Midway through, his phone rang. He picked it up, said, “What? Okay, sure. . . . Hi, Bill, what is it? What? What? You've got to be kidding! No walkie, no talkie—I mean it. This is a bullsquat misdemeanor we're talking abou—I don't care what else he's—okay, you do that. Good idea. Go ahead. Talk to him and get back to me. Bye.”

He put the phone down. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, harassment. What kind?”

“I don't know all the details.”

He pulled his head back and squinted. His neck was thick, but soft. His short arms folded over his abdomen and didn't move. “Cops ask you to consult but don't let you in on the details? Typical. I wouldn't take the gig.”

Not seeing any way out of it, I said, “Someone's been sending people harassing tapes with what may be Hewitt's voice on them—screaming “bad love'—the same thing he screamed after he murdered Becky Basille.”

Coburg thought for a minute. “So? Someone taped him off the TV. No shortage of strange souls out there. Keeps both of us busy.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But the police think it's worth looking into.”

“Who's getting these tapes?”

“That I don't know.”

“Must be someone important for the cops to go to all this trouble.”

I shrugged. “You could ask them.” I recited Milo's name and number. He didn't bother to write it down.

Taking another licorice stick from the jar, he said, “Tapes. So what's the big deal?”

“The police are wondering if Hewitt might have had a close friend—someone influenced by what he did. Someone with the same dangerous tendencies.”

“Influenced?” He looked puzzled. “What, some kind of harassment club? Street people going after the good citizenry?”

“Hewitt wasn't exactly harmless.”

He began twisting the licorice stick. “Actually, he was. He was surprisingly harmless when he took his medicine. On one of his good days, you might have met him and found him a nice guy.”

“Was he off his medicine when he committed the murder?”

“That's what the coroner says. Too much alcohol, not enough Thorazine. Given the biochemistry, he must have stopped eating pills a week or so before.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? I doubt it was a conscious decision—“hmm, guess I won't take my meds this morning and let's see how the day goes.' More likely he ran out, tried to get a refill, and ran into such a hassle he gave up. Then, as he got crazier and crazier, he probably forgot all about the pills and why he was taking them in the first place. Happens all the time to people at the bottom. Every detail of daily living's a struggle for them, but they're expected to remember appointments, fill out forms, wait in line, follow a schedule.”

“I know,” I said. “I've been to the center. Wondered how the patients coped.”