Pam filled a glass and he gulped it empty.

"Bernardo takes a walk late at night, has for years. Down from his home on Campion Way to the docks, along the waterfront, then back up. Sometimes he makes two or three circuits. Says the routine helps make him drowsy."

"Where's Campion Way?" I said.

"The street where the church is," said Pam. "It's unmarked."

"The street where Victory Park is."

Moreland gave a start. "Tonight when he passed the park he heard groans and thought there might be a problem. So he went to see."

"What kind of problem?" I said.

"Drug overdose."

"The park's a drug hangout?"

"Used to be," he said angrily. "When the sailors came into town. They'd drink themselves silly at Slim's or smoke marijuana on the beach, try to pick up local girls, then head for the park. Bernardo lives at the top of Campion. He used to call me to treat the stuporous boys."

"Is he credible?" said Jo.

"He's a fine gentleman. The problem's not with him, it's-" Moreland ran his fingers through the white puffs at his temples. "This is insane, just insane! Poor Ben."

I felt Robin tense.

"What happened then?" said Jo. "After this Bernardo went over to check the moaning?"

"He found…" Long pause. Moreland began breathing rapidly.

"Dad?" said Pam.

Inhaling and letting the air out, he said, "The moaning was Ben. Lying there, next to… the foul scene. Bernardo ran to the nearest home, woke the people up- soon a crowd gathered. Among them Skip Amalfi, who pinned Ben down until Dennis got there."

"Skip doesn't live nearby," I said.

"He was down on the docks fishing and heard the commotion. Apparently he now fancies himself the great white leader, taking charge. He twisted Ben's arm and sat on top of him. Ben was no danger to anyone. He hadn't even regained consciousness."

"Why was he unconscious?" I pressed.

Moreland studied his knees.

"Was he on drugs?" said Jo.

Moreland's head snapped up. "No. They claim he was drunk."

"Ben?" said Pam. "He's as much a teetotaler as you, Dad."

"Yes, he is…"

"Has he always been?" I said.

Moreland covered his eyes with a trembling hand. Touching his hair again, he twisted white strands. "He's been completely sober for years."

"How long ago did he have an alcohol problem?" I said.

"Very long ago."

"In Hawaii?"

"No, no, before that."

"He went to college in Hawaii. He had problems as a kid?"

"His problem emerged when he was in high school."

"Teenage alcoholic?" said Pam, incredulous.

"Yes, dear," said her father, with forced patience. "It happens. He was vulnerable because of a difficult family situation. Both his parents were drinkers. His father was an ugly drunk. Died of cirrhosis at fifty-five. Lung cancer got his mother, though her liver was highly necrotic, as well. Stubborn woman. I set her up with oxygen tanks in her home to ease the final months. Ben was sixteen, but he became her full-time nurse. She used to yank off the mask, scream at him to get her cigarettes."

"Poor genetics and environment," pronounced Jo.

Moreland shot to his feet and staggered, shaking off help from Pam. "Both of which he overcame, Dr. Picker. After he was orphaned, I put him up here, exchanging work for room and board. He started as a caretaker, then I saw how bright he was and gave him more responsibility. He read through my entire medical library, brought his grades up, stopped drinking completely."

Sadness had replaced Pam's surprise. Jealousy of his devotion to Ben or feeling left out because it was the first time she'd heard the story?

"Completely sober," repeated Moreland. "Incredible strength of character. That's why I financed the rest of his education. He's built a life for himself and Claire and the children… you saw him tonight. Was that the face of a psychopathic killer?"

No one answered.

"I tell you," he said, slapping the tabletop, "what they're claiming is impossible! The fact that it was a bottle of vodka near his hand proves it. He drank only beer. And I treated him with Antabuse, years ago. The taste of alcohol's made him ill ever since- he despises it."

"What are you saying?" said Jo. "Someone poured it down his throat?"

The coolness in her voice seemed to throw him off balance. "I- I'm saying he has no tolerance- or desire for alcohol."

"Then that's the only alternative I can see," she said. "Someone forced him to drink. But who would do that? And why?"

Moreland gritted his teeth. "I don't know, Dr. Picker. What I do know is Ben's nature."

"How was Betty killed?" I said.

"She… it was… a stabbing."

"Was Ben found with the weapon?"

"He wasn't holding it."

"Was it found at the scene?"

"It was… embedded."

"Embedded," echoed Jo. "Where?"

"In the poor girl's throat! Is it necessary to know these things?"

Robin was squeezing my hand convulsively.

"The whole thing is absurd!" said Moreland. "They claim Ben was right next to her- sleeping with her, his arms around her, his head on her… what was left of her abdomen. That he'd be able to sleep with her after something like that is- absurd!"

Robin broke away and ran to the railing. I followed her and covered her shoulders with my arms, feeling her shivers as she stared up at the bright yellow moon.

Back at the table, Jo was saying, "He mutilated her?"

"I don't want to continue this discussion, Dr. Picker. The key is to help Ben."

Robin wheeled around. "What about Betty? What about helping her family?"

"Yes, yes, of course that's…"

"She was pregnant! What about her unborn child? Her husband, her parents?"

Moreland looked away.

"What about them, Bill?"

Moreland's lips trembled. "Of course they deserve sympathy, dear. I ache for them. Betty was my patient- I delivered her, for God's sake!"

"Whooping cough," I said.

"What's that?"

"I spoke with her yesterday. She told me you treated her for whooping cough when she was a kid. She considered you a hero."

He slumped and sat back down. "Dear God…"

No one talked. Brandy got poured. It burned a slow, cleansing trail down my gullet, the only sensation in an otherwise numb body. Everyone looked numb.

"Anyone know the time?" I said.

Pam shot the sleeve of her kimono. "Just after four."

"Rise and shine," said Jo, softly. "I still don't see why we're all locked up here."

"For our own safety," said Moreland. "At least that's the theory."

"Who's out to get us?"

"No one."

"Ben is closely identified with this place," I said. "So people may start talking."

Moreland didn't answer.

Jo frowned. "Staying cooped up just makes us sitting targets. You've got no security here- anyone can walk right in."

"I've never needed security, Dr. Picker."

"Do you keep any weapons around?" she said.

"No! If you're concerned with your safety, I suggest you-"

"No problem," said Jo. "Personally, I'm fine. It's the only good thing that came out of losing Ly. When your worst fantasy comes true, you find out you can handle things."

She got up and shuffled toward the living room, tightening the belt of her robe, big hips shifting like the pans of a balance scale.

When she was gone, Robin said, "She's got a gun. A little pistol. I saw it in an open drawer of her nightstand."

Moreland's mouth worked. "I despise firearms."

Pam said, "Hopefully she won't shoot someone by accident. Is there any way you can get some rest now, Dad? You're going to be needing your strength."

"I'll be fine, dear. Thank you for your… ministrations, but I believe I'll stay up for a while." He leaned over as if to kiss her, but patted her shoulder instead. "Hopefully when the sun comes up, cooler heads will prevail."