expectorants, laxatives, emetics, even feces and pus used to’ create
“bacteriologically battered babies.”
Infants and toddlers subjected to a staggering list of torments that
brought to mind Nazi “experiments.” Case after case of children in
whom a frighteningly wide range of phony diseases had been
induced-virtually every pathology, it seemed, could be faked.
Mothers most frequently the culprits.
Daughters, almost always the victims.
The criminal profile: model mommy, often charming and personable, with
a background in medicine or a paramedical field.
Unusual calmness in the face of disaster-blunted affect masquerading as
good coping. A hovering, protective nature-one specialist even warned
doctors to look out for “overly caring” mothers.”
Whatever that meant.
I remembered how Cindy Jones’s tears had dried the moment Cassie had
awakened. How she’d taken charge, with cuddles, fairy tales, the
maternal breast.
Good child rearing or something evil?
Something else fit too’ Another Lancet article by Dr. Roy Meadow, the
pioneer researcher. A discovery, in I 984, after examining the
backgrounds of thirty-two children with manufactured epilepsy: Seven
siblings, dead and buried.
All expired from crib death.
I read some more until seven, then worked on the galley proofs of a
monograph I’d just gotten accepted for publication: the emotional
adjustment of a school full of children targeted by a sniper a year
ago.
The school’s principal had become a friend of mine, then more. Then
she went back to Texas to attend to a sick father. He died and she
never returned.
Loose ends…
I reached Robin at her studio. She’d told me she was elbow-deep in a
trying project-building four matching Stealth bomber-shaped guitars for
a heavy metal band with neither budget nor self-controland I wasn’t
surprised to hear the strain in her voice.
“Bad time?”
“No, no, it’s good talking to someone who isn’t drunk.”
Shouts in the background. I said, “Is that the boys?”
“Being boys. I keep booting them out and they keep coming back. Like
mildew. You’d think they’d have something to keep them busy-trashing
their hotel suite, maybe-but- Uh-oh, hold on.
Lucas, get away from there! You may need your fingers some day.
Sorry, Alex. He was drumming near the circular saw.” Her voice
softened: “Listen, I’ve got to go. How about Friday night if that’s
okay with you?”
“It’s okay. Mine or yours?”
“I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be ready, Alex, so let me come by and
get you. I promise no later than nine, okay?”
“Okay.”
We said our goodbyes and I sat thinking about how independent she’d
become.
I took out my old Martin guitar and finger-picked for a while. Then I
went back into my study and reread the Munchausen articles a couple of
times over, hoping to pick up something-some clinical cue that I might
have missed. But no insights were forthcoming; all I could think of
was Cassie Jones’s chubby face turned into something gray and
sepulchral.
I wondered if it was even a question of science-if all the medical
wisdom in the world was going to take me where I needed to go.
Maybe time for a different kind of specialist.
I phoned a West Hollywood number. A sultry female voice said, “You’ve
reached Blue Investigations. Our office is closed. If you wish to
leave a nonemergency message, do so after the first tone. In an
emergency, wait until two tones have sounded.”
After the second beep, I said, “It’s Alex, Milo. Call me at home,” and
picked up my guitar again.
I’d played ten bars of “Windy and Warm” when the phone rang.
A voice that sounded far away said, “What’s the emergency, pal?”
“Blue Investigations?”
As in cop.”
Ah.”
“Too abstract?” he said. “Do you get a porno connotation?”
“No, it’s fine very L.A. Whose voice is on the message?”
“Rick’s sister.”
“The dentist?”
“Yeah. Good pipes, huh?”
“Terrific. She sounds like Peggy Lee.”
“Gives you fever when she drills your molars.”
“When’d you go private?”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is-the lure of the dollar. Just a little
moonlighting, actually. Long as the department keeps forcefeeding me
tedium during the day, might as well get paid well for it on the off
hours.”
“Not loving your computers yet?”
“Hey, I love em but they don’t love me. Course, now they’re saying the