Zachary felt a sudden wave of cold. He rubbed his arms. “Are all of the unlocks logged? So you know who has been in and out?”
“I don’t know. I suppose they’re probably recorded in the system somewhere.”
“What if a child disappeared? You would need to know who had gotten them out.”
“We don’t have children disappearing,” Abato said slowly, his brows drawing down. “We’ve never had an issue like that.”
“All it takes is one.”
“Well… I’ll certainly take a look into that. I’m sure the unlocks must be logged somewhere.”
“Can you find out who accessed Quentin’s room in the twenty-four hours before he died? Didn’t the police ask you for that?”
“No. They just asked about how he was discovered. When anyone last saw him alive. How he had been.”
“What did you tell them?”
Abato shrugged. He looked around the little room. “Let’s walk and talk. I need to get you back to your parking lot and get to my meeting.”
Zachary was reluctant to leave the room so soon, but it was obvious there was nothing hidden there. The police forensics unit wouldn’t have missed anything. If they’d even been there. The room was completely bare.
He followed Abato out to the hall. “Can I take a quick turn around the unit? Just to get a feel for it…?”
Abato took an impatient look at his watch and nodded. They walked briskly around the unit loop. Bedrooms like Quentin’s and a few small gathering rooms along the outside. An administrative desk or nursing station, storage and utility rooms, and restrooms on the inside. Typical for any hospital or institution. Abato nodded to the staff members as he escorted Zachary through the unit but didn’t stop to make introductions. He had already made it clear that he was out of time. It felt like he had been there for at least half the day.
Abato jerked his head to the left as they exited the unit and led Zachary down a blue corridor.
“We’ll take a shortcut here.”
“You never said what your answers were to the police’s questions.”
“What?” Abato looked at Zachary vaguely, seemingly distracted by something else. “Oh. No one had noticed anything unusual about Quentin’s behavior, no. Of course, we asked everyone. And even with hindsight, we couldn’t identify any behavior that might have been concerning. Nothing to indicate that he was depressed. But then… he didn’t have a lot of words. He wouldn’t have been able to tell us much, even if he had been inclined to.”
“He didn’t try to communicate with the staff?”
“No. Do you know the derivation of the word ‘autism,’ Mr. Goldman?”
“Uh…” Zachary shook his head. “No. I thought it was just a diagnosis…”
“It was a word used by both Kanner and Asperger to describe one of the key facets of the disorder they were observing in the children they were treating. Auto, from the Greek word for ‘self.’ Children who were withdrawn into themselves, who kept separate from other people, who lived in their own realities. It was a word that had been used to describe people with schizophrenia, but they noticed a qualitative difference from schizophrenia. These were not children who lived in a fantasy world, but they lived in the world of themselves, didn’t naturally reach out to others. So, no. Quentin did not try to communicate whatever emotional issues he was having with the staff. Like most autistic children, Quentin did not seek out contact with other people. He just wanted to be by himself. That was his normal.”
“Okay. What about their other questions? When he was last seen alive? There were no bed checks?”
“He was last seen alive when he went into his room to go to sleep. No one… no one noticed anything unusual or of concern during bed checks.” Abato frowned to himself, walking faster so that Zachary almost had to run to keep up. Anything other than a normal-paced walk still felt awkward to Zachary since his car accident, and he was worried about tripping and falling flat on his face. Abato looked around, noticed Zachary lagging, and slowed a little to continue the conversation. “They didn’t go into his room to check on him. Just looked through the window.”
“But he was on the floor, not on his bed.”
“Kids like Quentin can be unpredictable. It’s not unusual to find one curled up asleep under his bunk or hiding under a table.”
“So they did see him on the floor?”
“Yes, of course. It is my understanding that the guard who was doing the bed checks that evening has been let go. We are not asserting any negligence, but for Summit’s optics, it was best for him to find other employment.” Abato took a deep breath. “Quentin died by his own hand, Mr. Goldman. It’s tragic and we all feel horrible that we weren’t able to prevent it. But in the end… maybe it’s for the better.”
Abato stopped walking and turned to Zachary, speaking in a low, confidential tone.
“Quentin was never going to be able to leave here. He was never going to be able to be independent and live a life outside of an institution. Maybe if his mother had gotten him into our program when he was young, like Raymond, instead of waiting until he was twelve, violent, and intractable, we could have done more for him. But once a child passes ten or twelve… we can’t always turn them around. All we’re doing is trying to make things tolerable for their families. They want their kids off of meds, being taken care of by someone else, somewhere they can go and visit once a week or once a month and pretend they’re living a happy, meaningful life.”
“So you knew Quentin wasn’t happy.”
“We do our best to make our residents happy. And he was probably happier here than he was anywhere else. But it was obvious that we were not going to succeed with him. He was never going to be able to pass as normal. He was going to be here for the rest of his life. We just didn’t realize how short that would be.”
They started to walk again, at a slower, more thoughtful pace.
“I saw some residents who were older in the reward rooms,” Zachary said. “But I haven’t seen a lot of them around. You have mostly teenagers and young adults?”
“The older adults tend to be in self-contained units. They unfortunately tend to have shorter lifespans than non-autistic adults. Much higher incidence of cancer and other diseases. They don’t have the self-awareness and communication skills to seek treatment early on. And in most cases, the family members choose not to prolong their suffering.”
His words made Zachary feel physically sick. Abato was eager to show off the successful children and teens in his program, the ones who might someday be able to ‘pass as normal,’ but he seemed like he was just dressing up the fact that they were just warehousing the older adults, waiting for nature to take its course.
Quentin was not better off dead.
He didn’t need to die so that someone else could take his place in the program; someone who was more likely to ‘succeed.’
His mother, at least, hadn’t wanted him to die.
Chapter Seven
D
r. Abato walked Zachary back out to the reception area where he had first arrived. He held up a hand to indicate that Zachary should wait for a moment, while he talked to the receptionist in a lowered voice. He nodded his thanks and then joined Zachary again.
“We’ve got some protesters outside the grounds today,” he informed Zachary. “Your best route out of here is to turn a left out of the parking lot and circle around to the freeway entrance. The protesters know that they’re supposed to stay off of the grounds and are not allowed to block traffic, but they have been known to do it in the past. Just keep your car crawling forward and don’t make eye contact, and you should be able to get out of here alright. If you do get stuck, stay in your car with the doors locked. Our security will do their best to get them out of your way, but your best bet at that point is to dial 9-1-1. The police will be far more likely to respond to your call that you feel threatened by the protesters blocking your way than they would to a call from us. Just a matter of police officers i
dentifying better with an individual citizen than to a big corporate entity.”
Zachary felt overwhelmed by it all, but he nodded his understanding. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You will be more of a target if a guard escorts you out, or I would have someone walk you to your car. You’ll be alright?” Abato leveled a piercing look at him. Zachary felt like Ray-Ray being forced to look Sophie in the eye.
“Sure. Thanks so much for your hospitality. I’ll call you with any follow-up questions? And you’ll get back to me on the security lock logs?”
“Of course.”
Dr. Abato shook Zachary’s hand, his grip too tight for comfort, and Zachary was happy to be able to get away from him, to get away from everyone in the oppressive place and get back to his car. Sitting in the driver’s seat of his new Civic, Zachary just breathed for a few minutes, trying to calm the shakiness in his thighs and his abdominal muscles and to re-center himself. He had known it would be a rough day. Not just because he was investigating a child’s death, but also because of the institution itself and his own past. Because of Annie and his other memories of places like Summit.
But now that part was done. He’d seen what he needed to there. He would finish reading the coroner and police reports and deal with any further questions over the phone or email. Unless there were further details that required him to return to Summit, he was finished there.
Taking one last deep breath, Zachary pulled the car out of the parking space and at the exit of the parking lot, turned left. There was a small cluster of protesters. He remembered Dr. Abato’s advice not to make eye contact, and avoided looking at their faces. He focused on the road ahead of him and tried to pretend they weren’t even there.
He got past them, and it wasn’t until then that he looked at their signs in his mirror and saw Quentin’s face.
Bowman was off of his shift when Zachary got home, exhausted from the drive to and from Summit, from the tour and the anxiety that plagued him there, from thinking about it, and from trying not to think about it.
“You look like death warmed over,” Bowman observed. “What exactly did they do to you in that place? Put you in the rubber room for a few hours?”
“It was just… a tiring day,” Zachary said, trying to brush it off and not allow any images of detention cells to bubble up from the past. “All of the driving and everything.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
Zachary was trying not to put Bowman out by expecting him to supply all of the meals while Zachary was living there but, once again, he had forgotten to provide for himself and had gone home empty-handed, without groceries, fast food, or even a thought about meals.
“Uh… it’s fine. I’m not hungry,” he said truthfully. “You don’t need to make anything.”
“When I say anything, I mean anything. Did you have breakfast? Lunch?”
“Uh… no. Just… coffee this morning.”
“You said you were going to grab something on the road. On the way there.”
“Yeah… I guess I got distracted. I forgot.”
“It’s no wonder you’re so skinny! Did Bridget ever get you eating three meals a day when you were living with her?” Mario readjusted his belt, lifting his belly and patting it ruefully. “I could never forget to eat.”
“Well… some of the meds I take kill my appetite. I don’t really get hungry.” Zachary tried not to think of Bridget and the life with her that he had lost. The heartache was more than he could handle.
“I’m having dinner, so what do you want?”
He swallowed. “Whatever you’re making is fine.”
“Burgers and fries?” Bowman suggested.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Alright. I’ll throw them on.”
Chapter Eight
R
ay-Ray held the cold, hard metal of his piston to his face, trying to be still. Mommy said he had to stay in bed, and he was trying, but he was uneasy. He turned onto his side, and the weighted blanket shifted and settled back over him, soothing. Like the man’s hands when he had hugged Ray-Ray.
Ray-Ray’s brain was a motor that ran all the time. It didn’t stop when it was bedtime, and it didn’t stop while he was asleep. Mommy said he slept like a windmill, when he finally slept. A windmill was a big fan, like in an engine, and she meant that his arms and legs were always moving, not that they went in circles. When Mommy slept, she was still, like a car that had been parked in the garage at night.
But Ray-Ray’s motor kept running. When he didn’t have something else to occupy his attention, like watching Top Gear, his brain replayed the events of the day over and over again. Examining them from all angles. Analyzing his mistakes and everyone’s scripts. Top Gear was a TV show, and that meant it followed a script, Sophie said. One that was written ahead of time so that everyone knew exactly what to say and do next. Real life had scripts too, but they weren’t all written out ahead of time, you had to pay attention to figure out which one to use. Ray-Ray wasn’t very good at figuring out which one to use. The word that came most easily to his tongue was ‘no,’ and that just made Sophie angry.
It made everyone angry. He was not supposed to say ‘no.’
Usually.
Ray-Ray hadn’t seen the man before. He didn’t usually see new actors at Summit. He saw Sophie, Mrs. Beale at the reception desk, the doctors, and a scattering of smaller parts; other kids who went there for school, their teachers, other aides and staff whose bodies and voices and movements had become more familiar to him. But the man was someone new. Ray-Ray was sure, as his brain reviewed every other day he’d gone to Summit, that he’d never seen the man there before.
Mr. Goldman.
‘Hug Mr. Goldman,’ Dr. Abato had said. So the man’s name was Mr. Goldman.
He looked different from the other people at Summit. He came from somewhere else. He smelled like another place. Coffee, sweat, a chemical smell that new kids at Summit sometimes had. Mr. Goldman didn’t smell like home and he didn’t smell like Summit.
And it was like he had a light inside him, shining out through his windows and headlights. A light that shone on Ray-Ray and made him feel safer, like he’d felt when the man put his arms around Ray-Ray and told him, ‘There, that’s okay.’
He’d felt okay for a few seconds. Safe and warm and protected. Like he felt with Quentin. And then Sophie had pulled him away and made him do proper sitting and quiet hands and eye contact, until he felt so small and far away that he didn’t know who he was.
Ray-Ray pressed the piston against his cheek again, feeling the cool, smooth metal and inhaling the smell of machine oil.
Chapter Nine
Z
achary fell asleep sometime after supper. He and Bowman ate in front of the TV and, with his blood sugar stable, his mental exhaustion from the day at Summit, and physical exhaustion from not sleeping, it wasn’t long before Zachary’s eyes closed, and he fell into a restless sleep. He knew he shouldn’t go to sleep early, or he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, but his brain and body were too overwhelmed to get up and do something else. He kept prying his eyes open for a few seconds, only to be overcome and drift back off to sleep.
At some point, Bowman got up and went to bed, leaving Zachary in the living room with the TV droning on. Bowman knew from experience that if he turned the TV off, Zachary would be instantly awake and unlikely able to get back to sleep again all night, so he just left it playing.
Zachary’s tour of Summit had stirred up a lot of memories of Bonnie Brown and other institutions, hospitals, and group homes he had been in. The memories were fluid, time and place shifting and flowing from one to another.
There were hands on him, gripping his shoulders tightly. A male voice. “You were asked to go to the common room, Zachary.”
“I don’t want to,” he protested, trying to pull away.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. That’s where you’re supposed to be.”
“Only if I want to. I don�
�t want to watch some stupid movie.”
“It’s not optional.”
Zachary tried again to pull away. Usually, he was allowed to stay in his bunk if he didn’t want to join in on the planned activities. The man dug his thumb into the nerve in Zachary’s shoulder, making his legs buckle with the sudden pain.
“You’re coming.”
Zachary didn’t have it in him to argue any further. It was all he could do to keep from crying. He wasn’t going to be seen in tears in front of the other residents. He didn’t resist as the staffer steered him toward the door. He couldn’t even raise his voice to ask why he had to go.
He wasn’t going fast enough for his escort, which meant he was manhandled further, a strong hand on his arm hustling him forward, making him stumble over his own feet. When he got to the common room, he pulled away and looked around to decide where to sit.
“There,” the man told him, pointing to an empty seat.
Zachary shook his head. That would put him next to Roddy Rodriguez, and he had no desire to be within arm’s reach of Roddy Rodriguez.
“Sit there.” The instruction was accompanied by a rough nudge toward the seat.
“No! I can sit where I want.”
“You can sit where I tell you to,” the man growled. “There.”
Zachary angled toward an empty seat along the wall. The man grabbed him, moved him closer to the seat beside Roddy, and when Zachary didn’t comply by sitting down, brought a hard forearm down into the hollow of Zachary’s neck and shoulder, forcing him down into the seat.
Fury blossomed in Zachary’s chest, but he was helpless to defend himself. A slight preteen, he had no chance of winning against the big, burly staffer. He saw Roddy laughing at him. Roddy was a ruthless bully and Zachary had even less defense against him. He erupted from his chair, swinging at the guard. Let them put him in a detention cell. Let them knock him around and leave him in handcuffs. At least he’d be safe from Roddy and he wouldn’t have to sit through whatever teachable moment the staff was trying to coordinate.
His Hands were Quiet Page 5