Over the Edge

by Jonathan Kellerman

  'So you're suggesting the murders were symbolic acts of patricide?'

  'You're the psychologist, Doctor. I defer to your interpretation.'

  'Wouldn't it hurt your case to supply motivation for the murders? Make the crimes look more purposeful?'

  'Not if the motivation's shown to be illogical and psychotic. Jurors' minds abhor a vacuum. Given no motive, they'll supply their own. If I can show that the boy is a prisoner of long-buried morbid impulses, it will help steer them my way. In general, the more psychology I can inject into the trial, the better our chances of success.'

  Always thinking strategically.

  I put aside the invitation to play Freud and asked him who reared Jamey after his father's suicide.

  'Dwight did. He'd received his M.B.A. by then and was working at Cadmus Construction as an executive trainee. Of course, the physical caretaking continued to be carried out by governesses and babysitters, but Dwight extended himself- took the boy on outings, taught him to play catch. Certainly gave him more attention than Peter ever had.'

  'You said "governesses", plural. How many were there?'

  'Quite a few. They came and went in a stream. None stayed longer than several months. He was a difficult child, cranky and moody, and his intelligence actually made matters worse because he knew how to use his tongue as a weapon of intimidation. Several of the women left in tears.'

  'Where did they live during this period?'

  'In the house on Muirfield. Dwight had moved back home after graduation - shortly before Peter's death. When he and Heather married, they sold it and bought a more manageable place nearby.'

  'How did Jamey adjust to the marriage?'

  For the first time in the conversation Souza hesitated, if only for a second.

  'I suppose there were difficulties - logic dictates there would be - but outward appearances were calm.'

  'How did Jamey and Heather get along?'

  Another pause.

  'Just fine, as far as I could see. Heather's a lovely girl.'

  During most of the interview he'd narrated with authority. Now he seemed tentative. I commented on it.

  'That's correct,' he said. 'I felt confidence in Dwight, and once he took over, my involvement in personal matters lessened. He and Heather are in a better position than I to answer questions about recent events.'

  'All right.'

  He rang for the black-garbed waitress and ordered tea. She left and reappeared with a cart that held the china service from his office. This time I accepted a cup.

  'You seem,' I said, between sips, 'to have been much more than a family attorney.'

  He put down his cup and licked his lips with a brief, saurine movement of his tongue. In the dimness his complexion glowed rosy, and I watched it deepen angrily as he spoke.

  'Blackjack Cadmus was the best friend I ever had. We came up together the hard way. When he began purchasing land, he offered me a fifty percent buy-in. I was cautious, had trouble believing all that scrub would turn into city, and turned him down. Had I accepted, I'd be one of the richest men in California. When the money started pouring in, Jack insisted I receive a substantial sum anyway, claiming I'd helped him with the legal end of it - title searches, drawing up deeds. That was true as far as it went, but he paid me much more than my services were worth.

  That money financed the establishment of this firm, the purchase of this building, everything I own, which I'm not ashamed to say is substantial.'

  He leaned forward and a pinpoint of light from the chandelier reflected off his naked cranium.

  'Jack Cadmus is responsible for who I am today, Doctor. You don't forget something like that.'

  'Of course not.'

  It took several seconds for the broad features to settle back into professional repose. My comment had been innocent - curiosity about the degree of his involvement with a client. Yet answering it had evoked a strong reaction. Maybe he didn't believe that a comment from a psychologist could ever be innocent. Or perhaps he was peeved at having his privacy invaded. An overreaction, it seemed, but people who earn their livings rooting in the psychic refuse of others often develop an obsession with personal secrecy.

  'Anything else?' he asked, pleasant again, and I stopped surmising.

  'Yes. I want to know more about Ivar Digby Chancellor. The papers have been describing him as a prominent banker and gay activist, but that doesn't tell me much. In your office Dwight Cadmus called him a damned deviate. Were he and Jamey lovers?'

  'Once again we're in an area where Dwight and Heather could be more helpful, but I'll do my best to describe things in general terms. Yes, there was some kind of intimate relationship, but I don't know that I'd call it love.'

  His mouth puckered as if he'd eaten something spoiled. 'Pederasty maybe.'

  'Because Jamey was a minor?'

  'Because the whole thing smacked of exploitation,' he said angrily. 'Dig Chancellor had other fish to fry. He didn't need to seduce an impressionable, disturbed boy. For God's sake, Doctor, the man was old enough to be his father. In fact, Chancellor and Peter had been classmates in military school.'

  'So the families have known each other for a long time.'

  'They were neighbors, lived a block apart, ran in the same social circles. The Chancellors are prominent in accounting and banking. Big, strapping people - even the women are large. Dig was the largest - six-five, shoulders like a mountain, loved football, squash, polo. Married an heiress from the Philadelphia Main Line. A man's man -or so everyone thought. No one suspected he was queer until after the divorce. Then the rumors started spreading - the nasty kind of thing passed behind hands at cocktail parties. They might have faded, but Dig turned them into fact by going public. Showed up at one of those marches for gay rights holding hands with two hairdresser types. It made the front page of the papers and was picked up by the wire services.'

  Suddenly I remembered the photo. It jogged my memory and created a mental image of a dead man: a towering, square-jawed, executive type in grey suit and rimless glasses marching down the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard, dwarfing the svelte moustached men on either side. Banners in the background. Under the picture a caption commenting on the melding of old money and the new morality.

  'Once out of the closet, he flaunted it,' said Souza disgustedly. 'The family was scandalized, so he broke away and started his own bank - Beverly Hills Trust. Built it up soliciting accounts from homosexual businesses; there's a lot of money there, you know. Used his fortune and influence to buy sympathetic political candidates. Purchased an estate from a movie mogul, one of those dinosaurs north of Sunset, and let it be used for fundraisers - ACLU, the arty crowd, male go-go-dancers, that kind of thing.'

  'You didn't like him.'

  Souza sighed.

  'For years I've had a box at the Hollywood Bowl. Dig had one in the same section. Inevitably we'd bump into each other at concerts, chat, trade hors d'oeuvres, compare wines. In those days he sported the finest tailored evening wear and always had a young lady on his arm. Very

  gallant. Then one year he showed up with his hair peroxided and curled, wearing mascara and a loose robe, like some bloody Roman emperor. Instead of a woman, he had with him a gaggle of boys straight out of a Maxfield Parrish print. He greeted me heartily, held out his hand, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Perverse.'

  He stirred his tea and frowned.

  'Mind you, I have nothing against homosexuals, though I'll never be convinced they're normal. Let them keep a low profile and go about their business. But Chancellor didn't show that type of discretion. He advertised his deviance, exploited the innocent. A damned predator.'

  He'd grown flushed again and seemed to have worked himself into a passion; this time I thought I understood why.

  'That should fit perfectly into your strategy,' I said.

  The stirring accelerated, and he looked up sharply. The expression on his face told me my guess had been right on target.

  'Oh?'

 
; 'You said before you had a way of reconciling diminished capacity with the premeditated nature of the slashings. Painting Chancellor as the homicidal mastermind and Jamey as his dupe would be an excellent way to accomplish that. You could claim that Chancellor did the actual killing and Jamey was a passive observer. That would shift the bulk of the blame to a dead man and turn the one murder Jamey had to have committed - that of Chancellor - into a noble act, the elimination of a sadistic predator.'

  Souza smiled.

  'Very impressive, Doctor. Yes, I have been thinking along those lines. It's no secret that all the Slasher victims were murdered elsewhere and dumped around the city. My assertion will be that the killings took place at Chancellor's estate, with Jamey no more than an observer, seduced by an older man, befuddled by psychosis. The boy allowed himself to be swept along for several months. No doubt his guilt at witnessing the butchery contributed to his break-

  down and the subsequent need for hospitalization.'

  'During his hospitalization the slashings stopped.'

  He waved his hand, dismissing the point.

  'We know Chancellor was a sick man. What if he were bent in more than one way, exhibitionistic as well as queer. So many of them are. I assert that he needed an audience for his crimes and tagged Jamey for the role. The boy and he had a twisted relationship, no doubt about that. I won't claim Jamey is a total innocent. But it's the leadership role that's crucial. Who led the way? Who premeditated? A powerful, domineering older man or a confused teenager? Even the escape can work in our favor. I've got investigators searching for witnesses, someone who saw the boy that night. If we can show that Chancellor broke Jamey out of Canyon Oaks, we can claim he abducted him in order to have him witness another blood orgy. Took him home and slaughtered Richard Ford. But this time Jamey was overcome by the savagery of what he saw. They argued, struggled, and the boy managed to kill the butcher.'

  When he'd enlisted my participation in Jamey's defense, Souza had made the case sound hopeless. Now, barely two days later, he was trumpeting a neat psychodrama that transformed Jamey from monster to mind slave and, finally, to dragon slayer. But I wondered how much confidence he really had in the Svengali strategy. To my mind, there were plenty of holes in it.

  'You said Chancellor was a very large man. Jamey's a wraith. How could he overpower him and hoist him over a crossbeam?'

  'Dig was taken by surprise,' he said, unperturbed, 'and Jamey was strengthened by the release of pent-up fury; I'm sure you're aware of the power of adrenaline. With the proper fulcrum it's surprising what even a small person can lift. I know a prominent physicist who'll testify to that.'

  The look on his face invited further questioning.

  'Chancellor had an estate,' I said, 'which means servants. The slashings were messy affairs. How could he conceal that kind of thing from them?'

  'He employed a day staff - gardeners, maid, cook - but

  only one man lived on the premises, a combination bodyguard majordomo named Erno Radovic. Radovic is an unstable character, used to be a policeman until he was booted off the force. I employed him once or twice as an investigator before I realized what kind of troublemaker he was. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he were in on all of it, but for the time being he's in the clear, alibied for the night of the murder. Seems Thursday was his day off. He'd leave mornings and return Friday by noon. Slept once a week on a boat he had moored in the Marina. He produced a woman who said she'd been with him all last Thursday. All of which strengthens my theory because each of the Slasher victims were dumped on a Friday, in the early-morning hours, and, according to the forensics lab, killed several hours before. On Thursday night. Now we know the reason. With Radovic gone there'd be no witnesses.'

  'Has the forensics lab produced any evidence that Chancellor wielded the knife?'

  'Not to my knowledge. But neither is there proof that Jamey wielded it. The handle was blood-smeared, no clean fingerprints. In any event, whether or not it actually happened that way is hardly relevant, is it? The key is to provide the jurors with a reasonable doubt. To get them to consider a different scenario from the one the prosecution will present.'

  He gazed at me steadily, awaiting a response. When I gave none, he turned away and ran a blunt finger around the rim of his saucer.

  'You ask good questions, Doctor. Answering them helps keep me on my toes. Anything else?'

  I closed my notepad. 'Given Jamey's history, I'm concerned about suicide.'

  'So am I. It was one of the first things I mentioned when I petitioned for release to an institution prior to trial. The DA's office said the High Power lockup featured twenty-four-hour suicide watch and was safe. The judge agreed.'

  'Is that true?'

  'For the most part. You couldn't get tighter security anywhere. But can suicide ever really be prevented?'

  'No,' I conceded. 'If someone's determined, he'll eventually succeed.'

  He nodded.

  'Right now he seems too lethargic to damage himself. Nevertheless, if you pick up any danger signs, please inform me immediately. What else?'

  'Nothing for now. When can I talk to Dwight and Heather Cadmus?'

  'They're in seclusion with friends in Montecito, avoiding the press. Dwight should be returning in a couple of days. Heather was planning to stay longer. Is it necessary that you see them together?'

  'No. In fact, individually would be better.'

  'Excellent. I'll have it arranged and phone you. I've got a call in to Mainwaring, and I'll try to set up a time for you to meet with him and review the records within the next few days.'

  'Fine.'

  We stood simultaneously. Souza buttoned his suit jacket and walked me out the door of the dining room and down the corridor to the building's entrance. It was late afternoon, approaching dusk, and the rotunda was full of immaculately turned-out young men and women -associates and ancillary staff leaving for the day, trailing wisps of perfume and cologne, designer loafers and stiletto heels tattooing the checkered marble. The sight of Souza evoked reflexive smiles and servile nods. He ignored them and drew me away from the crowd, placed a hand on my shoulder, and smiled.

  'Coming up with my Chancellor strategy was first-rate thinking, Doctor, as was your little interrogation. Perhaps you're in the wrong profession.'

  I backed out of his grasp and moved toward the door.

  'I don't think so,' I said, and walked away.

  On the way home I stopped at the Pico kosher deli near Robertson and bought provisions: a pound of corned beef, new pickles, coleslaw, and a loaf of caraway rye sliced thick. The evening traffic was chromium soup, but I made

  it to the glen by six-thirty. Once settled, I fed the koi, glanced at the mail, and went into the kitchen, where I prepared sandwiches and set them on a platter in the refrigerator. When Robin's truck pulled into the carport, I was waiting on the terrace, Grolsch in hand. She'd been sawing and planing for most of the afternoon and looked tired; when she saw the food, she cheered.

  After dinner we sat in the living room, put our feet up, and shared the Times. I got as far as page three before Jamey's face jumped out at me.

  The picture was a head shot, formally posed, that looked to be a couple of years old. Black-and-white photography had turned his blue eyes murky. In another context the downward turn of his lips might have seemed sad; under the present circumstances it took on a sinister cast. The article surrounding the photo described him as the 'scion of a family prominent in the construction industry' and made note of his 'history of serious psychiatric problems'. A paragraph at the end said the police were delving into Ivar Digby Chancellor's background. Souza worked fast.

  Chapter 10

  THE NEXT morning I put on jeans, a polo shirt, and sandals, took my briefcase, and walked down the glen toward ULCA. The road was choked with cars -commuters making the daily pilgrimage from homes in the Valley to West Side business districts. Watching them inch forward, I thought of Black Jack Cadmus and wondered how many of them
had fruit trees in their backyards.

  I crossed Sunset, continued south on Hilgard, and entered the campus at Strathmore. A short hike brought me to the northern edge of the Health Sciences Center - a complex of brick behemoths rumored to house more corridor space than the Pentagon. I'd misspent a good deal of my youth in those corridors.

  Entering at ground level, I made a familiar right turn. The hallway leading to the Biomedical Library was lined with glass display cases. This month's exhibit was on the history of surgical instruments, and I glanced at the array of therapeutic weaponry - from crude, stone trepans exposing the cerebral tissue within a mannikin's skull to lasers traversing arterial tunnels.

  The library had just opened and was still quiet. By noon the place would be jammed with medical students and those aspiring to be medical students, sleep-deprived residents, and grim-faced graduate students hiding behind hillocks of reference material.