“Fine. It took me a while to find the X rays. Earl hadn’t come in for quite a while. Must be ten years since his last appointment. Dustin was in here three years ago. If you want me to, I’ll send copies to Dr. Hennon, but you might want to run the originals over to her place and then give them back to me—save us all a little time and inconvenience.”

“I’ll be right over.” He hung up the phone.

Mike Hollander strolled up to the desk and handed Decker a manila envelope stamped: Dr. Meisner—Confidential Records.

“Earl’s pediatric records,” he said. “Can this man get the lead out or what?”

“Amazing what you can do when you work, Mike,” Marge said.

“Thanks,” Decker said, ripping them open. He flipped over the cover sheet and began to read.

“Anything new?” inquired Marge.

Decker didn’t answer.

“Pete?” asked Marge.

“Huh?”

“Anything new?”

“Decker, the woman’s talking to you,” Mike said, slapping his back.

“Uh…sorry. At least now I know why L.A. County had no record of Earl’s birth. He was born in Fresno.”

“A scenic spot to dump your load,” Hollander said.

“If you like armpits,” Marge said. “Weren’t the Podes married in Fresno?”

“Yep,” Decker answered. “Ten to one old Ida went home to Mama to foal.”

He read further, then said, “Earl broke his arm when he was eighteen months and was treated for burns at ages two and three. Jaw fracture at three also. Contusions and head injuries from a so-called fall at four, broken rib at four and a half…”

“Goddam, that stuff makes me sick,” Hollander exclaimed. “I’ve seen it over and over, and I never get used to it.”

Marge placed her hand on his shoulder. “You may be a horny old slob, but you’ve got a heart, Mike.”

Hollander threw her a dirty look.

“Burnt hands at seven,” Decker said. “Aha! Enuresis at nine. That’s bed-wetting. The doctor prescribed To…Tofin…I can’t read this.”

“Tofranil,” Marge said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, okay. Here we go. He upped the dosage at age eleven.” Decker looked up. “The kid was still pissing in his pants at age eleven. The first time the Fire Department was called over to the Podes’ house was a year before. I think little Earl was a pyrophile. Let’s hear it for the headshrinkers.”

He read on, frowned, then began flipping back to the beginning pages.

“What’s wrong,” Marge wanted to know.

“Hmmm.”

“What is it?”

“You know, the burnt hands at seven were the last recorded abuses,” Decker noted. “Dustin’s chart had physical abuse into his teens.”

“You’re talking about the old lady like she was rational or something,” Mike said.

Decker smiled. “You’re right.” He folded up the chart and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll double-check the records over lunch.”