I decide to take a flier. “It’s like that guy a few years back,” I tell him. “What’s-his-name…?”

Anderton laughs. “Which guy? I’m telling you this happens every month.”

“The one who killed those little boys out West.”

Anderton sags and lets his head droop. “Charley Vermillion,” he says in an exhausted voice. “You see? We could turn every patient into a Nobel Prize winner and we’d still have Charley Vermillion thrown in our faces. He’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charley Vermillion had a personality disorder that was chronic and probably incurable. He was a violent pedophile. And that made him a danger to the community. No question about it. But here, in the context of this facility, with the right medication… he was a model patient.”

“So you felt he could be trusted?”

“In the context of this facility? Absolutely. He had every privilege. Of course,” Anderton says with a chuckle, “we don’t have children running around.”

I return the chuckle. “So how did he get here?”

Anderton frowned, trying to remember. “Attacked a child. I think it was in a restroom. As I recall, the boy’s father intervened and Charley cut him up pretty bad.”

“‘Cut him up’?”

“With an oyster knife. That was his job. Shuckin’ oysters in the Quarter.”

“And he was acquitted?”

“Drug-induced psychosis.”

“So he got off.”

“Well… he spent nineteen years at this address, so I wouldn’t say he ‘got off.’ But the point is we didn’t have a choice. Charley Vermillion was disturbed, and he could be violent if he didn’t take his meds. But he definitely knew right from wrong when he walked out this door.”

It made sense, except for one thing. “It took… nineteen years to decide that?”

Anderton shrugs. “He petitioned for release.”

“He waited nineteen years to petition for release?”

“Nope. Someone put a bug in his ear. Probably another patient.”

“Any idea who?”

Anderton frowns, and instantly seems on guard. I’ve struck the wrong chord. The question was too specific. “I’m really not at liberty to talk about individual cases,” he says in a stiff voice.

“I’m sorry, of course you can’t. I understand. It’s just a pretty dramatic example of what can happen-”

“There are patient confidentiality issues.”

I can’t stop myself. “Yes, but in this case Vermillion is dead, isn’t he?”

A mistake. I regret it instantly. I try to change the subject, ask about Anderton’s training, his doctoral thesis, his prior experience. I suck up to him, doing my best to reestablish our earlier chumminess, but the doctor is now on guard.

I urge him to think hard about going on camera, and this revives his mood a little, although he reminds me that he’ll have to consult with his “masters.”

“And my comments, I’m afraid, would have to be restricted to general discussion or hypothetical cases.”

I tell him that’s not a problem, that I’m going to be spending a couple of days in the area, maybe I could buy him lunch and we could talk some more.

Another mistake. I see it in his body language. He clasps his arms around himself; his lips flatten into a line.

“A couple of days here? The closest motel is all the way down in Empire and I don’t think you’d like it.”

“I meant I’ll be in New Orleans. It’s not a bad drive.”

“Well,” Anderton says. He stands up, looks at his watch. The interview is over.

I’m getting to my feet, thinking that the interview has been something of a bust, and wondering what I’m going to do next. Probably I should call the Ramirezes. They filed a suit, maybe they learned something in discovery. And then there’s the lawyer who helped Vermillion petition for release. That petition would be in the public record. I could get the lawyer’s name, try and track him down, see what brought him to Vermillion’s case.

I’m mulling this over as I get to my feet and follow Anderton toward the door. And then I see something in the display case along the wall – and the hair stands up on the back of my neck.

Inside the case is an arts-and-crafts exhibition of artifacts made by the patients as a part of their therapy. There are small sculptures, weavings, pottery, drawings, beadwork, each piece identified with a date – going back to the 1930s. And among the objets is a set of origami figures, a whole menagerie, each one a stunning little sculpture. A rhino, an elephant, a lion… and a duplicate of the rabbit I found on Sean’s dresser.

A second later, I’m standing in front of the display case with my fingers pressed against the glass. In front of the origami figures is a little paper tent of thick stock, like a place card at a table.

1995

I can’t speak. There’s a hammer in my chest. Finally, I hear myself speak. “Who made these origami figures?” I ask him. “Was it Vermillion?”

“Oh, no. Good Lord. Charley wasn’t interested in art. Not at all. Works such as these are far beyond Charley’s capabilities.” He hesitates and now his voice is suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

I can’t take my eyes off the rabbit. And I’m not sure what to do. Anderton is wrapped in his bureaucratic armor now. If I tell him the truth, will that get through to him? Will he identify the patient who folded the rabbit?

“Dr. Anderton, I have to confess something to you…”

I know after thirty seconds that it’s a mistake. Anderton is less interested in what I’m telling him than he is angry at my deception and irritated that the documentary was a ploy. I blunder on, pleading for the name of the inmate who created the origami menagerie. I explain about finding the little rabbit on my son’s dresser. I spell out my theory that Charley Vermillion was not the real killer of the Ramirez twins, that the man who folded the rabbit was the real murderer.

He shakes his head. “That sounds like kind of a wild theory to me,” he says. “I mean, these showgirls and all? I don’t know how you can make all these connections.”

I tell him if my boys die, I’ll consider that he has blood on his hands.

But Anderton won’t budge. He cites “the sanctity” of medical records, the “holy pact” of patient confidentiality.

“Just tell me one thing,” I plead. “Whoever it was, he’s not still in custody, is he? How long was he here? When was he released?”

“That’s three things.”

I say nothing.

Anderton presses a finger against his chin and stares into space, as if searching for a reason to deny my request. In the end, either he can’t come up with one or he suffers a momentary spasm of compassion.

“No,” he tells me. “The inmate in question is not in custody. Came to us in 1983. Released in 1996.”

“What did he do? What was he in here for? What’s his name? We’re talking about my sons here. Please.”

Dr. Peyton Anderton wags his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan.”

I want to throw him into the display cases and knock him out and then ransack his office. But I don’t. I get control of myself. “Thanks for your help,” I tell him, and step through the doorway. Two huge orderlies wait outside in the hall and I realize that at some point Anderton summoned help. A silent alarm or something.

“You do understand I’d like to do more,” Anderton says. He’s still behind me, still hitting the “my hands are tied” note as I head down the steps and push out through the big front door.