"send."
A male voice. "Yes?"
He shoved through the door, exiting the NPI. "Pierre Tramine?"
"Yes?"
"Hello. My name is Tim Rackley. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal." The flush of pride he felt at announcing himself as such evaporated when he remembered his temporary status. "Dr. Bederman directed me to your son."
"Yes, Janet mentioned something about that. Listen, anything you can do to find the bastards who did this to Ernie..."
Tim thought about how many times Pierre's name appeared on the visitor clipboard. What was it like for this parent to see his child -- his adult child -- in that condition, week after week?
"I'm doing my best, sir."
"Anything I can do to help. Anything."
"Well, I do have a few questions. What was the name of the cult Ernie joined?"
"We don't know that. Getting him to talk about it at all was like pulling teeth."
"Did he ever mention the name of anyone in the cult?"
"No. He'd decompensated pretty badly by the time we found him. He admitted to getting caught up with a group of people, and we sort of pieced together it was a cult. But no names, no locations, nothing like that. He would melt down when we pressed him on it, so we finally stopped."
"Your son had a visitor some time ago -- a friend called Reggie Rondell. Is that name familiar?"
"No. Hang on." A rustle. "Hey, Mikka. You hear of a Reggie Rondell, one of Ernie's friends?" Tim waited patiently by the elevator. Pierre's voice came back regular volume. "No. He was no friend of Ernie's, at least not through his time at Pepperdine."
"Any chance he might be a friend you and your wife hadn't heard of?"
"No. We're a very close family." He caught himself. "We were a very close family. We knew all of Ernie's friends up until he disappeared."
"Doesn't someone need your approval to get on the visitor list?"
"Now they do. But until recently Ernie could make phone calls, put his own visitors on the list. He took..." Tim waited patiently through the pause. When Pierre spoke again, his voice wobbled a bit. "He took a turn last month. That's when I became his conservator."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir."
"It's like there's something inside my son's head, eating him. Eating the boy we raised and knew." The muffled sound of Pierre blowing his nose. "How old are you, Mr. Rackley?"
"Thirty-four."
"Kids of your own?"
The elevator dinged open, and Tim stared at the vacant interior. "No."
"Well, when you have them, you watch out for them. You don't know who's out there."
It took Tim a moment to find his voice. "I'll do that, sir."
Chapter six
The comm center, buried in Cell Block on the third floor of Roybal, hosted a panoply of security screens showing various suspects pacing in cells. Bear hunched over the computer at Tim's side, smelling of the Carl's Jr. he'd just denied eating, offering in place of an admission the implausible claim that he'd filled up on a salad. A chronically unhappy dater, Bear was recounting his latest travails while calling up DMV info on the state computer. "So we get rerouted, laid over in Vegas for the night. Instead of lying on a beach in Cancun, we're stuck at Westward Ho -- which by the way is the shittiest joint on the Strip. And to make matters worse, the hotel is having a short-people's convention."
"A short-people's convention? Like dwarves?" Tim pressed his lips together to avoid smiling. The women Bear dated weren't exactly ballerinas -- the couple must have terrified the petite attendees.
To Tim's left, two court security officers were embroiled in an argument about the relative attributes of Mexican-mafia tattoos versus those of the Higuera Brotherhood. A third regulated radio contact with deputies in the field.
"No, just small people." Bear's wide fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising fluidity. "So me and Elise, we can't go anywhere without stepping on 'em. We rode elevators with guys who couldn't reach the top buttons. People threw us the stink-eye at the all-you-can-eat buffets. They
A male voice. "Yes?"
He shoved through the door, exiting the NPI. "Pierre Tramine?"
"Yes?"
"Hello. My name is Tim Rackley. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal." The flush of pride he felt at announcing himself as such evaporated when he remembered his temporary status. "Dr. Bederman directed me to your son."
"Yes, Janet mentioned something about that. Listen, anything you can do to find the bastards who did this to Ernie..."
Tim thought about how many times Pierre's name appeared on the visitor clipboard. What was it like for this parent to see his child -- his adult child -- in that condition, week after week?
"I'm doing my best, sir."
"Anything I can do to help. Anything."
"Well, I do have a few questions. What was the name of the cult Ernie joined?"
"We don't know that. Getting him to talk about it at all was like pulling teeth."
"Did he ever mention the name of anyone in the cult?"
"No. He'd decompensated pretty badly by the time we found him. He admitted to getting caught up with a group of people, and we sort of pieced together it was a cult. But no names, no locations, nothing like that. He would melt down when we pressed him on it, so we finally stopped."
"Your son had a visitor some time ago -- a friend called Reggie Rondell. Is that name familiar?"
"No. Hang on." A rustle. "Hey, Mikka. You hear of a Reggie Rondell, one of Ernie's friends?" Tim waited patiently by the elevator. Pierre's voice came back regular volume. "No. He was no friend of Ernie's, at least not through his time at Pepperdine."
"Any chance he might be a friend you and your wife hadn't heard of?"
"No. We're a very close family." He caught himself. "We were a very close family. We knew all of Ernie's friends up until he disappeared."
"Doesn't someone need your approval to get on the visitor list?"
"Now they do. But until recently Ernie could make phone calls, put his own visitors on the list. He took..." Tim waited patiently through the pause. When Pierre spoke again, his voice wobbled a bit. "He took a turn last month. That's when I became his conservator."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir."
"It's like there's something inside my son's head, eating him. Eating the boy we raised and knew." The muffled sound of Pierre blowing his nose. "How old are you, Mr. Rackley?"
"Thirty-four."
"Kids of your own?"
The elevator dinged open, and Tim stared at the vacant interior. "No."
"Well, when you have them, you watch out for them. You don't know who's out there."
It took Tim a moment to find his voice. "I'll do that, sir."
Chapter six
The comm center, buried in Cell Block on the third floor of Roybal, hosted a panoply of security screens showing various suspects pacing in cells. Bear hunched over the computer at Tim's side, smelling of the Carl's Jr. he'd just denied eating, offering in place of an admission the implausible claim that he'd filled up on a salad. A chronically unhappy dater, Bear was recounting his latest travails while calling up DMV info on the state computer. "So we get rerouted, laid over in Vegas for the night. Instead of lying on a beach in Cancun, we're stuck at Westward Ho -- which by the way is the shittiest joint on the Strip. And to make matters worse, the hotel is having a short-people's convention."
"A short-people's convention? Like dwarves?" Tim pressed his lips together to avoid smiling. The women Bear dated weren't exactly ballerinas -- the couple must have terrified the petite attendees.
To Tim's left, two court security officers were embroiled in an argument about the relative attributes of Mexican-mafia tattoos versus those of the Higuera Brotherhood. A third regulated radio contact with deputies in the field.
"No, just small people." Bear's wide fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising fluidity. "So me and Elise, we can't go anywhere without stepping on 'em. We rode elevators with guys who couldn't reach the top buttons. People threw us the stink-eye at the all-you-can-eat buffets. They
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