The Oedipus Murders

by Casey Dorman

  George greeted the two plain-clothes officers, a man and a woman, and offered them seats in front of his desk.

  “You are aware that I can’t divulge anything that Mr. Bonaventure has told me,” George began. “If he hadn’t told you that he was my patient, I wouldn’t even be able to acknowledge that much to you.” He had on his glasses, and he leaned back and looked down his nose, trying to convey an aura of authority, although the presence of the two detectives aroused his anxiety; as if he were about to be caught doing something wrong.

  The woman, an early-thirties, dark-haired, slim Asian, dressed in a flowered dress with a high-neck oriental cut, who reminded George of a woman he’d once seen in a movie, although he couldn’t remember which one, spoke first. “Lieutenant Reynolds is a detective, doctor,” she said, looking over at her male partner. “I am Doctor Susan Lin, a forensic psychologist working with the Newport Beach Police Department.”

  George was impressed by the woman’s delicate beauty. She was tall and willowy, with short black hair brushed back on the sides. He was surprised that the police would send a psychologist to talk to him. “If you’re a psychologist, then you know that my professional ethics, as well as the confidentiality laws of this state, severely restrict any information that I’m allowed to provide you. Unless my client signs a release of information, I’m virtually prohibited from telling you anything he’s said to me.”

  The psychologist looked over at her partner, as if she were seeking his permission before continuing. The detective gave a slight nod. “I’m quite aware of the rules about confidentiality, doctor,” she said. “I’m here because we thought it might be easier for a psychologist, such as myself, to talk to you. ”

  Detective Reynolds cleared his throat. He was a heavyset man, in his early fifties, with a swarthy complexion and a balding head of dark hair, glasses, and a habitual scowl on his face. “We’re both aware of confidentiality, doctor, but Bonaventure is talking to you, which is more than he’s done to us. He hasn’t said diddly-squat to us about his relationship with his wife, except to say that his marriage was ‘normal,’ whatever that means.”

  “I’m assuming that he didn’t sign a release of information or you would have shown it to me,” George answered, looking from one to the other for confirmation.

  Neither answered.

  George nodded. “As I’ve said then, I can’t discuss what he has said to me, or what he will say to me in the future or about his relationship with his wife or anything else without such a release.” He turned to the young psychologist. “You, of all people, should be aware of this, Dr. Lin,” he said, leaning back again to look down his nose at her. He hoped he was conveying the impression of a seasoned professional admonishing a neophyte, although he felt more fear than anything else at the moment.

  “You said ‘in the future,’ ” Doctor Lin answered, ignoring his remark. “Then he is embarking on a course of treatment with you? Since you’ve already admitted you will be seeing him in the future, you can answer that.” She gazed at him, smiling pleasantly.

  She had caught him. He had a habit of divulging things he hadn’t intended to share. It was an impulsive trait, which he was constantly trying to control with his rules and routines. He tried to quell his anxiety. “We’ve only met once, but it’s possible.”

  “And this treatment would be psychoanalysis?” Doctor Lin asked, arching her eyebrows to indicate that she was not only interested but also skeptical. “I saw on your door that you were an analyst as well as a psychiatrist.”

  “Psychoanalysis requires an extraordinary commitment. I’m not sure it’s indicated in the case of Mr. Bonaventure, nor that is what he is seeking.”

  “So you practice other therapies besides psychoanalysis?”

  “Few people meet the requirements, either in time or money, intelligence, or ego strength, for full analysis. Most of my analytic clients are analysts in training. But I also see patients for shorter-term, analytically-oriented psychotherapy.”

  Detective Reynolds looked as if he were becoming impatient with the shop-talk between the two professionals. “So you’ve only seen Bonaventure one time, is that what you’re saying?” he asked, casting an irritated glance at his partner.

  George allowed his gaze to linger on Susan Lin before turning to the detective. “That’s correct, detective. I saw him yesterday for fifty minutes. That was our first interview.”

  “And he’s coming back when?” the detective asked, still scowling.

  “Tomorrow,” George answered, feeling as if it was futile to keep denying what he’d already implied.

  “And after that?”

  “I don’t know. It will depend on his need.”

  “Psychoanalytically-oriented psychotherapy?” Susan Lin asked.

  “I can’t really discuss that.”

  “Have you given him a diagnosis?” she asked.

  “If I had, I couldn’t tell you what it is.”

  “I’m aware of that. I just wondered if you’d given him a diagnosis yet.”

  George replied with a noncommittal shrug. She might be attractive, but Doctor Lin was prying too much, and he had the feeling that she might trap him into saying more than he intended. Was that because of her skill or his lack of self-control? He just wanted the interview to be over. “I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I can tell you.”

  Detective Reynolds turned toward Doctor Lin and raised his eyebrows, as if to inquire if she had any more questions. “Are we done?” he asked.

  She looked at George. “No more questions, Doctor Farquhar, except a general one. I had thought that psychoanalysis was a thing of the past. Do you still regard it as a valid theory for understanding human behavior?” A trace of a smile played about her lips.

  He had the fleeting thought that Doctor Lin had been talking to his wife, but he knew that was his imagination conjuring such an idea. The majority of the psychological establishment shared the psychologist’s opinion about his profession. She seemed friendly, but he felt as if she were baiting him. Despite his anxiety, he couldn’t stop himself from answering. “Everyone has hidden reasons for his or her behavior. Psychoanalysis is one way of explaining those reasons and for the person being analyzed to understand those parts of his or her psyche that had previously seemed a mystery.”

  “I see.” She still had a smile on her face, and he wondered if she was mocking him.

  “I take it you subscribe to a different theory.” He wasn’t sure if he felt irritated or engaged by her manner.

  “I’m less concerned with theory than with facts,” she answered. Her smile was smug. Detective Reynolds shifted in his chair and glanced impatiently at the door.

  “What kind of facts?” The psychologist’s attitude definitely irritated George, but he also found himself becoming intrigued by the conversation, or perhaps it was with her.

  “Those supported by research findings: personality traits, for instance, which are largely based upon genetics, although some, of course, are due to extreme trauma. Some too are based upon brain factors such as deficits in prefrontal cortices in psychopathic individuals, for instance.”

  “That’s all well and good for large-scale studies of groups of people,” George answered, her argument being a familiar one to him, “but they can’t really be used to understand an individual.” He was feeling more confident.

  “If that were true I wouldn’t have a job,” she answered, laughing. She seemed to be enjoying their verbal joust.

  Detective Reynolds stood up. “I think we’ve taken enough of your time, doctor. We’re going to ask for a release from Bonaventure and then maybe we’ll be back to ask you more questions.” He glared at his partner.

  She shru
gged her shoulders, then gave George a warm smile. “I hope we can talk again, Doctor Farquhar.”

  George was relieved that their conversation was over, but he also hoped they could talk again.

  Chapter 6

  “I hope you and the doctor had fun with your little debate about whatever you were talking about.” Detective Abe Reynolds’ broad face was covered by a frown. He and Doctor Susan Lin were sitting in his office, he behind his wooden desk and she in one of the hard plastic chairs in front of it. Behind him was a window looking out on a golf course across the street. They had just returned to the station from their interview with Dr. Farquhar.

  “Sorry about that,” Susan answered, although she really wasn’t sorry. She had enjoyed the back and forth conversation with the psychoanalyst, but she knew that she had to maintain a good relationship with the investigating officer on the case. Abe Reynolds was a lieutenant, near the top of the hierarchy in the Newport Beach Police Department. He was twenty years her senior and he had a good reputation for solving crimes. She’d only worked with the Newport Beach Police Department for two years and her position was part-time, an experiment on the part of several Orange County police departments, which shared her services. She knew that she was regarded with suspicion and even distaste by some members of the force who distrusted her methods and disliked the fact that she was allowed on important cases despite only being a consultant. It might also be because she was a woman—an Asian woman. This was only her second case with Newport Beach, which had few murders or abductions, the kind of cases that required her services.

  Reynolds shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Bonaventure doesn’t have an alibi for the night his wife went missing, but there is nothing to suggest that he did anything peculiar or unusual that night, either. He says he was at home, had a few drinks, watched TV, and then went to bed. He wasn’t aware that his wife didn’t come home until he woke up on Saturday morning, and he reported it right after that.”

  “Isn’t that unusual, to file a missing person report as soon as a spouse stays away for one night? Wouldn’t most people assume that she stayed at a friend’s or relative’s place, try to make a few phone calls or wait for a while?”

  “You tell me. You’re the psychologist.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic. She didn’t want to alienate the lieutenant, but she needed to stand up for her opinion. “Right, but you’re the one with the experience. Anyway, it seems unusual to me.”

  “I’m still putting my money on the man in the bar. He left right before Mrs. Bonaventure, and he could have waited for her in the parking lot.”

  “The odds are on the side of our perpetrator being her husband. Bonaventure is awfully blasé about his wife being missing, don’t you think?”

  The detective shrugged. He was still scowling. “Any other insights? You spent some time looking through a lot of papers yesterday.”

  “I had to get a court order to unseal Bonaventure’s juvenile police record in Riverside. It took more than a week. We can’t use any of the sealed information in court, but it gives me a better basis for building a profile of him. That’s what I told the judge and he bought it.”

  “So Bonaventure was arrested as a juvenile?”

  “For assault and robbery. The victim was another high school student. Bonaventure was a junior, just seventeen. He claimed the student owed him money and wouldn’t pay him back. The other student claimed he was being extorted. Bonaventure beat him pretty badly and the other boy’s parents called in the police. Bonaventure was convicted but his record was sealed when he turned eighteen.”

  Reynolds sighed. “So he was a badass in high school. But there must have just been that one incident or they wouldn’t have sealed his record.”

  “Just that one when he was a minor. But I also checked his college record. He started at UC Riverside, but was caught cheating on an exam and kicked out of school. He went to community college, then was admitted to Cal State San Bernardino for his last two years.”

  Reynolds shrugged. “Not good, but I’ve seen worse. Anything else you turned up?” He leaned forward. He had gotten more interested in what she had to say.

  “He worked for a firm that sold advertising when he got out of college. After three years he left and started his own company, which did the same thing. His former employer sued him for taking clients with him, but they lost the case because they couldn’t prove that the clients didn’t switch on their own. After five years with his own company, his partner took him to court for falsifying the company’s books and reporting a smaller profit than they actually made so that his partner’s share was less. Again, the partner lost. They dissolved the partnership after that.”

  “He doesn’t make many friends in business, does he? But he won both of the cases.”

  “There’s more. He got into an altercation with one of his neighbors here in Newport Beach. You showed me that record, remember? The neighbor dropped the charges. I tried to track down the neighbor, but he and his family moved away right after the incident. Another neighbor said that the family that moved was afraid of Bonaventure doing something to them.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Doesn’t prove much. Except maybe Bonaventure is a jerk.”

  “Or a psychopath. That’s what it suggests to me. I’d like to get his grade school records. I’ll bet he had behavior problems even when he was young. Most psychopaths have very rocky childhoods: running away, fighting, bullying, animal cruelty. I’m willing to bet that’s what I’ll find.”

  “He grew up in Riverside?”

  “Was born there. I’ve already contacted the judge. It’s the same judge who gave me access to his sealed record. I’m pretty sure I’ll get permission to look at his school records.”

  “And if he is a psychopath? What good will knowing that do us?” Reynolds’ scowl had returned.

  “In court, nothing. It’s not the kind of thing you can use in court. But most psychopaths make mistakes. The same impulsiveness that leads them to commit their crimes leads them to leave clues, to do things that tip other people off. We already know that Bonaventure doesn’t cover up his mistakes very well. He may not get convicted often, but his college, his business partner and his neighbor all were witnesses to his inability to control his impulses. He’ll do something stupid. All we have to do is watch him closely enough to see it.”

  “Something stupid like going to see the psychiatrist?” Reynolds scowl had disappeared. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed with Doctor Lin’s work. He’d assumed that a forensic psychologist limited herself to interviews and tests but Susan Lin did real investigating. She’d told him that a suspect’s history was a better source of information about his personality than most of the psychological tests at her disposal.

  “I can’t figure that one out yet,” Susan answered. “It could be that he’s trying to lay the foundation for a defense of insanity or impaired judgment if he gets caught. But there’s nothing in his record that suggests that he’s clever enough to think of that, or even if he is, that he could fool someone like Doctor Farquhar. That’s one reason that I wanted to find out more about the doctor. I’d like to talk to him again.”

  “Leave me out of it next time,” Reynolds quipped. But this time he didn’t seem angry. He pursed his lips. “Farquhar said he can’t tell you anything.”

  “That’s true. But maybe I can tell him some things. Like how to spot a psychopath, for instance. Maybe I can convince him to order some personality tests or a brain scan to help him in establishing a diagnosis. I had the feeling that he hadn’t made a diagnosis on Bonaventure yet.”

  “That’s all your area,” Reynolds said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to keep l
ooking for the mysterious man in the bar. But I’ll step-up surveillance on Bonaventure too, and keep looking for his wife, or his wife’s body, which is what I’m pretty sure we’re going to find.”

  “Then you don’t mind me poking around, meeting with Doctor Farquhar by myself?”

  “The psychology part is your bailiwick. I’m just a fifth wheel when you start talking about that stuff. You’ve found some good stuff already without my help, so go ahead, I trust your judgment.” His hostility appeared to have gone as he smiled at her across the desk.

  Doctor Lin was pleased. She felt better working on her own, but she hadn’t wanted to provoke Detective Reynolds. Besides his years of experience and his rank, he was the Chief Homicide Investigator in the department. If he opposed her, she’d be off the case. “I’ll let you know what I find out. This sharing information is good for both of us, don’t you think?”

  He nodded. “I think it might be.”

  Chapter 7

  The large Golden Collie stood without moving. George let his Lexus idle as he stared at the dog in the arc of his headlights. Why was he waiting? What did the presence of the dog make him think about? Around him the fog blew in diaphanous clouds across the dark road, bringing the dog in and out of his field of vision. He watched as the animal stumbled forward, its legs unsteady, its noble head hung low, swinging from side to side, as if it were drugged. Slowly, it made it to the edge of the road and then disappeared into the fog. George’s gaze trailed the dog into the darkness.

  A half hour later he pulled into the shopping center and stopped in front of a restaurant that still had its lights on. George tried to clear his head. He had a vague recollection of a dog, a large one, sick, he thought. Why was he thinking of a dog? What was he doing in this shopping center at the bottom of Pelican Hill on PCH? Why were his hands covered in dirt? He wiped them on a rag next to him on the seat of the car.