Breakdown, p.7
Breakdown, page 7
The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” A joke on multiple levels.
Small print began filling the screen. “Here we go, your gal has a criminal history…such as it is. First offense is that 415 plus trespassing five years ago in Sunland…dismissed. After that it looks like she stayed out of trouble until a couple of years ago when she got nailed for public intoxication in Central Division—Broadway near Fifth…dismissed.”
I said, “I thought vagrancy laws weren’t enforced.”
“You know how it is, Alex. There are no real rules, just back-scratching. My guess is some landlord or developer who contributes to campaigns bitched about transients and the department used a public health or a narcotics angle to conduct a temporary cleanup…whatever it was, it didn’t lead to any jail time for Ms. Chase and after that she stays out of trouble until…fifteen months ago, when she earned herself a second drunk and disorderly, also in Central, Olive Street near Fourth. That’s not far from Skid Row.”
“So she was probably living downtown.”
“That would be my bet…nothing else until a few days ago in Bel Air…dismissed.”
He turned to me. “Not exactly a felonious mastermind. And she may have switched her domicile to the streets of the Westside because I can’t see her hiking from Central to Poobahland just to invade someone’s backyard. Maybe she went natural—living up in the foothills.”
I said, “The first Central bust was a few months after her psychiatrist died. If no one replaced him, she could’ve slid down fast.”
“Makes sense. But from a police perspective she hasn’t done bad for a crazy woman. I’ve seen people in her situation rack up dozens of arrests.”
“Any addresses on the arrest forms?”
He scrolled back. “For the first one in Sunland, she’s on Corte Madera in the Hollywood Hills. For the second, she’s on Sunset.”
“Beverly Hills?”
“Why the hell would she be in B.H.?”
“Her psychiatrist got the studio to pay for a cottage at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Maybe she lied and said she was still there.”
“No, no, this address is East Hollywood…maybe Echo Park.”
He logged onto a map-site, fingered a spot. “Officially Hollywood, but right on the border. Let’s see what DMV has to say.”
No active driver’s license or registered vehicles, no state I.D. card issued in lieu of a license.
“Yeah, most likely a street person. No mention of any kid in her paperwork, she probably lost custody. Any father of record?”
“She never let on.”
“Okay, let’s switch gears and try to find this young’un and put your mind at ease so you can help me with the rest of this touchy-feely bullshit.”
He checked several social service websites including Social Security, followed up with calls just to make sure. No record of Zelda or Ovid Chase in the system.
He sighed. “Let’s try the bad stuff.”
—
I steeled myself as he logged onto the coroner’s site.
Nothing. Thank God.
Same for the L.A. missing child database and those of Orange County, San Diego, San Bernardino, Ventura, Santa Barbara.
Next, he tried the roster of offenders housed by the California Youth Authority. “At least he doesn’t seem to be a bad boy. Let’s go national.”
Plenty of missing eleven-year-old boys all over the country, a sea of prepubescent faces, many age-progressed because they’d been gone for a long time.
The agony of so many families.
No one who could be Ovid Chase.
Milo rolled his chair and faced me. Not a wheelie, just the slow scrape of hard rubber on linoleum. “You probably thought of this already but mental illness can be genetic, right? So what about psych hospitals, a pediatric ward?”
“Sure,” I said, dispirited.
“Sorry,” he said. “For that, better you call than me.”
—
He found me an empty interview room and I phoned Ravenswood’s pediatric service and used my title. Negative. Same result at County and every other public hospital maintaining an inpatient pediatric psych ward.
When I returned to his office and told Milo, he said, “May I suggest that at this point no news is good news? Like maybe he’s living with a picture-perfect adoptive family.”
I said, “In a perfect world…The only other place I can think of would be a private psych ward but no way to gain access to their records.”
“Private costs a fortune, Alex. I don’t see the kid of a homeless woman affording that. Unless he’s in a place that takes government money, but if that was the case his name woulda showed up on some social service list. Same for public school, because they’d register him for assistance. And forget fancy boarding schools, right?”
“Right.”
“So what next?”
I had no answer.
He said, “When you saw her today she wouldn’t talk to you at all about the kid, huh?”
“I mentioned him but didn’t push it. I’m not sure she’s able to talk much. The only thing she got out was something about her mother disappearing. And that got her agitated, so I backed off.”
“Was that crazy stuff or do you think you touched a nerve?”
“I have no idea.”
“Mommy disappearing—hey, seeing as she was an actress, what about one of those where-are-they-now sites?”
“Tried it,” I said. “SubUrban lasted two and a half seasons, episodes are listed and she’s on the cast, but there are no bios.”
“Maybe none of them ever worked again.”
“That gives me an idea, Big Guy. I’ll try to find her cast-mates. Thanks.” I got up. “Can I also have that Echo Park address?”
“Better yet, I’ll come with you.”
“You’ve got time?”
“Anything’s better than this.” Logging off the test, he shrugged into his jacket.
I said, “The great escape.”
“It’s called executive prioritizing, amigo. They teach it to you at seminars.”
CHAPTER
9
The drive to Echo Park took forty-five minutes, during which I called a few private psych hospitals and rehab outfits in the faint hope someone would bend rules. No luck but doing something was better than wallowing in pessimism as Milo cursed his way through traffic.
The East Hollywood address LAPD had for Zelda matched three stories of flaking stucco zigzagged by hundred-year-old fire escapes. One of the few residential throwbacks in an area steadily ceding to strip malls, mail drops, and Central American restaurants.
No signs marking the place but I didn’t need my doctorate to know what it was. Defeated men idled on the sidewalk. Lots of empty eyes and slack mouths. As Milo’s unmarked pulled up, a shudder coursed through the group. By the time we got out of the car, everyone had returned inside.
Three security locks on the open door. A poster prohibited entry after nine p.m. The lobby was skimpy, painted bright aqua, with a whiteboard on an easel listing rules and regulations for residents of BrightMornings: A Place of Rebirth. A plaque on the wall listed sources of funding: a dozen churches and synagogues.
No residents in sight but footsteps thumped on an upper floor. Ornate carving on a battered wooden reception counter said the place had probably once been a hotel, maybe a decent one. I’d prepared myself for another stonewall but the face behind the counter was familiar.
Maybe this would be different.
Tiny young woman in her twenties, filing cards. A lovely Botticelli face was graced by enormous hazel eyes and a mass of dark ringlets. Her fingers were slender and child-sized. Her focus was intense.
Graduate student at the school where I had a faculty position. She’d been in the audience when I’d lectured on pediatric psych a couple of years ago, had asked bright questions. Industrious note-taker, Judith…something.
Our approach drew her away from the cards. Something to do with meal schedules.
“Dr. Delaware?” Her name tag filled in the blank. J. Meers.
“Hi, Judith. Is this your clinical placement?”
“No, just a part-time job to augment my funding. I had to stop T.A.’ing in order to concentrate on my dissertation.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s going.” She shrugged. Glanced at Milo.
“This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD. Milo, Judith Meers.”
“Hi, Lieutenant. Is one of our guys in trouble?”
I said, “No. We’re trying to find a woman named Zelda Chase who listed this as her address.”
“That must’ve been a while back, Dr. Delaware. The program separated the sexes around a year and a half ago and the women are housed in Santa Monica.”
Milo said, “Putting distance between males and females.”
Judith Meers said, “This is before my time but from what I can gather unisex did cause understandable problems.”
“Do you keep records from before the move?”
“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. Everything pertaining to the women went with them.”
As she wrote out the address and number of the Santa Monica shelter, a man came down the stairs, gripping the banister, teetering, nearly tumbling.
Emaciated, with haunted eyes that looked nowhere. Flaccid lips moved but produced no sound. He could’ve been forty or a hundred.
He passed by without noting us, trudged through the doorway, and shuffled eastward.
Judith Meers handed me the information and sighed. “At least their basic needs are taken care of.”
I said, “What kinds of patients qualify?”
“We’re not allowed to offer treatment so they’re residents, not patients. Everyone’s classified as seriously mentally ill—not a DSM diagnosis, just an informal judgment. That’s part of what I do but it’s not at all technical.”
Milo said, “You know it when you see it.”
“Basically,” said Judith Meers. “The goal is to provide a warm, hopefully safe place for nonviolent psychotics and a well-equipped kitchen to serve their nutritional needs.”
I said, “Do any of them get treatment elsewhere?”
“Ideally, they obtain their meds and their therapy at various outpatient clinics. When we have drivers available, we take them, but some of the facilities are within walking distance.”
“Compliance isn’t an issue?”
“It’s a huge issue, Dr. Delaware. We try to guide but are careful to avoid power struggles. That’s our funding mandate.”
“You’re privately funded.”
“Totally,” she said. “The religious institutions have been fantastic. Without them there’d be nothing. There used to be some federal money but it dried up. Tight times, from what I’ve been told.”
Less for this, more for Kristin Doyle-Maslow.
Milo said, “The nonviolent part, that work out?”
“Pretty much.”
“Pretty much?”
Judith Meers said, “I’ve never had a problem personally, Lieutenant. The guys are pre-screened for lack of aggression and a lot of them actually look out for me. Or think they’re being protective.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“For the most part they’re gentle, Lieutenant. It’s a part-time job and I’m not here after dark, my husband picks me up at five. His job’s in Hollywood, so it works out well.”
Milo said, “Tell me he’s a bouncer and bigger than me.”
She laughed. “Almost as good, he’s a litigator for Capitol Records. And yes, he’s a substantial man.”
I wished her well and we headed for the door.
She said, “Your question about violence. Did the woman you’re looking for do something criminal?”
I said, “No. It’s her son we’re really after. She was found alone, having a major psychotic break. He’s eleven years old and so far we haven’t been able to trace him.”
“That age, living on the streets?” She frowned. “I’ll ask around, maybe some of the guys remember. But as you might imagine, most of them are pretty out of touch and she hasn’t lived here for a while.”
“Anything you can do would be appreciated, Judith.”
“Eleven years old. She refuses to say where he is?”
“She may not be sufficiently in touch to actually know.”
“Darn,” she said. “But it’s what we sign up for, right, Dr. Delaware?”
—
We drove to Santa Monica. BrightMornings–Westside was a former motel on Pico, a U-shaped collection of white units with blue doors, set behind a sun-seared asphalt lot. Once-white parking lines from the motel days were worn to gray stubble. The neighbors were a discount tire dealer and a plumbing supplies outfit.
No open-door policy here; a slatted electric gate blocked entry. Milo rang in and identified himself. The door to the central unit opened and a woman peered out then reclosed it. It took a while for the gate to begin sliding.
He said, “She probably verified my I.D. Whole different vibe here.”
By the time we’d exited the unmarked, the same woman was walking toward us. Fifties, broad-shouldered, with clipped beige hair and a military gait.
She said, “Sherry Andover.” Two graduate degrees on her badge: MSW and MPH.
Milo said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am. This is Dr. Delaware, he’s a psychologist.”
“I know. Judith at Hollywood said you’d be dropping by to talk about Zelda Chase. What’d she do, end up in someone’s backyard again?”
I said, “She lived here?”
“For maybe a month, right after we opened, thirteen months ago.”
“Backyards were her thing?” said Milo.
“She wandered away, I’d say three, four times. Never went far, mostly we’d find her behind one of the apartment buildings south of Pico, and she didn’t cause problems other than digging up some plants that could be tucked back in. In fact, she was kind of neat about it. Putting stuff in a row then she’d go to sleep and someone would find her in the morning and call the cops. Santa Monica PD knows us so they drove her back.”
A blue door to the right opened and two women stepped out. One was painfully obese and walked with two canes. The other appeared barely in her twenties and limped. Sherry Andover waved at them. They returned to their room.
“Where’s Zelda now, guys?”
I said, “On a 5150 hold until tomorrow.”
“Locked up? She’s gotten dangerous?”
“She shifted her trespassing to Bel Air.”
Sherry Andover said, “Aha, invading the high-line, yeah the system would respond differently to that. So she’s not violent.”
“Not that I’ve seen. She’ll be released tomorrow.”
“And you want to bring her here.”
Now that you mention it.
I said, “If you can accommodate her.”
“A couple of beds just opened,” she said. “For the wrong reasons. Yesterday, one of our gals had a fatal encounter with a car. Another left a week ago and ended up stabbed to death in Long Beach. Long domestic history with an abusive boyfriend. So what does she do? Heads straight for the alley where he hangs out.”
I said, “How’d they get out with the gate in place?”
“By using that button right there.” She pointed to a black dot on the right-hand post. “We’re not a locked facility, Doctor. Everyone’s free to come and go as they please, the gate’s locked only on the outside, to keep problems away from them.”
“No need for that at the men’s shelter.”
“If I was in charge there’d be the same setup there, but with tight funds, the board prioritized. All severely mentally ill people are vulnerable but being female is an additional factor.”
Milo said, “So the women leave when they feel like it but have to call in when they return.”
“We hope it’s a disincentive for wandering away, but it’s not as if we’re dealing with a rational population.”
“Rowing upstream,” said Milo. “I can relate.”
“Bet you can.” She turned to me. “Bet you both can. Anyway, sure, we’ll take Zelda if she wants to be here and she really is no danger to herself and others. The only caveat being, if those beds book up before tomorrow, she’s out of luck.”
I said, “If that happens, any suggestions where should I take her?”
“Take her? You’re transporting her, personally?”
“Seems the simplest way.”
“She’s been your patient for a while?”
“She was never my patient. I consulted to her psychiatrist.”
“Where’s he in all this?”
“Deceased.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll make sure there’s room for her. If you’re confident she won’t act out aggressively.”
“I can’t guarantee anything but nothing indicates she’s at risk.”
“Appreciate the honesty, Doctor. Let’s give it the old-school try.”
I said, “So she was here a month.”
“Give or take, we don’t collect clinical or personal data.”
“Why’d she leave?”
“No idea. One day she was just gone. Like so many of them.”
“Any alcohol or drug issues?”
“Not that I saw, Doctor. Why? Is she currently addicted?”
I shook my head. “Any issues at all, besides trespassing?”
“Nope. Is she currently being medicated for her illness? There’s a community mental health clinic a few blocks away and if she’s willing I can hook her up there.”
“The resident who committed her gave her a strong dose of Ativan and prescribed a week’s worth. Right now she’s pretty drowsy. I don’t know how she’ll feel once it wears off.”
“Same old story,” said Sherry Andover. “All right, welcome back, Zelda. Nice meeting you guys. Just push that button and let yourselves out.”
I said, “One more thing: I got involved with her because I’m a child psychologist and her psychiatrist asked me to evaluate her son. Would you have any idea where he is?”
Sherry Andover frowned. “She has a son? No indication of that when she was here but we don’t take kids so maybe he got placed somewhere.”
