesitation. Shake of head. “She doesn’t like to.”

“Why’s that?”

“It makes her sad. She used to be happy and beautiful. People took pictures of her. Then Mikoksi burned her face and she had to have operations.”

“Does Mikoksi have another name? A first name?”

She turned and faced me, truly puzzled. “I don’t know.”

“But you know he’s in jail.”

“Yes, but he’s getting out and it’s no fair and no justice!”

“Is he getting out of jail soon?”

More confusion.

“Did Jacob tell you he was getting out soon?”

“No.”

“But he did talk to you about justice.”

“Yes!”

“What does justice mean to you?”

“Being fair!”

She gave me a challenging look and put her hands on the flat place where one day her hips would be. Tension rumpled the sliver of brow beneath her bangs. Her mouth curled and she wagged a finger. “It was no fair and stupid! They should have a fair justice! They should have killed him with the acid!”

“You’re very angry at Mikoksi.”

Another incredulous look at the idiot in the chair.

I said, “That’s good. Getting really angry at him. When you’re angry at him, you’re not so scared of him.”

Both hands had fisted. She opened them, dropped them, sighed, and looked at the floor. More kneading.

I went over to her and kneeled so that we’d be at eye level if she chose to raise her eyes. “You’re a very smart girl, Melissa, and you’ve helped me a lot by being brave and talking about scary things. I know how much you want not to be afraid anymore. I’ve helped lots of other kids and I’ll be able to help you.”

Silence.

“If you want to talk some more about Mikoksi or burglars or anything else, that’s okay. But if you don’t, that’s okay, too. We’ve got some more time together before Jacob comes back. How we spend it is up to you.”

No movement or sound; the second hand on the banjo clock across the room completed half a circuit. Finally she lifted her head. Looked everywhere but at me, then homed in suddenly, squinting, as if trying to put me in focus.

“I’ll draw,” she said. “But only with pencils. Not crayons, they’re too messy.”

She worked the pencil slowly, a tongue tip extending from one corner of her mouth. Her artistic ability was above average, but all the finished product told me was that she’d had enough for one day: happy-face girl next to happy-face cat in front of red house and a fat-trunked tree full of apples. All of it under a huge golden sun with prehensile rays.

When she was through she pushed it across the desk and said, “You keep it.”

“Thank you. It’s terrific.”

“When am I coming back?”

“How about in two days? Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“Sometimes it’s good for kids to take some time to think about what happened before they come in.”

“I think fast,” she said. “And there’s other stuff I didn’t say yet.”

“You really want to come in tomorrow?”

“I want to get better.”

“All right then, I can see you tomorrow at five. If Jacob can bring you.”

“He will,” she said. “He wants me to get better, too.”

I saw her out through the separate exit and spotted Dutchy walking down the hall, a paper bag in one hand. When he saw us he frowned and looked at his watch.

Melissa said, “We’re coming back to him at five tomorrow, Jacob.”

Dutchy raised his eyebrows and said, “I believe I’m right on time, Doctor.”

“You are,” I said. “I was just showing Melissa the separate exit.”

“So other kids won’t see me or know who I am,” she said. “It’s privacy.”

“I see,” said Dutchy, looking up and down the hall. “I brought you something, young lady. To tide you over until dinner.” The top half of the bag was accordion-folded neatly. He opened it with his fingertips and drew out an oatmeal cookie.

Melissa squealed, took it from him, and prepared to bite into it.

Dutchy cleared his throat.

Melissa held the cookie mid-air. “Thank you, Jacob.”

“You’re quite welcome, young lady.”

She turned to me. “Would you like some, Dr. Delaware?”

“No, thank you, Melissa.” Sounding to myself like a charm school candidate.

She licked her lips and went to work on the cookie.

I said, “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, Mr. Dutchy.”

He glanced at his watch again. “The freeway… the longer we wait…”

I said, “Some things came up during the session. Important things.”

He said, “Really, it’s quite-”

I forced a patient grin and said, “If I’m to do my job, I’m going to need help, Mr. Dutchy.”

From the look on his face, I might have passed wind at an embassy dinner. He cleared his throat again and said, “One moment, Melissa,” and walked several feet down the corridor. Melissa, her mouth full of cookie, followed him with her eyes.

I smiled at her, said, “We’ll just be one second, hon,” and joined him.

He looked up and down the hall and folded his arms across his chest. “What is it, Doctor?”

From a foot away, he was shaven clean as palmar flesh, smelling of bay rum and fresh laundry.

I said, “She talked about what happened to her mother. Some person named Mikoksi.”

He flinched. “Really, sir, it’s not my place.”

“This is important, Mr. Dutchy. It’s obviously relevant to her fears.”

“It’s best that her mother-”

“True. The problem is I’ve left several messages with her mother that haven’t been returned. Normally, I wouldn’t even see a child without direct parental participation. But Melissa obviously needs help. Lots of help. I can provide that help but I need information.”

He chewed his cheek so long and hard I was afraid he’d gnaw through it. Down the hall, Melissa was munching and staring at us.

He said, “Whatever happened was before the child’s time.”

“Chronologically, maybe. But not psychologically.”

He stared at me for a long moment. A hint of moisture appeared in the corner of his right eye, no bigger than the diamond on a budget engagement ring. He blinked and made it disappear. “Really, this is quite awkward. I’m an employee…”

I said, “All right. I don’t want to put you in a difficult position. But please deliver the message that someone needs to talk to me as soon as possible.”

Melissa scuffed her feet. The cookie was gone. Dutchy gave her a grave but oddly tender look.

I said, “I do want to see her tomorrow at five.”

He nodded, took a step closer, so that we were almost touching, and whispered in my ear: “She pronounces it Mikoksi but the damned villain’s name was McCloskey. Joel McCloskey.”

Lowering his head and pushing it forward, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Waiting for a reaction.

Expecting me to know something…

I said, “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

The head drew back. “Were you living in Los Angeles ten years ago, Doctor?”

I nodded.

“It was in the papers.”

“I was in school. Concentrating on my textbooks.”

“March of 1969,” he said. “March third.” A pained look crossed his face. “This is- That’s all I can say right now, Doctor. Perhaps some other time.”

“All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Five it is.” He let out his breath and drew himself up. Tugging at his lapels, he cleared his throat. “Getting back to the present, I trust everything proceeded as planned today.”

“Everything went fine.”

Melissa was coming our way. The white satin sash had come loose and hung from a single loop, scraping the floor. Dutchy rushed over and tied it, brushed crumbs from her dress, braced her shoulders, and told her to stand up straight, young lady, a curved spine simply wouldn’t do.

She smiled up at him.

They held hands as they left the building.

I saw another patient a few minutes later, managed to put the cello and the piccolo out of my mind for three quarters of an hour. Leaving the office at seven, I took a five-minute drive to the Beverly Hills Library. The reading room was crowded with retirees checking out the final stock quotations and teenagers doing their homework or faking it. By seven-fifteen I was sitting at a microfilm viewer with a March ’69 spool of the Times. March 4 rolled into view. What I was looking for was on the upper left quadrant.

ACTRESS THE VICTIM OF ACID ATTACK

(HOLLYWOOD) A quiet hillside neighborhood above Hollywood Boulevard was the scene of a grisly early-morning assault upon a former fashion model currently under contract to Apex Motion Picture Studios, that left neighbors of the victim horror-struck and wondering why.

Regina Marie Paddock, 23, 2103 Beachwood Drive, Apartment 2, was awakened at home by her doorbell at 4:30 A.M., by a man claiming to be a Western Union messenger.

When she opened the door, the man brandished a bottle and flung its contents in her face. She collapsed screaming and the assailant, described as a male Negro, five eleven to six two, 190-200 pounds, escaped on foot.

The victim was taken to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital where she was treated for third-degree facial burns. A hospital spokesman described her condition as “serious, but stable. She’s in no mortal danger but is in considerable pain, having sustained extensive tissue damage to the left side of her face. Miraculously, her eyes were unaffected.”

An Apex spokesman expressed the studio’s “shock and deep regret over the vicious, unprovoked attack on the talented Gina Prince {Miss Paddock’s stage name}. We will do everything within our power to work with the authorities in swiftly apprehending the perpetrator of this heinous crime.”

The victim was born in 1946 in Denver, Colorado, moved to Los Angeles at the age of 19, was hired as a photographic and fashion model by the prestigious Flax Agency, and quickly advanced to feature spreads in Glamour and Vogue. After leaving Flax she switched to the now defunct Belle Vue Agency, eventually left modeling, signed with the William Morris Agency and received an acting contract at Apex.

Although she has not yet been cast in a film, the studio spokesman said she had been under consideration for “several important roles. She’s a very talented and beautiful young lady. We’ll do everything to see that her career remains untainted by this tragic occurrence.”

Police are actively searching for the assailant and request that any information be directed to Detectives Savage or Flores at the LAPD’s Hollywood Division.

At the center of the article was a head shot that could have been reduced from a Vogue cover: oval face on a long stalk of neck, framed by straight, pale hair worn long and layered in a complex style, sophisticated for the time. Arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, huge, pale eyes, pouty mouth. The shadowy perfection of a study by Avedon or someone almost as good.

I thought of what acid could do to perfection, backed away from that, and tried to look at the photo as if it were just a photo.

The features, taken singly, were almost identical to Melissa’s, but the gestalt added up to a good deal more than just this side of pretty. I wondered whether puberty would bring Melissa to her mother’s level of beauty.

I turned the knob on the viewer. A brief summary of Gina Paddock’s medical status appeared in the next day’s paper. Condition downgraded to stable. No leads. Another message of sympathy from the studio, augmented by a $5,000 reward for information leading to capture. But no more pledges of an untainted career.

I kept dialing. Two weeks later:

SUSPECT IN ACID ATTACK NABBED

Apprehended After Police

Receive Anonymous Tip

(LOS ANGELES) Police announced the arrest of a suspect in the March 3 early-morning acid attack that left actress Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) permanently disfigured.

The arrest, in South Los Angeles, of Melvin Louis Findlay, 28, was announced at an 11:00 P.M. press conference at Parker Center by Hollywood Division Squad Commander Bryce Donnemeister, who described Findlay as a known felon and recent parolee from the Men’s Colony at Chino, where he served eighteen months of a three-year sentence for extortion. Findlay’s other arrests and convictions include aggravated assault, robbery, and vehicular grand theft.

“Physical evidence in our possession leads us to believe we have a strong case against this individual,” said Donnemeister. He refused to elaborate on whether the victim had identified Findlay and offered no details on the arrest other than to say that an anonymous phone tip had led the police to Findlay and that “subsequent investigation confirmed that the information provided to us was valid.”

Miss Prince continues to convalesce at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where her condition is described as good. Plastic surgeons have been called in to consult on the reconstruction of her face.

Three days after that:

FORMER EMPLOYER ARRESTED

IN ACID ASSAULT ON ACTRESS

(LAS VEGAS) The former employer and onetime companion of acid attack victim Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) was arrested last night by Las Vegas police as a prime suspect in the March 3 assault that left the former fashion model and actress with extensive facial disfiguration.

Joel Henry McCloskey, 34, was arrested in his room at the Flamingo Hotel, where he had registered under a false name, and was placed in the custody of the Las Vegas Police Department in compliance with a warrant issued by the Criminal Division of the Los Angeles Superior Court.

LAPD Hollywood Division Commander Bryce Donnemeister said that information provided by another suspect in the case, Melvin Findlay, 28, arrested March 18, had incriminated McCloskey. “It appears at this time that Findlay was hired help and McCloskey did the alleged hiring.”

Donnemeister added that Findlay had worked for McCloskey in 1967 in a “janitorial capacity” but declined further comment pending a full investigation.

McCloskey, a native of New Jersey and a former nightclub singer, came to Los Angeles in 1962 with aspirations of being an actor. When those failed, he opened the Belle Vue Modeling Agency. After luring Miss Prince away from the larger, more established Flax Agency, he tried to serve as her film agent, according to Hollywood sources.

McCloskey and Miss Prince are reported to have developed a personal relationship that ended when Miss Prince left Belle Vue and, in an attempt to trade fashion modeling for screen stardom, signed with the William Morris Agency. Shortly after, Belle Vue’s fortunes plummeted, and McCloskey declared bankruptcy on February 9 of this year.

When asked whether revenge figured as a motive in the attack, Police Commander Donnemeister said, “We’re reserving comment until the suspect has been fully and properly questioned.”

Miss Prince continues to recuperate at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where plans are being made for her to undergo extensive reconstructive surgery.

There was a photo with this one, too: a small, dark, slender man being led away by two detectives who dwarfed him. He had on a sport coat, slacks, and an open-neck white shirt. His head was lowered and his longish hair hung down over the top half of his face. What was visible of the bottom half was angular, grim, James Deanish, and in need of a shave.

It took a while to locate the conclusion of the case. McCloskey’s extradition and arraignment, Melvin Findlay’s agreement to plead guilty and testify against McCloskey in return for a simple assault conviction, McCloskey’s indictment for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder and mayhem. Arraignment proceedings, then a three-month lag until the trial.

The judicial process was swift. The prosecutor distributed selections from Gina Prince’s modeling portfolio to the jurors, followed by close-ups of her ravaged face taken in the emergency room. A brief appearance by the victim, bandaged and sobbing. Testimony by medical experts to the effect that her face would be scarred permanently.

Melvin Findlay testified that McCloskey had hired him to “trash the {obscenity} girl’s face, make sure she was no {obscenity} good for nobody, and if she died, he wouldn’t have no {obscenity} problem with that, too.”

The prosecution produced a taped confession that the defense tried unsuccessfully to challenge. The tape was played in open court: McCloskey tearfully admitting to hiring Findlay to maim Gina Prince but refusing to explain why.

The defense didn’t dispute the facts but attempted an insanity defense, which was hampered by McCloskey’s refusal to talk to the hired-gun psychiatrists. The prosecution’s psychiatric pistol testified to observing McCloskey in the county jail and finding him “uncooperative and depressed, but lucid and free of serious mental disease.” It took two hours for the jury to bring in guilty verdicts on all charges.

At the sentencing hearing, the judge called McCloskey “an abject monster, one of the most despicable defendants it has been my displeasure to encounter in my twenty years on the bench,” and handed down a combination of sentences that added up to twenty-three years in San Quentin. Everyone seemed satisfied. Even McCloskey, who fired his lawyers and refused to appeal.

After the trial, the press tried to interview the jurors. They chose to have their foreman speak for them and he was concise:

“Only a semblance of justice could be accomplished,” said Jacob P. Dutchy, 46, an executive aide at Dickinson Industries, Pasadena. “This young lady’s life will never be the same. But we did what we could to ensure that McCloskey pays the harshest penalty possible under the law.”

A Mikoksi with acid.

Twenty-three years in San Q.

Time off for good behavior could cut it in half. A belated appeal might shave off more. Meaning McCloskey’s release could be imminent- if it hadn’t already taken place.

No doubt Dutchy would know the precise release date- he’d be the type to follow that kind of thing closely. I wondered how he and the child’s mother had explained it all to Melissa.

Dutchy. Interesting fellow. Throwback to another age.

From juror to retainer. I was curious about the evolution but had little hope of satisfying my curiosity. The way things were going, I’d be lucky to get an accurate history on my patient.

I thought of Dutchy’s secretiveness and devotion. Gina Dickinson had the ability to inspire strong loyalties. Was it the helplessness, the same princess-in-distress frailty that had brought Eileen Wagner out on a house call?

What did growing up with a mother like that do to a child?

Men with sacks…

Same dream I’d heard from so many other children, almost an archetype. Children I’d cured.

But I sensed this child would be different. No easy heroism here.

I had a deli dinner at Nate ’n Al, on Beverly Drive: corned beef on rye accompanied by the tape-loop blather of Hollywood types shmoozing about pending deals, drove home, and phoned a San Labrador exchange that had stuck in my head.

This time an answering machine with Jacob Dutchy’s voice informed me no one was available and invited me, halfheartedly, to leave a message.

I repeated my urgent desire to speak with the lady of the house at 10 Sussex Knoll.