Over the Edge

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He nodded.

  'I've thought of that, Doctor. Of course, I don't want it to happen, and I'm certain that the facts will support me. But should you decide you can't back me up, the only thing I ask if that you invoke confidentiality, so the prosecution can't use the information.

  'Fair enough.'

  'Good. Then can I count on your help?'

  'Give me twenty-four hours to decide.'

  'Fine, fine. There is, of course, the matter of payment. What's your fee?'

  'A hundred twenty-five dollars per hour, including phone calls and travel time portal to portal. Just like a lawyer.'

  He chuckled.

  'As it should be. Would an advance of ten thousand dollars be acceptable?'

  'Let's hold off until it's clear we'll be working together.'

  He stood and shook my hand.

  'We will be, Doctor, we will be.'

  He buzzed for Antrim, was told the chauffeur hadn't returned from dropping off Cadmus, phoned him in the Rolls, and gave him his new assignment. While we waited, he poured more tea. When he'd finished his cup, he said:

  'One more thing. The police know about Jamey's call and will probably want to interview you about it. Feel free to discuss it with them. If you find it within your heart to emphasize the psychotic aspect of the conversation, please do so. I'd prefer that you didn't talk about your treatment of the boy.'

  'I wouldn't even if you hadn't asked. Our sessions were confidential.'

  He nodded approvingly.

  With those issues out of the way the conversation deteriorated to small talk, which neither of us enjoyed. Finally the chauffeur stood in the doorway, cap in hand, materializing suddenly, as if out of the ether.

  Souza walked me out to the anteroom. The writing desk was now occupied by the smart-looking young secretary.

  He thanked me again while smoothing nonexistent strands of hair atop his shiny crown and smiled. It looked like an egg cracking open.

  I followed Tully Antrim out of the building, eager to get home. All the talk of teams and strategy had got to me. I had plenty to think about, and the last thing I wanted to do was play games.

  Chapter 6

  SOUZA HAD researched me. I decided to follow his example.

  I phoned Mal Worthy, a Beverly Hills divorce lawyer with whom I'd worked on several custody cases. Mal was a high roller with a tendency toward glibness, but he was also a solid legal talent, bright and conscientious. More important, he seemed to know everyone in L.A.

  His secretary's secretary told me he was out for an early lunch. I managed to cadge out of her the fact that he was at Ma Maison and called him there. He came to the phone still munching.

  ' 'Lo, Alex. What gives?'

  'I need some information. What do you know about an attorney named Horace Souza?'

  'You with him or against him?'

  'Neither, at the moment. He wants me on his team, quote unquote.'

  'His team is him. Which is more than enough. He's got a slew of other guys working under him, but he runs the

  show. If you like winning, stick with Horace.' He stopped talking for a moment and swallowed. 'I didn't think he was doing much family law.'

  'This is a criminal case, Mal.'

  'Expanding your horizons?'

  'I'm still trying to decide. Is the guy straight?'

  'Is any good lawyer straight? We're henchmen. Souza's an ace, been in business a long time.'

  'From the way he was talking, he'd been working with the defendant's family a long time. They're old money, not career criminals. The office reeks of gentility. Looks like a place for estate planning, not criminal law.'

  'Souza's one of that rare and dying breed - an old-school generalist who can pull it off. He's a self-made Bakersfield boy - cut his teeth in the military, worked on the Nuremberg trials, made lots of contacts, and set up shop in the late forties. Big white house on Wilshire.'

  'He's still there.'

  'Some place, huh? He owns it and a good mile of the boulevard on either side. Guy's loaded. Works 'cause he loves it. I remember a speech he gave before the bar association, talked about the good old days, when L.A. was a tough town. How he'd be defending murderers and rapists one day, probating a robber baron's will the next. You don't see that anymore. What kind of case does he want you for?'

  I hesitated, knew he'd read about it in the papers anyway, and told him.

  'Whoa! Nasty stuff! You're gonna be famous.'

  'Spare me.'

  'Not in the mood for celebrity. Everyone else in this city is.'

  'I feel out of my element. I've never done a criminal case, and I'm no fan of diminished capacity.'

  'Beginner's jitters? Listen, Alex, most of the so-called psychiatric experts are bullshitters and whores. They come across so pompous and stupid in court, you'll shine by comparison. As far as your feelings about dim cap, all I can say is try to put them aside. My first year out of law school I got a job in the public defender's office. Worked my ass off representing incredible scumbags. Ninety-nine percent were guilty. If they'd all been aborted, the world would have been a better place. It was a fucking zoo. I'm not saying I liked it - I pulled out soon enough - but while I was doing it, I resolved to give the assholes my best shot, pretended they were virgin martyrs. I put my feelings in one box, my job in another. A hell of a lot more than ninety-nine percent of those assholes walked.

  'I can't promise that kind of pigeon holding will work for you, Alex, but you should consider it. There's a scrap of paper under glass at the National Archives that grants everyone the right to a fair trial and a competent defense. Getting involved in that process is nothing to be ashamed of. Okay?'

  'Okay,' I said, eager to end the conversation. 'Thanks for the pep talk.'

  'No sweat. Bye now. Gotta get back to the duck salad.'

  At five o'clock an unmarked pulled up in front of my house. Two men, one large and bulky, the other short and slender, got out. At first I thought the big one was Milo, but as they climbed up the steps to the terrace, I could see he was a stranger.

  I opened the door before they knocked. They flashed their IDs in unison.

  The larger one was a downtown sheriff's homicide investigator named Calvin Whitehead. He wore a light blue suit, royal blue shirt, and navy tie with a repeating pattern of gold horseshoes. His complexion was fair -freckles, hazel eyes, and dishwater hair cut short and parted on the right side. He had wide shoulders, a small head, girlish lips, jug ears, and the sour look of a high school jock who hadn't heard cheers for a long time and resented it. The small one was a Beverly Hills PD detective named Richard Cash. He was dark, wore tinted aviator glasses and a beige Italian-cut suit, and had a fox face dominated by a wide, lipless wound of a mouth.

  I invited them in. They unbuttoned their jackets, and I saw their shoulder holsters. Whitehead sat on the sofa. Cash took an armchair and looked over the living room.

  'Nice place,' he said. 'Any slide trouble?'

  'Not yet.'

  'My brother's a doctor, bought a place up in Coldwater Canyon a couple of years ago. Last big rain half the backyard melted away.'

  'That's too bad.'

  'Insurance covered most of it.'

  Whitehead cleared his throat.

  'Sir,' he said, 'we're here to talk about an alleged perpetrator by the name of James Wilson Cadmus.'

  'Where's Milo?' I asked.

  They looked at each other.

  'He's tied up right now.' Cash smiled.

  'With other aspects of the case,' added Whitehead.

  'It's a three-territory case,' explained Cash. 'We split up responsibilities.' He smiled again and added: 'He said to send regards.'

  I was certain the last statement was a lie.

  Whitehead's face clouded with impatience. The pace of his gum chewing picked up. I wondered if it was good cop-bad cop time.

  'Sir,' he said, 'we know Cadmus called you several hours before he was arrested.'

  'That's correct.'
<
br />   'What time was that, Doctor?' asked Cash, pulling out a pen and pad.

  'Around three-fifteen.'

  'How long did the conversation last?'

  'About ten minutes.'

  'What did the two of you talk about?'

  'He talked, I mostly listened. He wasn't making much sense.'

  'Not making sense about what?' asked Whitehead quickly. He had an unpleasant way of making questions sound like accusations.

  'About anything. He was agitated, seemed to be hallucinating.'

  'Hallucinating,' he repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before. 'You mean, seeing things?'

  'Most of the hallucinations were auditory; he seemed to be hearing voices. He was convinced someone was out to kill him. He may have been seeing things also.'

  'Try to remember everything he said, sir,' he said imperiously.

  I repeated as much of Jamey's ramblings as I could recall - flesh eaters, white zombies, reeking blades, the glass canyon, the preoccupation with stink. Cash scribbled as I talked. When I got to the part about the burst of valve arterial, I realized it was a phrase from the Chatterton poem on death that he'd recited during our last session. Not wanting to get into the past, I kept that to myself.

  'Sounds pretty violent,' said Cash, scanning his notes. 'And paranoid.'

  'Like he was priming himself for something,' agreed Whitehead. 'Premeditating.'

  'He was scared,' I said.

  Whitehead narrowed his eyes.

  'Of what?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Did he sound paranoid?'

  'Are you asking for a diagnosis?'

  'Sure.'

  'Then the answer is, I don't know. His doctor could tell you more about his mental state.'

  'I thought he was your patient, sir,'

  ' Was is correct. Five years ago.'

  'How often have you seen him since?'

  'Never. That phone call was the first I'd heard from him.'

  'Uh-huh,' he said absently. 'You're a psychiatrist?'

  'Psychologist.'

  "And you can't tell if he was paranoid or not?'

  'He was frightened. If the fear was irrational, it could be paranoia. If he had something to be afraid of, it wouldn't be.'

  'So you're saying he had something to be afraid of.'

  'No. I'm saying I don't know.'

  Cash broke in:

  'It's like that bumper sticker, Cal. "Even paranoids have enemies." ' He laughed, but no one joined in.

  Whitehead pressed on.

  'What were you treating him for five years ago?'

  'That's confidential patient information.'

  The girlish lips twisted into a tight, liver-colored blossom.

  'All right,' he said, smiling ferociously. 'Let's back it up. You said he thought people wanted to kill him. Which people?'

  'He didn't say.'

  'Do you think he meant the zombies - what's the wording, Dick?'

  Cash flipped a page and read out loud:

  'Flesh eaters and white zombies.'

  'Great title for a movie, huh?' Whitehead grinned. When I didn't reply, he continued. 'Did he think these flesh-eating white zombies were the ones out to get him?'

  'I don't know. At the time I thought the white zombies might have referred to the hospital staff.'

  'Did he say anything about wanting to get even with the staff? For cooping him up?'

  I shook my head. 'From your questions it sounds like you think he was talking normally. It wasn't like that at all. His speech was disjointed. He came nowhere near to developing a train of thought.'

  'Uh-huh. Did he talk about wanting to kill people?'

  'No.'

  'Or cut them up with a stinking blade?'

  'Reeking blade,' corrected Cash.

  'Whatever,' said Whitehead. 'Did he say stuff like that?'

  'No.'

  'What do you think he meant by flesh eaters?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Uh-huh. What I'm thinking,' he said, 'is that you could take flesh eating literally, as in darkies munching on missionaries, or..."

  'Metaphorically,' suggested Cash.

  'Yeah. Metaphorically. As in cocksucking.' He flashed the shit-eating grin of a kid who'd got away with saying a dirty word, then looked at me expectantly.

  I remained silent.

  'We know,' he continued, 'that Cadmus is a deviate. Deviates like to talk about eating each other. Flesh eating could mean deviant sex. Does that make sense to you?'

  'Your guess is as good as mine.'

  'I was hoping, sir' - he smiled sourly - 'that yours would be better.'

  I didn't answer.

  'How long have you been a psychiatrist, sir?'

  'Psychologist. About thirteen years.'

  'Pretty interesting work?'

  'I enjoy it.'

  'Treat a lot of people with sexual problems?'

  'No. I work mostly with children.'

  'Deviant children?'

  'All kinds of children.'

  'Where'd you go to school?'

  'UCLA.'

  'Great school.'

  'I agree.'

  'The kids you treat, any of them do violent things - chop up small animals, tear the wings off of flies?'

  'I can't talk to you about my cases.'

  'Go to any Bruin games?'

  'Once in a while.'

  'What about Cadmus? Was he into sports?'

  'How would I know that?'

  'You ever know him to do anything violent or weird -besides being sexually deviant?'

  'Not to my knowledge.'

  'Nothing like that ever came up in treatment?'

  'That's confidential.'

  He cracked his gum and looked annoyed.

  'This is a homicide investigation, sir. We can do the paper work and get the information anyway.'

  'Then you'll have to do that.'

  He flushed with anger.

  'You want to know who you're protecting? He butchered those - '

  'Cal' - Cash broke in - 'the doctor's only doing what he has to.' He smiled at me over tinted lenses. 'Got to play it by the book. Right, Doctor?'

  On the surface it seemed a hackneyed skit, standard good cop - bad cop stuff, but the hostile stare Whitehead threw at the other man made me wonder.

  'Right,' I said, looking away to avoid the appearance of

  camaraderie.

  Whitehead pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit out of his pants pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and added them to the cud in his mouth. His jaws made little wet noises.

  'Sure,' he said, giving me a cold, knowing smile. 'By the book. Tell me, sir, how long have you known he was sexually deviant?'

  I didn't answer.

  He stared at me hard. Then, suddenly, like a dog peeing to mark his turf, he made a show of getting comfortable: leaning back; spreading his arms along the back of the couch; stretching and crossing his legs. His shins were coated with ginger-pink hair.

  'You know,' he said, 'you can always tell a fag cutting. They slice deeper and more often. Seventy, eighty, a hundred wounds on one body. Why do you suppose that is, sir?'

  'I wouldn't know.'

  'No?' he said with mock disappointment. 'I thought you might. One of the psychiatrists I asked about it said it had something to do with repressed rage. All those pretty boys act sweet and gentle, but they've got this shitload of rage boiling inside. So they chop each other into hamburger. That make sense to you?'

  'No single rule ever explains an entire group.'

  'Uh-huh. Just thought you might have an opinion on it.'

  He rolled his tongue inside his cheek and feigned contemplation. 'What about Cadmus? Do you see him as someone carrying around a lot of repressed rage?'

  'Like I said before, no diagnoses from a phone call.'

  'You tell that to Horace Souza, too?'

  'My conversation with Mr. Souza is - '