“Anything else you can tell me?”
“String of experts gone through. Doctors, psychiatrists, I saw a news van but that didn’t go anywhere. Can’t report on a kid yelling obscenities on broadcast networks. Small community, probably kept the Internet away, sir.”
Olivier chuckled. “That would be Ireul. She’s been redirecting traffic.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to consider my approach carefully.”
Guriel scraped grass off his filthy coat and stomped his feet as if he were cold. “You’re the boss. I know it’s weird but why bother poking into it?”
Olivier opened the moleskin and made another note. “It smells off. A few days of aberrant behavior we can point to trauma. Weeks? This has supernatural written all over it.”
Guriel shrugged, “I dunno. It’s weird, sure, but I don’t feel anything in particular.”
“That’s just it. Nobody has done anything about it. A nefarious agent would be stoking the misery. The Host would be cleaning it up. I’ve not heard any chatter either way. Even as the Angel of Orphans and Whelps you’re barely picking up anything.”
Guriel shrugged again. “I’ve got a thousand new cases a day. I kick the weird stuff up to management. So, manage.”
“I’ll take it from here. If I need anything else, I’ll find you later. Best to keep the loop small, though, right?”
“I get ya.” Guriel slapped the back of the bench and waved as he departed.
Olivier remained nearly motionless on the bench for much of the day, observing the foul-mouthed girl and the reactions she garnered. Several times, her parents answered the door to offer apologies to outraged pedestrians. As the sun descended beyond the horizon of Georgetown, Olivier stood from the park bench, shouldered his satchel, and made his approach.
“Hey you! You need some? Only thirty a pop. I work cheap but I do quality. Come on, it’s okay to look. Yeah, up here. Seriously, buddy. Thirty-seven and I’ll touch it, stroke it, stick it wherever you want. Thirty-seven for thirty. Just come into the alley and pony up.”
Olivier crossed to the door of the townhome and knocked on the door. He notated the interaction, word for word as he waited. The door cracked and he stepped back, fully aware that the exhausted parents would be more comfortable if they didn’t feel crowded in their own home.
An older man opened the door. Once trimmed eyebrows growing unruly, face pallid and eyes puffy. He stood behind the door, regarding Olivier through a crack only wide enough to extend a hand through. He was missing a button from his green knit vest. “Yes?” he inquired with a sense of longing.
Olivier offered a card. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Wilks. I’m a psychologist, Oliver Kelley. I heard about your daughter and wish to offer my services.”
Mr. Wilks took the card with trembling fingers and held to the door like an anchor. “I… don’t know. We’ve… we’ve already had several doctors in. I don’t think…” He gave up and pulled the door open, gesturing Olivier in.
The sitting room was immaculate, midcentury décor with reds and golds setting off the exposed beams and hardwood flooring. An 18th-century Tabriz rug acted as a centerpiece for the décor. It was in impressive shape, faded along one corner but well-preserved. Diffuse track lighting bathed the walls in an inviting, almost candlelit glow while protecting the piece from damage. It was bordered on three sides by short sofas, offering little more space than two adults would occupy. On the north wall, a gas fire burned behind tinted glass.