“Who’s Andrea?”
“Andrea Bauer, she owns Casa Clara and other havens. She lives in Santa Barbara but she comes here regularly. I told her about Benny not coming home, she said follow up with the police. This morning she called me back and said you guys were looking for him. That’s why when you showed up…”
Tears.
“Could we have Andrea’s number?”
“Sure.” Slow recitation, hurried jotting.
I said, “Justine, tell us about Benny.”
“Like what?”
“The kind of person he was.”
“Sweet,” she said. “Sweet, nice boy—I mean he was a middle-aged man, I’m not intending to juvenilize him. But that’s what you think of when you think of Benny. Innocent, like a young boy. Just the gentlest little guy.”
“How mentally challenged was he?”
“He was officially classified as DD—developmentally disabled—but it wasn’t severe. I think he tested out in the midseventies—his IQ. He could read a little, although usually he faked it.”
“Pretended to be higher functioning than he was.”
“I mean everyone needs to feel good about themselves, right? It’s not like he lied or bragged or did stupid stuff. What I’m talking about is like the time he got hold of one of my textbooks and ran this little plastic magnifying glass over it and started humming and nodding, like he understood it. I said, ‘So what have you learned about educational curriculum, Benny?’ He looked up at me with the sweetest expression and said, ‘I learned you’re smart, Justine.’ That was Benny, always a nice word for everyone. Everyone loved him. Who’d hurt him? I don’t understand!”
Milo said, “So he went missing on Friday.”
“He was supposed to be back by three. I arrived at four, usually it’s seven but Marcella had to get ready for her trip so I helped her out. Marcella was super concerned, she said she’d drive around looking for him but couldn’t do it for very long because she had to get ready for her trip. I told her not to worry, I’d take care of it. Which is when I began making calls. When I didn’t hear anything Friday or Saturday and then today, I was really scared. But hopeful, you know? Benny’s Level One, maybe he could take care of himself for a bit.”
She looked at us, doubtful. “I always try to be hopeful even though it’s stupid!”
Her hands began to shake and her eyes glazed.
I said, “You go to school during the day and work all night? Tough schedule.”
“It’s actually not that bad. When I’m here I mostly get to sleep unless a resident has an issue and when they do it’s almost always short-term—bad dreams, someone wants water or a snack. Also, I only have classes twice a week—graduate seminars, both in the afternoon, so I can catch up on the other days.”
“How did the other residents react to Benny not coming home?”
“A couple asked, I told them Benny had an appointment, he’d be back. No one argued. They’re like that. Docile—does that sound patronizing? They’re cooperative, very gentle people. And Saturday was a field trip, Descanso Gardens, they came home exhausted. It’ll be like that today ’cause of the zoo. We try to keep them occupied.”
“Where did Benny go on Friday?”
“To his job. An art gallery, sweeping up,” said Justine Merck. “Obviously I phoned them first, they said he’d been there until two, two thirty, as usual, seemed fine when he left. It’s not a strict schedule, they basically let him hang around.”
I said, “He likes the zoo but chose not to go.”
“He liked having a job. It made him feel…meaningful—this is a nightmare!”
The first tissue was soaked and compressed. Milo gave her another and she blew her nose noisily.
“I even looked for him right here. In his room, every other room, the backyard. Even though I knew that was irrational. Wanting to do something, you know?”
I said, “Of course. How many doors are there?”
“The front where you came in and in back, from the laundry area to the backyard.”
“So if no one was at the rear of the house, someone could come and go without being noticed.”
“I guess so.” Justine Merck wrung her hands. “We don’t lock them up, it’s not a jail, the whole point is fostering independence. Benny loved his job. Loved art, loved to draw.”
Milo said, “Was he talented?”
She slumped. “He drew me stick figures. I told him they were fantastic.”
“What’s the name of the gallery where he worked?”
“Verlang Contemporary, it’s on Hart Street, not far.”
“Benny walked.”
“It’s less than a mile, and he always went during daylight. When he started, a student volunteer accompanied him. After a week, he insisted on doing it himself. That’s consistent with our approach.”
“How long had he been working there?”
“Months,” she said.
Milo said, “What’s Marcella’s full name and number?”
“Marcella McGann. Hold on.” Justine Merck stood, took a moment to steady herself, hurried out and returned scrolling a cellphone. She read off the number. “But like I said, she’s on vacation.”
“Where?”
“Mexico—Cabo, I think. With her boyfriend, they’d been planning it for a while.”
I said, “You get up at night when the residents have issues. Did that ever include Benny?”
“Not often. And he’d never make a fuss, just come down and tell me he couldn’t sleep. We’d chat for a while and I’d walk him back up. He wasn’t malfunctioning or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. I just got the feeling he sometimes had ideas in his head and didn’t know what to do with them. At night and when he was awake.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“I don’t know, maybe I’m totally wrong,” she said. “But people like him think a lot. They’re just like anyone else. Sometimes he’d get a look”—she tapped her head—“and I’d be like, ‘What’s going on up here, Benny?’ Sometimes he wouldn’t answer, sometimes he’d look up at me with this puppy smile and say, ‘You’re so smart, Justy.’ ”
Tears welled. She wiped them away.