Killing Hour. Andrew Gross

noticed it at first.

      It was just lying there, on top of yesterday’s trash. Staring back at him – as if alive.

      And in a way it was alive!

      ‘Gabby!’ he tried to scream. ‘Gabby!’ dropping the trash bag, but nothing came out.

      Only a tsunami of shock and overwhelming confusion sweeping through him.

      It was a black Nike sneaker.

      His heart came to a stop. Evan’s sneaker.

      The one he’d been wearing up on the rock the day he died.

      The one they never found.

      Hands tingling, Charlie gingerly picked it out of the trash bin. Yes, he was right – he was sure!

      It was Evan’s sneaker.

       What could it possibly be doing here?

      At first, his heart almost exploded. Overcome with joy. This proved it, didn’t it? What he’d felt all along? That Evan wouldn’t have killed himself.

      He turned to shout: Look! Look what I found.

       Gabby!

      But then he stopped. The elation throughout his body shifted to fear. He scanned around, expecting someone to rush out of the shadows at any moment. But no one was there.

      He held the sneaker like a priceless relic, tears welling in his eyes.

      He knew he couldn’t tell anyone. Not Gabby – poor Gabby – who would die herself just to see this.

      Not even Jay.

      No, no one could see this. Because he knew who had put it there. The past had brought it. Just as he always feared.

       The past.

      That’s what it meant.

      That the past had found him.

      And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do to stop it now.

      Chapter 16

      I took Charlie and Gabby to view Evan’s body the next day, and it was one of the toughest things I ever had to do.

      He had a deep gash in the back of his head. Some reconstructive work had been needed. He had a calm look on his face, that same little smirk, like he knew more than the rest of us, seeming finally at peace.

      Gabby kissed him all over his face and hands and said her good-byes. Charlie seemed almost wary, saying once with his eyes wet, ‘I forgive you, son.’

      The decision was made to cremate him later that afternoon.

      It was a long, quiet ride back to Grover Beach, and Gabby spent much of it in the back weeping. Charlie just sat there with her, holding her hand. I got off the freeway and drove down the hill to drop them back at their apartment.

      A thick manila envelope was leaning against the front door. It was from the county hospital.

      Evan’s doctor’s report.

      I didn’t know if it was pressure from the TV station or from Janie, the nurse I had spoken with. I was just happy to see it there.

      I asked to read it over first and Charlie and Gabby agreed. I took it back to the hotel, but instead of going to my room, I ordered a beer at the bar and took it out to the grounds in back that ran along the bluffs overlooking the ocean. People were always milling around, observing the gulls and pelicans that congregated on the cliff, scanning the waves for a meal. I’d sat out there to clear my head a couple of times before.

      I found a bench and took out the thick report. Central Coast Medical Center. Patient: Erlich, Evan. Patient #3233A32.

      It began with his admitting evaluation. August 23. It stated that the patient had attempted to purchase a gun and that his parents had called the police. That Evan had demonstrated violent behavior toward them. There was a box with various courses of action:

      Intent to harm self and Intent to harm someone else were both checked.

      The report went on to say that ‘the patient was admitted in a hostile and agitated state and had exhibited extreme physical behavior toward his parents and resistance to officers on scene and was unresponsive to efforts to calm him’. He was sedated: Risperdal, Klonopin, and Ativan. He was placed in a treatment cell and put under full observation.

      Day two, Evan was still a mess: ‘Patient appears calmer, responsive, but remains agitated and depressed. Admits to depression, feelings of isolation, hostility toward family, but has not taken his medicine in weeks. He feels the need to get a gun to protect himself from them.’ There were further observations with comments like ‘agitated’ and ‘anxious’. ‘Still having thoughts of suicide.’ ‘Protective watch continued.’

      As well as the heavy doses of sedatives and benzodiazepines.

      I put it down, my gaze drifting out to the congregation of gulls and pelicans on the rocks.

      ‘Hey, friend, got a buck for an Iraq War vet?’

      A panhandler had wandered up to me in disheveled clothes and carrying a hand-scrawled cardboard sign.

      IRAQ WAR VET. NEED FOOD.

      ‘Any chance you can help me out, chief? It’s Veterans Day tomorrow. Can you spare me something for a meal?’

      I looked up at him. ‘Veterans Day’s in November, chief. Nice try.’

      ‘Dude, every day is Veterans Day,’ the guy grinned, ‘when you’re looking for something to eat.’

      Our eyes met and the spark of humor in his eyes along with his gaunt, haggard appearance made my resistance soften. I thought of Charlie, who had been down and out for many years himself. I reached into my pocket and came out with a five, and handed it to him. ‘Here. You take it easy, man.’

      ‘Dude!’ His steel-gray eyes were suddenly bright and he cocked a hand at me and pointed, as if aiming a gun, making me wonder if he had ever served a day. But I wasn’t caring. He backed down the path with a grin, his oversized pants brushing the pavement, and waved back at me. ‘You have a good day now, chief.’

      I gave him a wave in return, reflecting that the contrast in this town was startling. Beautiful homes, a stunning coastline. But also a kind of refuge for the down-and-out, whom life had passed by.

      I smiled as the guy walked away, waving at me one last time. ‘See ya around.’

      I went back to Evan’s report. I wasn’t sure what I was looking to find, but in the next two days there were pages and pages detailing how Evan had gradually become more responsive. Seroquel was added to his treatment, two hundred milligrams, a massive dose. By the third day it seemed to have done its trick and blunted his rage. ‘Patient now denies any real anger toward his parents.’ ‘Now admits the gun was meant for him.’

      No kidding. He was a zombie, Anna Aquino said. Completely snowed.

      By the fourth day, he had even begun to express remorse. ‘Patient indicates a desire not to return home as it is a volatile situation. It is suggested an intermediary living situation might be located.’

      That made me angry. Anyone professional had to know the demons that were still lurking inside.

      In the final pages, the report went on to note how Evan understood that he had to stay on his meds and even expressed a desire to get better. ‘Patient feels that the current environment at home may not be compatible with that goal. Social services is looking for an appropriate outside environment.’

      Evan’s scrawled, semilegible signature was on the release form, along with Mitchell Derosa, Supervising MD’s.

      Maybe Sherwood was right. Suicide or accident, Evan was dead. I was leaving in the morning. What did it even matter if the system had