Eyes Wide Open

“I’m afraid that’s not possible right now. They’re finishing up the autopsy and toxicology findings. Anyway, the trauma was quite severe. There’s going to have to be a bit of reconstructive work done… Maybe in a couple of days.”

Gabriella put her hands in front of her face.

“Look, I’m no psychiatrist,” I said, a hand on Gabby’s shoulder, “but one of the things my brother and sister-in-law are trying to deal with is why Evan would have even been released from the county hospital and transferred to that facility in the first place, given that only a couple of days before he tried to purchase a weapon and had been removed from his home in a pretty violent state, put on suicide watch, and heavily sedated with a mood-altering antipsychotic. I’d like to talk to the doctor in charge of his case. I don’t understand how they could make a determination to just dump him back on the street.”

“They didn’t dump him,” the detective said. “They put him in a state-approved halfway house. Maybe not the best suited, as it turned out… I know where you’re heading. But I’ve looked at the doctor’s reports. He was deemed to be stable and mentally capable upon his release. He told them that he no longer harbored any desire to terminate his own life. He was over twenty-one. They’re only permitted to hold him against his will for a matter of days.”

“This kid could have been a hazard to anyone, ” I said, “if he followed through on that weapon, not just to himself. You’re saying all you have to do is claim that you’re no longer suicidal and they can put you back on the street?”

“Not can, Dr. Erlich. They have a legal obligation to do so. It’s the law. If they don’t feel like he’s an imminent threat. As I say, he’d stabilized. I didn’t want to say this myself, but apparently he’d informed them there he did not wish to return back home upon release. They process thirty or forty people a week through that ward. They found a bed for him at a smaller facility, where he’d receive proper attention…” He turned back to Charlie and Gabriella. “I promise you, everyone is extremely sorry about what happened.

“In the meantime,” he said, placing a folder on the table, “I do have some things for you…”

He took out a large manila envelope and pushed it across the table. “Your son had these in his possession at the time…”

Charlie and Gabby’s eyes stretched wide.

There was a large plastic bag inside. I saw a couple of dollar bills and some loose change. A metal-link key chain with a single key attached. A crumpled candy wrapper. And something else…

Gabby pulled it out.

It looked like one of those cheap plastic holograms that came from a Cracker Jack box. An eye-wide open if you looked at it straight on. Then it closed, in a kind of wink, when it was shifted the other way.

“Evan was always picking up stupid stuff off the street.” Charlie shook his head forlornly.

“He went around collecting recycling,” said Gabby, eyes glistening. “For the money. He would go through people’s things-their garbage. Bring things home. People’s shit. You wouldn’t believe what was important to my son…”

She picked up the bag and held it like a cashmere cloth against her cheek. “I can feel him, my Evan. I know he didn’t kill himself. He would never do that to me…”

“You have to look into that sneaker,” Charlie said, his eyes fixed on Sherwood, as if it was the missing piece of a puzzle. He jabbed his finger. “That could be the key.”

“I promise, I’ll do my best.” The detective nodded obligingly. He stood up and caught my eye. “Got a second?”

I stood up across from him. “Of course.”

He went around and opened the door and walked me outside to the hallway. “Your brother said you’re a doctor?”

“Vascular surgeon. At the Westchester Medical Center. In Valhalla.”

“Vascular…” He nodded thoughtfully. “You work on hearts?”

“Veins, predominantly. Endovascular repairs. I keep the works flowing. Guess you could call me more of a plumber than a mechanic.” I smiled.

Sherwood nodded. “I’m a liver recipient myself. Going on two years now. So far so good, I guess. I’m still here.”

“Good for you,” I said. Liver transplants resulted either from cirrhosis from booze or from hepatitis, the C kind, the killer, but something made me suspect the first.

“Now all I got is this TMJ.” He massaged his jaw. “Hurts like the devil whenever things get stirred up. In fact, I’m starting to feel it now… You say you’re from back in New York…”

“Westchester.” I nodded.

“I got a cousin back there. Nyack.”

“That’s across the river. In Rockland County.”