I was directed to the west wing of the third floor, room 361. When the elevator doors opened, I got my bearings, saw which way the room numbers were running, went down the end of one hall, hung left down another, and found the room. It would have been difficult to miss.

It was the one with a cop posted at the door.

“Is this Brian Sandler’s room?” I asked the officer. He gave me half a nod. “Look, my name’s Zack Walker, I’m with the Metropolitan. Technically, at the moment I’m sort of on a leave, but Mr. Sandler and I were supposed to meet this morning, and when he didn’t show up I called his home and found out he was here. What’s happened to him?”

“Sorry,” said the cop, “but I’m not authorized to make any comment, I’m just keeping out visitors.”

“Why are you here? They usually put you guys on the door if you think the patient’s going to try to escape or you think someone’s going to come in here and kill him.”

“Look, pal, if you need a quote or something from somebody, you’ll have to get it from the detective in charge or public relations.”

“Is Sandler’s wife here?”

“She’s off talking to the doctor someplace. She’ll probably be back in a bit.”

I glanced through the half-open door, saw a pair of hands that looked like they were inside enormous white oven mitts. Half of Sandler’s face was shielded by the privacy curtain, but the half that was visible was covered in bandages, except for one eye, which was closed.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What did they do to him?” The cop kept his lip shut. “Just off the record, what the hell happened to him?”

The cop considered whether to speak, then said, “Someone put this guy’s face and hands into a goddamn fucking deep fryer. It’s a wonder he’s still alive. When they get the bandages off his face and he has a look in the mirror, he’ll be sorry he survived.”

“Is he able to talk at all?”

“Be a lot easier if he had lips. They haven’t been able to get much out of him so far.”

“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I said. “I need to talk to him, or her, or whoever it is.” I didn’t have much doubt who was behind this, and I was more than happy to tell all.

The cop dictated a name and number, which I scribbled into my notebook. I thanked him and headed back to my car. Driving home, I dialed the number he’d given me.

“Hi. This is Detective Herlich. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”