by Seth Pevey
Melancon nodded. “Can’t say I blame the dad for that. Anyway, seems like we’re on the same page. Music teacher strikes me as gentle and honest, if a bit hoity-toity. I was thinking a lot of people have their hopes pinned on Andre. Makes the situation complicated. Let’s see what the shrink says about it. In and out, partner. You know I hate these types of places.”
“Don’t worry, old man, I’m sure she won’t throw any diagnosis your way. Not for free, anyhow. I’ve got a few guesses, though; you can have them pro bono if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary, Felix.”
Dr. Sarah Weinberger, PsyD, as her sign read, did not have a secretary. But the two detectives happened to catch her just as a tall man with an expensive-looking wristwatch was leaving through her waiting room. Sarah looked at them wide-eyed and uncertain: a middle-aged woman with dirty-blond hair, the faint beginnings of wrinkles, and pale, heavy blue eyes that were becoming crow-footed from, Melancon guessed, a lot of pseudoperceptive squinting.
That was what she was doing now, anyway, as she regarded these two strange men standing before her. Melancon felt himself shudder a bit under the weight of those eyes but tried his best to smile and look nonthreatening as he asked for a moment of her time.
She was prettier up close, had a few freckles that had now all but faded and a bit of a limp as she turned and led them into a well-furnished office without so much as a smile. The walls were plastered with all manner of degrees, certificates, accolades. Melancon took the time, as he often found useful with educated types, to pause and feign interest in these expensive slips of paper. But she didn’t seem to notice. The doctor sat in a plush chair in the center of the room and did not invite them to sit on the couch opposite.
“Well?” Her expectant stare tightened the room.
“Sorry to barge in like this, Doctor,” he started, a little taken aback by her cool manner. “I’m David Melancon and this is my partner, Felix Herbert. We’re private detectives with the Basin Street Detective Agency.” Here he flashed her his ID card, flipping out his old buffalo skin wallet.
“I’d like to see that, please,” the woman said, after Melancon had already stuffed it back into his coat pocket. She had a lovely, calm voice and a slow way of moving. Something about shrinks, Melancon thought to himself. He knew they only pretended to be so in control, but he always felt a slight aversion to a person who betrayed so little. Maybe it was the detective in him, maybe the old card player, or maybe it was just the human being.
She studied the credentials, and then the small badge Melancon sometimes carried to try to put the screws on people.
“I seem to recall that PIs don’t carry a badge,” the Dr. said in her quiet way.
“Well, it is frowned upon.”
She nodded and let out a disappointed hum, still fingering the credentials.
Some blood was working its way into Melancon’s cheeks now.
“Look, I don’t have any legal power over you, miss—”
“Doctor, if you please, and yes, I’m aware of that.”
Felix cut in. “We’re here about Andre Adai.”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if you know that Andre Adai’s father has just been killed, and that the boy, who we’ve come to understand is a patient of yours, has now disappeared.”
Her face did not change, except to perhaps lose a touch of color. She relaxed her grip on the credentials just a bit before handing them back over.
“You’ll have to share the couch.” She pointed.
The two detectives shifted a few magazines and placed themselves down awkwardly, now face-to-face with the shrink in all her placid intensity. Melancon checked her eyes for some sign or meaning, but when she returned his studious gaze, he couldn’t help but look away.
“Has been killed,” she said, almost as if she were speaking to herself. A hand went to her chin. She bit her lip, eyes finding an empty spot on the wall.
“Yes,” Felix continued, “he was…um…he was found shot dead while on duty operating the St. Charles streetcar.”
“When was this?”
“Monday afternoon.”
“Andre was on the streetcar, wasn’t he? I know he takes it back home after our appointments.”
“Yes, ma’am…yes, Doctor.”
Her face finally moved, and when it did it cringed so that Melancon thought it might crack. She shook her head, rubbing her temples with vigor. The old detective felt himself relax, watching her human emotions finally break through.
“This is a disaster,” she said.
The two detectives regarded her quietly.
“That poor boy will never recover from such trauma.”
“Well, maybe you can help him with that,” Melancon said, regaining his composure. “But we have to find him first.”
She cocked her head. “Yes, well, I doubt I’d be able to assist in that.”
“Does Andre ever speak to you?” Felix asked from his side of the couch.
“You don’t know the details of his condition?”
“We weren’t sure he even had a condition.”
She stood up, walked over to the window and looked out, her face bathed in the glorious spring sunshine pouring in. “I see him for half price, you know…but Andre’s father took extra work just to make sure our appointments continued. It troubled him greatly that Andre didn’t go to school, and he wanted to make sure he was looked after by someone qualified in these matters.”
They waited.
“You’re wondering what these matters could possibly mean. It was thought, when Andre was younger, that he might have a mild form of autism. However, as he grew older, it became apparent that this was not the case. Andre seems very comfortable with all nonverbal forms of communication. He is able to maintain eye contact, for instance. He uses hand gestures appropriately. He smiles when he is happy and understands that a smile on someone else means they are happy as well, and so forth. Nothing there consistent with the autism spectrum.”
The doctor returned to her penetrating silence for a moment before Felix prodded her on.
“So, what does he have?”
“Andre exhibits classic signs of what we in the community have come to call selective mutism. That is, he can talk, he just…chooses not to in almost any situation where he feels the slightest sense of misgiving or anxiety.”
Melancon frowned, glancing again at some of the prestigious titles framed on the wall. “So, he’s just quiet. That’s it?”
She nodded. “You can put it that way if you like.”
“And you need all these,” he said, gesturing at the diplomas, “to figure that out?”
Felix raised a hand to his partner, who got the picture and leaned back a bit.
“Doctor, are you telling us that Andre doesn’t have any serious mental issues?”
“No, I’m definitely not telling you that. We all have our issues, Detective,” she replied, looking at Melancon suggestively with those pale blue eyes. “Andre is one of the most highly intelligent children I’ve ever seen. On written IQ exams, he scores in the top ninety-ninth percentile. However, intelligence itself comes with its own set of challenges, now doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Felix said with a smile, causing Melancon to nearly roll his eyes.
“The boy is highly, highly obsessive. He fixates on certain things, like some intelligent people will.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he has an obsession with the trumpet, for one. He often practices until his lips burst and bleed. He plays sometimes in the middle of the night, waking up everyone on his block. He takes the instrument with him everywhere he goes, holding it in his arms even during our sessions.”
“None of that is normal, then, we can at least agree on that?” Melancon asked.
“Normal…,” she echoed.
“Isn’t normal your business, Doctor?”
She ignored him, turning her attention back to Felix.
“It’s one of
the reasons he plays so well. Have you heard Andre play, young man?”
“No, has he played for you?”
“Oh yes, many times.”
“So, he is obsessed with his trumpet. Anything else?”
She frowned. “Yes, he also has a severe fixation on Louis Armstrong.”
Melancon raised an eyebrow. “But how do you know that, if he doesn’t speak to you? Maybe he just likes the music.”
“I’ve had Andre keep journals since he began working with me, almost two years ago. He is a very talented writer, in fact…observant. Observant in a way that most children his age, and even most adults, may not be. He is incredibly sensitive. He just happened to read a biography of Louis Armstrong one day and, well…he has since read nearly everything written on the trumpeter. In fact, Andre’s journals are full of references to Armstrong, to the point where…let’s just say that I’ve had some concern about the obsessive nature of Andre’s thought process surrounding Armstrong. It’s my belief that the boy uses Armstrong to deflect unpleasant sensations and memories, and it has gotten worse since we started our sessions. I sometimes think Andre may even see Armstrong, a sort of imaginary friend, in times of extreme stress. It’s fascinating really, the way he has been able to create for himself this incredible coping mechanism…based entirely on a man who died thirty-five years before he was ever born. Remarkable. This usually happens only when a child has had some sort of severe trauma in the past.”
They waited, Melancon now performing some suggestive glances of his own.
“If you are asking me if Andre has been abused in his past, gentlemen, I can assure you that even I do not know the answer to that. He has never mentioned anything in his journals, nor did his father, who I believe to be…to have been…a thoroughly decent man and as warm and loving as fathers come.”
“Where did you last leave it with the boy, Doctor?” Felix asked, leaning in.
“Andre’s process has been a slow one, though I was hoping we were getting close to a breakthrough of some kind. Until you showed up and delivered this dark news, I did expect nothing but forward progress. It has been a long road, and whenever we start to broach the subject of what troubles the boy through journaling, the narrative always reverts to some…tidbit or anecdote about Louis Armstrong. I was hoping that he would grow out of that as he matured. Thirteen is that…gray area. It’s a time when we start to feel the first stirrings of young adulthood, but we are still complete children. It can be a time when childhood obsessions fade away.”
She cast a glance at Melancon. “Or, they may cement.”
“So…just to make sure I’m understanding. Andre’s an obsessive, anxious type? And his obsession is a form of coping with that anxiety?” Felix asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied, turning her face to smile at Felix.
“A poor New Orleans boy with a gift for music…right? I mean, that’s the connection there, surely? He must see himself when he looks at Armstrong’s story,” Melancon cut in.
She turned back, the smile fading in an instant, transformed now into a small, derisive smirk pointed at the older man. “Is that your take, Detective? Do you think he simply looks up to Armstrong? Because I think it runs far deeper than that.”
The two stared at each other, a frigid electricity passing between them.
“Do you think there are family problems?” Felix asked.
She tapped a pen against her lip, still locked in on Melancon, and shook her head. “Look, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere here. I’m not able to discuss Andre’s family life. I’m afraid I’ve already said far too much and have broken patient-doctor confidentiality, only due to the fact that you’ve told me Andre may be in danger. I think, at this point, I’ll need you to come back with some kind of warrant.”
“Lady, if you have information that could help us find Andre, you need to do the right thing and tell us… right now! Or what happens to him will be on you,” Melancon stammered.
“Unprovoked aggression…weaponized guilt…tell me, Detective, have you seen anyone lately?”
“We’d like to see those journals, please, Doctor,” Felix tried. “They could really help us get some insight on the whole situation.”
But she’d already crossed her arms.
“I’m afraid I’ll ask you to leave now.”
“Oh, you will?” Melancon muttered, but he had already stood up and put on his hat. “I thought you shrinks were all about helping people in need?”
Felix pushed him out the door before he could say more.
Out on the sidewalk now, they watched a streetcar pass by and could hear the yelling and screaming of children at their recess in the school across the street.
“That went well,” Felix said.
“Let’s get downtown,” Melancon replied.
They walked briskly towards the car.
“She sure got defensive when we asked about family. Perhaps we should be thinking more towards that angle,” Felix said as Melancon revved up the El Camino’s raucous engine.
Felix raised an eyebrow. “You think Andre might have been abused?”
The radio came on unbidden, the DJ going on about the many jazz shows that would be happening that evening.
“You just going to go silent on me, partner?” Felix tried. “Because we’ve already got one party that doesn’t talk, we don’t need another.”
Melancon grabbed a toothpick and bit into it, peeling out onto St. Charles.
“I don’t know…about the abuse,” Felix went on. “I don’t like the casual way that Melph acted when he found out Andre was missing. And what about his mama? Does he talk to her? He must.”
“His stepmom,” Melancon finally said.
“Right. He must talk to her?”
Melancon shrugged, letting his blood cool. They rode mostly in tense silence through the midday traffic, the old detective turning the morning over in his head. Finally, they pulled into the parking lot of the downtown station, where Janine was waiting for them.
“You’re starting to look like a boss around here,” Melancon said to her. He went in for a hug, but she pressed his hands down and shook her head, looking around from side to side.
“Still ashamed of me?”
“Look, we’re about to have to let this suspect go.”
Melancon found himself nodding. Somehow, he had known it wasn’t going to be that easy.
“Forensics came back with the autopsy. It turns out Mr. Adai could not have been shot in the back of the head. Could not have been shot by anyone, in fact, who was riding on the streetcar behind him. The only way would have been if he stopped the car entirely, turned to face his passengers, and was shot by one of them, but since the car was in motion at that time, it’s highly unlikely…also…”
A mockingbird landed in the glass-strewn parking lot and pecked at a few loose pebbles of asphalt. All three of them watched it for a moment. Melancon waited until the sickness in his stomach passed.
“There’s something else you’re going to tell me, isn’t there?”
She nodded, squinting in the sunlight that was falling in between the stelae of tall downtown buildings.
“The caliber of the bullet. It’s not the nine-millimeter we’re used to seeing in an Uptown shooting. Based on the type of injury, forensics is saying that it had to be…larger. Something like a 30-06.”
“Like a deer rifle?”
“Like a deer rifle. Like, not the kind of thing you could just pull out of your pocket on a streetcar and then toss in a garbage can. Mr. Adai was no deer. He was a city worker, a husband, and a father.”
The cogs turned in his mind.
“Speaking of husband, can you tell me anything more about the stepmom? We may need to talk to her. Some new developments have occurred…with the boy.”
She took a step closer and turned her head to look at Felix. “What about the boy? ’Cause I can’t get that uncle of his on the phone and I need to bring that child in for questioni
ng no matter—”
Felix, to his credit, tried to keep it off of his face. But Janine was already becoming fairly gifted in her new position as police detective. She knew the young man would be the weak link when it came to deception. She leaned into him, and there was little David Melancon could do to stop it.
“What is it that you aren’t telling me, guys?”
“About the boy…,” Felix mumbled.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“It had nothing to do with us, Janine. That uncle of his just happened to call us and—”
“How the hell did he even get your number?” she demanded.
“Long story,” Felix replied, turning his palms up and backing away slowly.
“So, you two detectives come here to tell me that you have no idea where our main witness to a homicide case might be. A young boy at that?”
Melancon put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got a few hunches, Janine, really, but nothing solid yet. Now we find out someone is out there with a deer rifle that may be looking for Andre? Maybe that changes things. But do us a favor, just for a second. Take a deep breath and answer a question for us. Seriously, please. What happens…what would happen if we found the boy right now and brought him to you?”
She bit her lip, looked at him with a bit less anger than before. “Well…if his uncle did lose him, and his stepmom doesn’t recover, I’m afraid he will have to enter the custody of the state until his sixteenth…well, let me reconsider that…with Andre’s condition…with Andre’s inability to communicate…he may be deemed a special case. It’s possible he could be rehabilitated, but chances are he would spend quite a few years…institutionalized.”
They all three looked at the filthy asphalt underfoot, each of them finding themselves ashamed in their own way, unable to face the pressure and sadness that lurked behind that word. Institutionalized. It filled Melancon’s thoughts with gray corridors and unsmiling orderlies, with barred windows and state-rationed tiny cups of pills.
“Jesus,” he said as the wind swept through the trio and sent the day’s pollen swirling around them.