Free Fire Season by Jon Loomis Page A

Entertainment Weekly : Someone named Lady Gaga was on the cover. She looked, he thought, like a well put-together drag queen.
    There was only one other patient: a young man, reading a rumpled copy of Newsweek. He looked familiar: not tall, deep chest, close-cropped hair. He had a bandage wrapped around his right hand. Coffin fished in his memory for a name, but couldn’t come up with it.
    The young man looked up from his magazine, squinted at Coffin. “You’re Coffin, right?” he said.
    Coffin nodded. He remembered now. “Yep. And you’re Maurice. From Yaya’s.”
    â€œThat’s right. Only I don’t work there now, since the seals got killed.”
    â€œSorry to hear that.” Coffin pointed. “What happened to your wing?”
    Maurice held up his bandaged hand. “Dog bit me. Schnauzer.”
    â€œOuch,” Coffin said.
    â€œIt’s no big deal,” Maurice said. “I’d still rather hang out with dogs than people, any day.” There was a minute-long silence before Maurice stirred in his seat. “So, any progress?” he said.
    â€œOn the fires? Not much.”
    Maurice nodded, picked at something on his pants leg.
    Coffin set his magazine down on an end table. “But you’re talking about the seals, right?”
    â€œYeah—that’s right. I meant the seals.”
    Coffin shook his head. “Not so far, no.” He shrugged. “The trail’s pretty cold at this point. Sorry.”
    Coffin jumped a bit when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket, then started to play a boisterous electronic version of “La Cucaracha.” He wasn’t used to having a cell phone and didn’t like having to carry one, but Monica Gault insisted he be “reachable” at all times. He did not like the fact that his cell phone played “La Cucaracha” whenever someone called him, either, but despite numerous attempts, he could not get it to play anything else, or make any other sort of sound. He had been tempted on numerous occasions to throw it into the harbor, and had he been close to the water he might have done so then.
    Coffin pressed the glowing button, put the phone to his ear.
    â€œCoffin,” he said.
    â€œDetective, it’s Dr. Branstool from Valley View. Sorry to bother you in the middle of what must be a busy day.”
    â€œWhat’s she done now?” Coffin said. “Bitten Mr. Hastings again? Staged another jailbreak?”
    â€œI’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” Dr. Branstool said. If his voice had had a color, Coffin thought, it would have been beige. “She set Mrs. Pickerel’s room on fire. I’m afraid she’s caused quite a bit of damage.”
    â€œMrs. Pickerel? Is that the lady that thinks she’s on a cruise?”
    â€œWe need to have a conversation about your mother’s options at this point,” Branstool said. “Can you come in this afternoon?”
    *   *   *
    â€œYou’re kicking her out?” Coffin said, sitting across from Dr. Branstool in Valley View’s cramped conference room—table, chairs with little wheels, mouse-colored carpet, broad window overlooking the cemetery. “Just like that?”
    â€œJust like that, Detective?” Branstool leaned forward in his chair.
    A young woman who’d been introduced as a patient’s advocate sat next to him. She appeared to be about twenty-five and wore a neat navy blue suit, her highlighted hair in a loose bun. She handed Branstool a green folder.
    â€œThis is your mother’s behavioral file.” Branstool opened the folder on the conference table, leafed through several pages of forms and handwritten notes. “October 2006, only a week after she became a resident here, she struck a nurse’s aide with a baked potato.”
    â€œThe nurse’s aide kept calling her ‘hon,’” Coffin said. “She hates