Victims

CHAPTER
26

I got home prepared to examine Ventura State Hospital’s history, seeking out anyone who could tell me about the patients in Specialized Care.

One curious boy, in particular.

If that failed, I’d press Emil Cahane’s nephew to gain access to the psychiatrist. As I settled in my chair, my service called in. “I have a Dr. Angel on the line, she says it’s important.”

Donna Angel and I go way back, to my first job fresh out of training, working the cancer ward at Western Pediatric. Donna had been an oncology fellow, one of the best, and the department had asked her to stay on as a faculty member. After I went into private practice, she referred occasional patients, always with insight and wisdom.

Picking up a new patient right now would be a distraction but sick kids never lost their priority. I said, “Put her through.”

“Good to talk to you, Alex.” Donna’s Tallulah voice was even huskier than usual. When I’d met her, she smoked, a habit picked up in college. It had taken years for her to quit; I hoped the vocal change meant nothing.

She coughed. “Darn cold, kids are like petri dishes for viruses.”

I said, “Heal up. What’s new?”

“I’ve got someone you should meet.”

“Sure.”

“Not a referral,” she said. “This time I’m helping you.”

She told me about it.

I said, “When?”

“Right now, if you can swing it. There’s some… eagerness at play.”

I made the drive to Sunset and Vermont in a little under an hour. Western Pediatric Medical Center was in its usual state of demolition and construction: another gleaming building rising from a rebar-lined maw, new marble on the facade, chronic deficits be damned.

The campus was a vein of noble intention in the drab bedrock that was East Hollywood. Half a mile to the north, Lemuel Eccles had been savaged and dumped. No time to ponder coincidence or karma or metaphysics.

I parked in the doctors’ lot, rode to the fifth floor of a glass-fronted structure named after a long-dead benefactor, smiled my way past the hem-onc receptionist, and knocked on Donna’s door.

She opened before my knuckles left the wood, hugged me and guided me inside.

Her desk was the usual clutter. A man stood next to one of two visitors’ chairs.

“Dr. Delaware, this is Mr. Banforth.”

“John,” said the man, extending a hand.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“Maybe I should be thanking you.”

Banforth waited for me to sit before lowering himself into the chair.

Thirty-five or so, he was six feet tall, solidly built, black, with close-cropped hair graying early and tortoiseshell eyeglasses resting on a small, straight nose. He wore a brown cashmere crewneck, mocha slacks, mahogany suede running shoes. A golf-ball pin was fastened to the left breast of the sweater. A thin gold chain around his neck held two tiny figurines. Outlines of a boy and a girl.

Donna said, “I’ll leave you two to talk,” and headed for the door.

When it closed, John Banforth said, “This has been weighing on me.” He crossed his legs, frowned as if anything close to relaxation felt wrong, and planted both feet on the floor.

“Okay,” he said, “here goes.” Inhaling. “As Dr. Angel told you, my daughter Cerise is her patient. She’s five years old, her diagnosis is Wilms’ tumor, she was diagnosed at Stage Three, one of her kidneys had to be removed, and we thought we were going to lose her. But she’s doing great now, really responding to treatment and we firmly believe, all of us, including Dr. Angel, that she’s going to live to a ripe old age.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“I can’t say enough about Dr. Angel. If anyone fits their name, it’s her… but it’s still an ordeal. Cerise’s treatment. Her body’s sensitive, she reacts to everything. A few weeks ago, she finished another course, had to be hospitalized until her labs stabilized. Finally, we were able to take her home. We live in Playa Del Rey and were on the freeway when Cerise started crying, she was hungry. I got off at the next exit, which was Robertson, mostly fast-food places then this cafe-Bijou-that looked nice. If Cerise was going to eat, we wanted it to be good quality. Also, to be honest, it was lunchtime, my wife and I figured we’d eat, too. Madeleine’s a dance instructor, I’m a golf pro, we try to keep in shape.”

“Makes sense.”

“So we went in and ordered some food and everything was going okay, then Cerise got cranky. I guess we should’ve taken her home right then and there but her labs were really good… your kid goes through hell, she wants something, you give it to her, right?”

“Of course.”

“Still,” said Banforth. “We should’ve known, because sometimes after treatment, Cerise overestimates her strength.” His eyes watered. “She’s been through hell but she’s always trying to be strong.”

Fishing out a wallet, he showed me photos. A chubby-cheeked little girl sporting a mass of brass-colored ringlets, then the same child barely older, bald, paler, why-me eyes rendered huge by the shrinkage of the surrounding face.

I said, “She’s adorable,” was surprised by the catch in my voice.

“You see what I mean, it tugs at your heart, you say yes maybe when you shouldn’t.”

“Of course.”

“So that’s what we did and everything was okay for a while, then Cerise started to get super-cranky. Moaning, at first we thought she was in pain, but when we asked she said no but she couldn’t tell us what was bothering her, sometimes I think she really doesn’t know. Then all of a sudden she said what would make her happy was ice cream. Normally she gets ice cream once she’s finished her dinner, but…”

He made another attempt to cross his legs. Same discomfort and reversal. “Yes, we spoil her. Jared-our son, he’s ten-complains about it all the time. But with everything Cerise has gone through… anyway, we ordered ice cream but when it arrived Cerise changed her mind, started making noise again, the waitress came over and asked if she wanted a fresh donut, she said yes.”

Banforth’s forehead had slicked. He dabbed with a linen handkerchief. “Sure, she manipulates us. We figure it’s the only power she has, when she’s out of the woods, we’ll start to… anyway, at this point we’re thinking we definitely need to pay and leave but before I get my wallet out, the woman in the next booth shoots up like she’s been bitten in the butt, stamps over and glares down at Cerise. Like she hates her. Cerise is sensitive, she freaks out, starts wailing. A normal person would realize and back off. Not this one, she actually glares harder. Like she’s trying to break Cerise’s spirit, just break her in two, you know?”

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“My wife and I are too shocked to react. This woman evil-eyes me. I say, ‘What’s the problem?’ She says, ‘You people are. Sick people eat in hospitals not restaurants.’ I’m tongue-tied, I mean I can’t believe what I just heard, but Madeleine, she’s always rational, she starts to explain and this crazy woman, this terrible woman, waves her off and says, ‘ You people. What makes you think it’s okay to inflict your brat on the rest of us?’ And I just lost it, I mean I really lost it.”

Banforth looked at the floor. “I should’ve known better. I was in the military, trained to withstand pressure. But this was my kid. Calling Cerise a brat. It was like she was mixing up some explosive to make me blow and I understood that but still I lost it. Didn’t touch her, that crazy I’m not but I jumped up, got in her face, I tell you, Doctor, I was this close to doing something stupid but fortunately my army training helped. Also Madeleine’s got hold of my hand and she’s begging me to back off. So I did and the bitch went back to her booth but she kept on smirking at us. Like she won. We got the hell out of there, all three of us are real quiet. Including Cerise. But when we got home, she said, ‘I make everything bad.’ And oh, man, Madeleine and I just lost it in a whole different way. After Cerise went down for a nap we collapsed and bawled like babies.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Yeah, it sucked. But we’re okay, now. And you know what, the next day, Cerise was fine, like it never happened.” He shrugged. “We roll with the punches. Cerise shows us the way.”

He fingered the chain, found the child figurines and touched each one.

“So why,” he said, “did I tell Dr. Angel I wanted to talk to you? Actually, it was her idea after I told her another part of the story, how it was weighing on me. She said she knew a doctor used to work here now works with that particular detective-I’m getting ahead of myself.”

A third leg-crossing endured but Banforth still looked as if he’d been forced into a painful contortion. “Here’s the part that’s going to sound weird. I went back there, Doc.”

“To Bijou.”

“A couple days later. I know it sounds crazy but I’d composed myself, thought maybe I’d go back and if by some chance she was there, I’d try to talk to her rationally. Educate her, you know? About sick kids, how you need to be flexible. I wanted to make it right-to be rational with her no matter how she behaved. So I could prove to myself I had it together.”

He looked to the side. “It was stupid, what can I say? Anyway, I went in and the owner-a long-haired guy with an earring-recognized me and was real nice, saying my family was welcome back anytime, he felt awful about what happened. I thanked him and then I asked if that woman ever came back, maybe one day I could explain to her about sick kids-keeping it friendly. And he got this weird expression and said, ‘Vita? She was murdered.’ I said, ‘Oh, crap, when?’ He said a few days after you were here. I’m speechless. I leave. But later, driving to work, I remember something that happened the day this Vita started up with us. I put it aside, for sure it’s nothing. But it stays in my head and I can’t stop thinking about it and finally I tell Dr. Angel.”

I waited.

John Banforth said, “When we left and reached our car a guy came out behind us. At first he walked the other way. Then he turned and walked toward us, I’m thinking oh no, another nutcase, so I hustle to get Cerise and Madeleine into the car. He comes closer and he’s smiling but I don’t know if it’s a friendly smile or a crazy smile, sometimes you can’t tell. I must’ve tensed up because he stops a few feet away and does this.”

He held both palms frontward. “Like I come in peace. I stay on my guard anyway and he winks and smiles. Friendly but also weird, I can’t tell you why I felt that, he just creeped me out. Then he winks again and gives the V-sign for victory and he walks away. It confused me and creeped me out but my mind was on getting home and settling Cerise. But when I found out this Vita got murdered, I start wondering but I’m like no way, he was just reassuring us, being a nice guy. But the V-sign didn’t fit that, it was like he was saying we were on the same team and we’d won. And that didn’t make sense. So it started bothering me, what if he thought he was doing us a favor? It’s probably nothing, I tend to dwell on stuff. I actually called the police and asked who’s handling the murder of a woman named Vita. It took them a while but finally they said Detective Sturgis, we’ll put you through. I hung up, figured they’d trace me, I’d get a call-back. But it never happened.”

“Police lines don’t have caller I.D.,” I said. “So people won’t be inhibited about giving tips.”

“Oh… makes sense. Anyway, I couldn’t stop wondering if he actually did it, some crazy sonofabitch who thought we were on the same side. Finally, I told Dr. Angel and she said funny thing, you worked with that exact detective and I said, whoa, karma, I definitely need to get this off my chest.”

Shrugging. “So here we are, Doc.”

“Thanks for getting in touch. What did the guy look like?”

“So it is relevant,” said Banforth. “Damn.”

“Not necessarily, John. At this point, the cops look at everything.”

“They don’t have a suspect?”

“They’ve got various bits of information that may or may not be important. What did he look like?”

“White guy,” he said. “Around thirty-five, forty. Heavyset, kind of a round face, that’s about it.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown-short, like it was growing back from a buzz.”

“Eye color?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“He never spoke.”

“Nope, just the wink and the V-sign. It’s not like evidence, that’s why I tried to put it aside.”

“Your first impression was something about him seemed off.”

“But I can’t tell you why, sorry.”

I gave him time. He shook his head.

“How was he dressed?”

“In a coat. Like a winter coat, even though it was a warm day- that’s different, I guess. Maybe that’s what seemed off?”

“What kind of coat?”

“One of those fleece-lined things,” said Banforth. “Brown on the outside, maybe suede, maybe cloth, I wasn’t paying attention. Oh, yeah, something else: He was carrying a book. Like students do but he didn’t look like a student.”

“What kind of book?”

“Not a hardcover-more like a magazine, actually. Maybe some sort of puzzle magazine because it had a big question mark on the cover?”

My heart raced. Now I knew why Alex Shimoff’s sketch had tweaked my brain.

The morning after the murder, when Milo and I had visited Bijou, an apple-faced man had been there.

Sitting in a booth behind the soccer moms and their toddlers.

Eating steak and eggs, a book in front of him, penciling a puzzle.

Enjoying a hearty breakfast hours after he’d gutted Vita.

John Banforth said, “Doc?”

“You did the right thing.”

“He’s the guy? Oh, man.”

“Not necessarily but it’s a lead and Detective Sturgis needs anything he can get.”

“Well okay, then, I feel better not wasting anyone’s time.”

“Would you mind sitting with a police sketch artist? So we can get a clearer image?”

“They still do that? Thought everything was computers.”

“They still do.”

“An artist, huh? Would my name have to be on it?”

“No.”

“Then guess so,” he said. “If you can fit it to my schedule. And if Madeleine doesn’t know, she has no idea about any of this, including the fact that I’m here.”

“We’ll do it at your convenience.”

“All right, here’s my business card, call the top number, it’s my reservation line for lessons.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Just doing what I had to.”

We headed for the door. He got there first, stopped. “She was a nasty one. That Vita. Madeleine and I took to calling her the Evil One. As in wonder who the Evil One’s tormenting now. We turned it into a joke. To ease what happened. But I guess no one deserves to be murdered.”

His voice wavered on “guess.”