“Who are you, Dan?” Ami asked.
Morelli blinked. “What?”
“Who are you really?”
“I don’t understand the question,” Morelli answered warily.
“They checked your ID. It’s phony. They ran your prints and they came up blank. Who are you?”
Morelli turned his head away from Ami. “I’m not anyone you’d want to know,” he answered sadly.
“Dan, I want to help.”
“I appreciate that, but you’d better go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vanessa Kohler paced her room, feeling more like a caged animal than a hotel guest. From her window she had a view of the majestic snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood and sailboats cruising the Willamette River. The streets below were full of people taking advantage of the sun. She would have given anything to get outside and away from the recirculated hotel air, but she was afraid that she would miss Ami Vergano’s call.
For a while, Vanessa had tried to distract herself by watching television, but the shows were vapid and so boring that she could not stick with them. The news channels were worse. They were obsessed with the presidential campaign and Morris Wingate’s surge in the polls. Every channel showed her father smiling with smug superiority. It made her furious.
The phone rang.
“Ms. Kohler?” Ami asked.
“Why did it take you so long to call? Is anything wrong?”
“There were problems, but I think I’ve handled them.”
“What kind of problems?”
Ami told Vanessa about her adventures with Dr. Ganett, Deputy District Attorney Kirkpatrick, Detective Walsh, and Daniel Morelli.
“Dan doesn’t want to see you,” Ami concluded. “He got upset when I tried to get him to talk to you. He’s also pretty adamant about me getting off the case as quickly as possible.”
“Shit.”
“I tried, really. I’ll take another shot at him after he’s had some time to think, but I don’t know if it’ll make any difference.”
Vanessa had some ideas but they weren’t the kind that she could confide to an officer of the court.
“Okay,” she told Ami, “you did your best.”
“Do you want me to find him a good criminal lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
“It will be expensive.”
“The money is the least of our problems,” Vanessa said.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”
“Vanessa, who is Dan? The DA said that his ID is phony and they can’t match his fingerprints. When I asked Dan for his real name, he got very upset.”
“Believe me, you don’t want to be burdened with that information.”
“No lawyer is going to be able to help Dan without knowing who he is. No judge will grant bail to a man with a fake identity.”
“You’re right, but I won’t answer you.”
“Was Dan in Vietnam?”
Vanessa hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“I think he was a prisoner of war. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“But you know that he was a soldier?”
“I want to end this conversation, Ami.”
“Kirkpatrick and Walsh think he may be a terrorist.”
“I know that you’re just trying to help, but I’m going to hang up now. Thank you for everything you’re doing.”
Vanessa cut the connection and tapped a cigarette out of the pack that lay next to the phone. She paced the room as she smoked. What were her options? There was only a limited amount of time before her father figured out Daniel Morelli’s real identity.
It occurred to Vanessa that she had not spoken to Sam since she’d arrived in Oregon. Had Victor Hobson honored his promise to protect her lover? Was he safe? Vanessa looked at the clock. It was three hours later on the east coast. She dialed her apartment and Sam picked up immediately.
“Thank God you’re okay,” she said as soon as she heard Sam’s voice.
“I’m fine, but I’m really worried about you.”
“Did the FBI…?”
“You friend Victor Hobson had me picked up at work, Vanessa. It was very embarrassing, especially after having the police barge in the night before.”
“Why aren’t you in a safe house?”
“Because this is nonsense. I’m not in any danger.”
“Damn it, Sam, you are in danger. You have to believe me. My father will stop at nothing once he learns what I know.”
“Is this about Carl Rice, the guy in your book?”
“How do you know about Carl?”
“Hobson asked me about him. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Where are you, Vanessa? I’ll come there. We’ll be together. I’ll help you get through this.”
“I don’t want you to come here.”
“Please. You need help.”
“I want you to get out of the apartment, Sam. I want you to go into hiding.”
“Vanessa…”
“No. I won’t tell you where I am. It will be even more dangerous if you’re here. You’ll be a distraction.”
“Vanessa,” Sam repeated, but he was speaking to a dead line.
Ami was more puzzled than upset when Vanessa Kohler ended their conversation. She knew that Vanessa wanted to help Dan. What she didn’t understand was why Vanessa and Dan wouldn’t give her the information she needed to do her job. Ami noticed the clock. It was time to pick up Ryan at school.
Ryan was waiting when Ami pulled next to the curb. He looked exhausted, and he didn’t say anything when he slid into the seat beside her.
“How was school, Tiger?” Ami asked as she pulled into traffic.
“Okay,” Ryan mumbled.
“I saw Dan today. I visited him at the hospital.”
Ryan looked at her expectantly.
“He says, ‘Hi,’ and he wanted you to know that he’s a little banged up, but okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. When I saw him he was sitting up and talking just fine.”
“Will he be coming home?” Ryan asked, his eyes wide and full of hope.
“No, Ryan. He’s okay physically, but he hurt Mr. Lutz and that policeman, so he’ll have to stay in jail until that’s cleared up.”
“But after that? Can he come home then?”
“That’s a way off, Tiger. Let’s wait and see.”
Ryan got very quiet. His shoulders slumped, and he cast his eyes down. Ami felt terrible. She wasn’t sure what would happen to Dan. He had been trying to protect Ben Branton when he hurt Barney Lutz, and there was no way he could know that a policeman had grabbed him when he hurt the officer. Maybe a good defense attorney would get him probation or a light sentence. Even if he got probation, Ami was certain that Dan would move on. He had no roots in Portland. Come to think of it, he didn’t seem to have roots anywhere. She had asked him where he was from when they first met, and he had told her that he’d moved around a lot as a kid and didn’t think of any place as home. She’d accepted the answer then, but in light of what she was finding out the answer seemed evasive.
Then she realized that the answer to the mystery of Daniel Morelli was some unknown lawyer’s problem, not hers. Tomorrow, she would start asking her attorney friends for recommendations. When she found a good criminal attorney, she would give the name to Vanessa.
This realization helped her forget about Morelli for all of three minutes. He might be out of her legal life, but she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts. There was something tragic about her lodger, a sadness that had bubbled to the surface during their brief meetings at the hospital. Ami was certain that Morelli’s wounds and legal problems were not solely to blame for his fear and depression. Vanessa Kohler had said that he was “emotionally wounded.” Who had inflicted Dan’s psychological wounds? Maybe it was something that had happened in Vietnam when he was a pri
soner. She imagined that their Vietnamese captors did terrible things to American prisoners of war. Did Morelli have a mental defense to his charges?
Ami remembered a case she had worked on when she was with her firm. The client had been a seriously disturbed veteran, and they’d used a psychiatrist as an expert witness on posttraumatic stress disorder. Victims of PTSD often reexperienced a traumatic event, like a rape, an earthquake, or a car accident, that was outside the range of ordinary human experience. Other symptoms included guilt feelings and reduced involvement with the external world. Many Vietnam War veterans suffered from PTSD. Ami had conducted the initial interview of the expert to see if he would help their case. She remembered him as being very smart and personable. Ami was definitely not going to continue as Morelli’s attorney, but she hadn’t found a new attorney for him yet. It would certainly assist whoever ended up with Morelli’s case if she laid the groundwork for a defense. Ami was excited. First thing tomorrow she would start her search for Morelli’s lawyer. But she would also try to remember the name of the psychiatrist.
CHAPTER NINE
Dr. George French was in his late fifties and slightly overweight, but his clothes were hand-tailored so that the weight didn’t show. French’s gray-green eyes twinkled behind custom-made steel-rimmed bifocals. His skin was pale and his mustache and beard were salt-and-pepper like the fringe of hair around his otherwise bald head. When French walked into his waiting room, Ami Vergano put down the magazine she was reading.
“You’re looking well,” the psychiatrist said, flashing Ami an engaging smile.
Ami smiled back. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Let’s talk in my office. Do you want any coffee?”
“Coffee sounds great. I need to get my brain moving.”
There was a small kitchen halfway to Dr. French’s office. The doctor stopped there and filled two cups before continuing down the hall.
“I’m sorry your firm broke up.”
“Me too.”
“It must have been quite a shock.”
Ami shrugged. “The associates never know what’s going on. One morning the partners called us into the conference room and that was that.”
“And you’re out on your own now?”
“Yeah,” she answered, embarrassed by her fall from the higher echelons of the law to the lowly ranks of the solo shingle hangers. “I’m scraping by. Mostly divorces, wills, contracts. I’ve got a small business that sends me all its work. If Microsoft or Nike asks you for the name of a good attorney, I’d appreciate the referral.”
Dr. French laughed as he stood aside to let Ami into his office. A couch upholstered in burgundy leather sat against a pastel-blue wall under a grouping of sunny prints. Across from it, on the other side of the room, was a wide window that brought light and a skyline view into the room. The psychiatrist shut his office door and motioned Ami toward one of the two chrome-and-leather chairs that flanked a low glass coffee table. He took the other chair.
“I have someone I want you to see,” Ami told the doctor.
“A client in a divorce?”
“No. Actually, it’s a case that’s been getting a lot of notoriety. Have you heard about the fight at the Little League game?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“My son is on one of the teams that were playing and the man who was arrested was renting from me. He had the apartment over my garage. He’s the person I want to talk to you about.”
“Why me?”
“You’re an expert on posttraumatic stress disorder.”
“Ah, Mazyck,” French said, mentioning the case he had been hired to work on by Ami’s old firm. Gregory Mazyck was a veteran who had holed up in his house with a hostage. Dr. French had testified that Mazyck was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and believed the police were Iraqis and the hostage was his best friend, who had died in his arms during the Gulf War.
“How much do you know about what happened at the Little League game?”
“Not much.”
“Okay. Well, Dan-Daniel Morelli, my client-is a carpenter. I don’t know his age, but I’m guessing he’s in his late forties. He travels around the country in a pickup truck. He doesn’t have roots. Sometimes he lives in the woods for weeks at a time. He supports himself by doing odd jobs and building very beautiful handmade furniture. That’s how we met, at an art fair on the Park Blocks. He had a booth next to mine, and he was trying to get orders for his furniture. Anyway, he needed a place to stay. I liked him. He seemed very gentle. My son really took to him. I never saw any sign that he was violent.”
Ami told the psychiatrist about the fight.
“I asked him about what he did to Barney and the policeman. He said that he wasn’t thinking; that his training took over. He seemed very remorseful about what he did, very depressed. He also told me that he’d been locked up in Vietnam. I asked him if he’d been a soldier, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He also said that he had sworn not to hurt anyone again. I’m wondering if the sudden violence was connected to his experiences in Vietnam.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“I remembered your testimony. You said that combat experience could produce symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder years after the event that caused the problem. I’d like you to talk to Dan and tell me what you think.”
“All right.”
“There’s another thing,” Ami said, “something weird. Dan’s ID is phony and they can’t find a match for his fingerprints.”
“Now that is interesting. His prints would have to be on file if he was in the military.” Dr. French stood up. “Let me check my schedule.”
He walked over to his desk and talked to his secretary over his intercom.
“I’ve got a cancellation this afternoon,” he told Ami, a moment later. “Would three be okay?”
Morelli was sitting up in bed when the guard let Ami and Dr. French into his room. The nasogastric tube and IV were gone, and some color had returned to his face. His long hair was fanned out behind his head, almost covering his pillow.
“You’re looking a lot better,” Ami said.
Morelli focused on Ami’s companion. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is George French. He’s a psychiatrist.”
Morelli smiled wearily. “That’s going to be my defense, insanity? I can save you a lot of trouble, Ami. It won’t fly. I’m sane.”
“You don’t have to be nuts to have a mental defense, Dan. Dr. French just wants to ask you some questions.”
“Is this confidential? It stays between us?”
“Yes,” Ami assured him.
Morelli shrugged and gestured toward the chairs that sat against the wall.
“Be my guest. I don’t have anything better to do.”
Ami and the doctor pulled the chairs over to the bed. George placed a yellow lined pad on his lap and scribbled a heading.
“Do you mind if I call you Dan?” he asked.
“You can call me anything you want, except late for dinner,” Morelli quipped to indicate that he wasn’t taking Dr. French’s inquisition seriously.
French laughed. “I’d like to get some background before we talk about what happened at the ball field. Is that okay?”
Morelli looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded his assent.
“Good. Let’s start with an easy one. Where did you grow up?”
“California.”
“Where in California?”
“San Diego.”
Morelli had told Ami that he was an army brat who moved around. Now he was telling Dr. French something else.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Is your mother still living?”
“No.”
“Father?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t get along?”
“He walked out on us when I was young.”
“Did your mother remarry?”
&
nbsp; “No.”
Dr. French made some notes before resuming the interview.
“Getting any deep psychological insights, Doc?” Morelli asked.
“Thirteen so far,” French answered with a smile.
“Touche,” Morelli replied. He was trying to upset George, but he was smart enough to see that the doctor wasn’t biting.
“Why don’t you tell me where you went to high school?” French asked.
“St. Martin’s Prep.”
George looked surprised. “You must have been pretty well off.”
“Scholarship boy.”
“So your grades must have been good.”
“A’s mostly.”
“Any sports?”
“I did a lot of stuff in junior high. No organized sports at St. Martin’s. I concentrated on my grades pretty much and kept to myself.”
“What subjects did you enjoy?”
“Science, math. I liked physics.”
“Did you like St. Martin’s?”
Morelli shrugged. “Some of the teachers were pretty sharp. The kids were from a different world. We didn’t have much in common.”
“Did you have any close friends?”
A cloud descended over Morelli’s features. “I don’t want to get into that.”
“You knew Vanessa in high school,” Ami said.
Morelli looked upset. “Yeah, Vanessa. I knew her. But I’m not going there, so you can move on.”
“Okay,” Dr. French said agreeably. “What about college?”
Morelli did not answer.
“Mr. Morelli?” George prodded.
“No college. It was during ’Nam. I was drafted.”
“You didn’t want to go in?”
“I don’t know what I wanted. It was complicated.”
Ami thought that Morelli sounded sad and bitter.
“Where did you go through basic training?” Dr. French asked.
“Fort Lewis.”
“This was your usual basic training?”
“Yeah.” Morelli paused, remembering something. “There were the tests. I don’t think they were part of the normal training.”
“What tests?”
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