Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Punishing herself,” he said. “Not caring if Tanya got punished in the process?”

  “Tanya said she didn’t care.”

  “Tanya sounds like a kid who’d say that.”

  “She does put on a good face,” I said. “But kids are flexible. The main thing would’ve been the relationship between her and her mother.”

  “And now she’s alone.”

  We walked to the car. I said, “Maybe the move here really was about saving money.”

  “Innocent till proven otherwise? Sure, why not. Now that we’ve had our useless geography lesson, what next?”

  “Maybe we should narrow the geography down. If something had happened on Fourth Street, Chatty Mary would’ve remembered, so let’s put that aside for the moment.”

  “Unless Chatty Mary didn’t want the neighborhood besmirched by tales of violence.”

  “My guess is she’d still enjoy talking about a juicy crime. I agree that the murder on June Street is unlikely to be relevant and the only unusual thing that actually happened at the mansion—if you can call it that—was Colonel Bedard dying while under Patty’s care.”

  “Not unusual—he was old.” He rubbed his face, like washing without water.

  “What?” I said.

  “If you want me to be creative, I can be.”

  “Go for it.”

  “An old guy suffering, a compassionate person—could think they were doing him a favor by helping the process along.”

  “Euthanasia?”

  “I told you it was creative.”

  “If Patty had a tendency to play God, wouldn’t Rick know?”

  “The E.R. is one thing, Alex. People come in to be saved. But watching some feeble old guy waste away? That could tug at the heartstrings—even a good person’s heartstrings. Nothing premeditated, she wasn’t a criminal. Something impulsive that she came to regret. Then she got sick, déjà-vued, and blurted it to Tanya. Maybe thinking about her own death got her obsessing on how she’d hastened the process for someone else. Or this whole deathbed confession thing is crap and you should concentrate on helping Tanya deal with being alone and I should spend my two weeks off watching TV.”

  “Deaf detectives?”

  “Jesus,” he said. “No, my concept of nirvana is TiVoing a month of Judge Judy, cooking up some microwave chili, and zoning out.”

  “Truth and justice,” I said.

  “Stupid people getting yelled at. If I were straight, I’d try to date that woman.”

  I laughed. Gazed out the car window. None of the children had returned to the fountain. “First Patty’s a dope dealer, now she’s a mercy killer.”

  “She said she killed a guy, Alex.”

  “That she did.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “No sense pursuing Colonel Bedard’s death. Whatever happened, the certificate’s going to say natural.”

  He tilted his head toward the bungalow court. “In terms of this Eden, there was bound to be plenty of street crime back then, let’s see if Isaac pulls anything up. Not that I’m any more convinced something happened than I was yesterday. But if there was no euthanasia, my next bet would be something to do with the Cherokee drug market. Especially after meeting Lester Jordan. Let me sniff around some more, pay Jordan another social call.”

  He yawned, stretched, closed his eyes. “Enough for one day. Drive.”

  “TiVo time?” I said.

  The eyes opened. “Not so fast, bucko. Expensive lunch on you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Afterward, we can revisit Jordan.”

  “Nope, too soon. I’ll go it alone tomorrow.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  He lowered the window and breathed in smog. “Play it by ear. Which is a nice way of saying I don’t have a damn idea.”

  I got home at three, belly full of Thai food, took Blanche for a puppy trot around the garden, freshened her water, heard about her day, toted her and her food bowl into my office.

  She ate as I had another go at Tanya’s file.

  Starting at the beginning.

  The tape-loop soundtrack of obsessive-compulsiveness is powered by anxiety. The noise can be switched off by SSRIs—drugs that increase the flow of serotonin to the brain. But not much is known about how psychoactive meds affect kids long-term, and when the patient stops taking the pills, the soundtrack cranks up again.

  Cognitive behavior therapy takes longer and requires active participation by the patient, but it has no side effects and teaches self-help skills that can endure. By the time Tanya first came to see me, I’d successfully treated scores of kids with OCD, sampling from a grab bag of CBT methodologies.

  I try to view every patient with a fresh eye, but after you’ve been in practice for a few years, preconceptions are inevitable, and when she arrived I had a plan in mind.

  1. Build trust.

  2. Find the anxious core.

  3. When the time’s right, use thought-stopping, guided exposure, desensitization, or some combination, to replace tension with relaxation.

  By the fourth session, rapport seemed set and I was ready to work. Tanya marched into the office and sat at the play table and said, “They’re gone.”

  “Who is?”

  “My habits.”

  “Gone,” I said.

  “I don’t do them anymore.”

  “That’s great, Tanya.”

  Shrug.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “You said I was being nervous so when I got nervous I chased the habit feelings away.”

  “Chased them?”

  “I said, ‘Stop, that’s stupid,’ and put other feelings inside.” Tapping her temple.

  Would you like your clinical license to go, or will you eat it here?

  “What other feelings did you put into your head?”

  “Taking a walk with Mommy. Going to Disneyland.”

  “Disneyland’s a favorite place?”

  “Small World’s boring,” she said. “I like the Spinning Teacups.” Rotating one hand. “I like the pink cup.”

  “Spinning Teacups is something you’ve done before with Mommy.”

  “No,” she said, looking vexed. “We don’t really do it, Mommy gets sick when she spins. We watch.”

  “You’d like to do it.”

  “I pretend to do it.” Rotating both hands, now. Fast and choppy, like an agitated bus driver.

  “You pretend to spin.”

  “Fast,” she said.

  “That makes the nervous feelings go away.”

  Doubt sharpened the pale green eyes. “You said the habits were being nervous.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Tanya. You did a great job.”

  “I didn’t do it all,” she said.

  “Someone helped you?”

  Emphatic head shake. “I didn’t do it all the first time.”

  “You did some of it.”

  She turned away from me. “I looked under the bed. A little. I washed my hands a bunch of times. The second time I didn’t look under the bed and I only washed my hands once. I had to wash. To be clean, Mommy says to use soap and water before I go to sleep, and brush my teeth.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Washing only once is a good idea,” she said. “More is stupid.”

  “Mommy said it was stupid?”

  “No! I say it to myself.” She picked up a pencil, twirled, poked the playhouse.

  “I’m really impressed, Tanya.”

  No response.

  “You must be proud of yourself.”

  “Having habits made me tired,” she said, airily.

  “And now you can handle them.”

  “When I get nervous, I say ‘You’re being nervous, you don’t need those habits.’”

  I said, “Perfect. You could be a doctor.”

  She manipulated dolls. Worked hard at a poker face. Gave up and surrendered to a smile. “Mommy says no one’s perfect but I’m close.”

/>   “Mommy would know.”

  Giggle. “Um…can I draw?”

  The second time, three years later, I expected dejection due to relapse, was surprised to see her straight-backed and strutting as she entered the office. Still small for her age, she dressed older—pressed khakis, white shirt under a navy V-necked sweater, immaculate brown loafers. Her hair was combed out and straight. Suggestions of maturity had begun to firm the contours of her face.

  The play table that had occupied her at age seven was dismissed with a glance. She settled in one of the leather armchairs, crossed her legs, and said, “Guess I’m here again.”

  “It’s good to see you, Tanya.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did it again.”

  “Your habits?”

  “No. I mean they’re gone.”

  “You cured yourself again.”

  “Mommy said I should still come in.”

  “That’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I was going to come in a few weeks ago but I had too many tests, so I…”

  “In the meantime you did the job yourself.”

  “I don’t want to waste your time. And Mommy’s money. Mommy still wanted me to see you. She wants to make sure I’m okay.”

  “Do you feel okay?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then I guess you’re okay,” I said. “Boy, you did it even quicker than the first time. I’m impressed.”

  “The first time you really did it,” she said. “You explained that I was doing all those things because I was nervous. Now I understand.” She sat up straighter. “I don’t know why I started again. At least this time it wasn’t as bad. I started washing and cleaning out my closet many times but I didn’t do any checking.”

  “Were you nervous about anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mommy told me you moved.”

  “I like it.”

  “Sometimes even good change can make someone nervous.”

  She thought about that. “I like it.”

  “How’s school going?” I said.

  “Pretty easy,” she said. “Boring. I had a bad cold right before the habits started up again. Mommy thought maybe I got tired and that’s why.”

  “Sometimes that happens.”

  “Every time I get a cold I need to be careful?”

  “No,” I said. “But anytime you get really upset about something it would be a good idea to practice relaxing—do you still use Disneyland as a favorite place?”

  “No way,” she said. “That’s immature.”

  “You have a new place.”

  Her eyes shifted sideways. “I just tell myself to be relaxed.”

  “So school’s easy.”

  “In some classes I have to work to get As.”

  “Getting As is important.”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you feeling pressure?” I said.

  “From Mommy?”

  “From anyone.”

  “She says do my best, that’s all. But…”

  I waited.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “it’s hard to study when it’s so boring, but I make myself. I don’t like writing papers and I hate social studies. Science and math are good, they make sense. I want to be a doctor. Helping people is useful.”

  “That’s what your mother does.”

  “Mommy says doctors are always going to be in charge, not nurses. I don’t like asking people for things.”

  Long pause. “I think Mommy’s been a little nervous.”

  “About what?”

  “She doesn’t tell me.”

  “You asked her?”

  Slow smile.

  “What’s funny, Tanya?”

  “No way would I ask her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’d say she’s okay and start asking if I’m okay.”

  “You don’t want to worry her.”

  “She’s got a full plate.”

  Adult expression. I wondered how much time she spent with kids her age.

  “How can you tell she’s been nervous, Tanya?”

  “Not sitting still a lot…straightening the pictures. Sometimes she looks worried.” Fidgeting. “I’m really okay, I don’t think I need to come in again.”

  “As long as you’re here, is there anything else you want to talk about…”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Mommy being nervous, how that affects you.”

  “Please don’t tell her I told you.”

  “Promise,” I said. “Same rule we had the first time.”

  “You don’t tell unless I want you to,” she said. “She does it after I go to bed, thinks I don’t hear it.”

  “Straightening up?”

  “Mopping the floor even though it’s clean. Taking out cans from the shelves in the kitchen and putting them back. I hear doors open and close and when she moves chairs sometimes they rub against the floor. She does it at night because she doesn’t want me to know. Maybe she thinks I’ll catch it.”

  “Like a cold.”

  “Can that happen?”

  “There are no germs for habits but sometimes when we live with people we imitate them.”

  She gnawed her lip. “Should I try to help Mommy with her habits?”

  “What do you think she’d say if you offered.”

  Big smile. “‘I’m okay, honey.’ But I’d still like to help her.”

  “I think the best thing you can do for her is just what you’re doing. Handle any problems that you can but ask for help when you can’t.”

  She took a long time to digest that. “If it happens again, I’ll come back.”

  “I always like hearing from you. It’s okay to call when things are going well.”

  “Really?” she said. “Maybe I will.”

  She never did.

  The next day Patty phoned me. “I don’t know what you do but it’s a miracle. She sees you and she’s fine.”

  “She’s gotten really good at understanding herself,” I said.

  “I’m sure she does but you’re clearly guiding her. Thank you so much, Doctor. It’s good to know you’re around.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Nope, can’t think of any.”

  “The move’s been smooth?”

  “Everything’s just fine. Thank you, Doctor. Bye.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  I put the chart aside, wondered about a link between Tanya’s childhood symptoms and the “terrible thing” that had occupied Patty’s final hours.

  Or was Milo right and it all boiled down to a final burst of obsessive thinking in a woman whose entire life had been about order, facing the ultimate disorder?

  Tanya’s initial visit had been shortly after the move to the Bedard mansion. Well before the colonel’s death but maybe she’d picked up on Patty’s tension about caring for the old man.

  Killed him.

  Milo had snatched the mercy-killing hypothesis out of the air, but his instincts were good. Had Patty, a decent person, struggled with the aftermath of an impulsive, crushingly permanent act?

  How did I know Patty was decent?

  Because everyone said so.

  Because I wanted to believe it.

  “Constricted thinking,” I said out loud.

  Blanche looked up, batted her lashes. Sank back down and resumed some sort of pleasant canine dream.

  I tossed it around some more, realized Tanya’s symptoms had started two years before Patty brought her to me. Still living on Cherokee.

  The second episode was after the move from Fourth Street to Culver City. So maybe Tanya’s tension had been about transition, had no connection at all to anything criminal.

  Blanche looked up again.

  “You need to get out more, Blondie. Let’s take a ride.”

  Hudson Avenue on Saturday was gloriously imposing, profoundly still.

  The mansion’s slate roof was silvered by afternoon lig
ht. The lawn was green marzipan; the half-timbers decorating the facade, fresh bars of chocolate. But for a sprinkle of lemons littering the stone landing, everything was spotless.

  The vintage Bentley and Mercedes were just where they’d been yesterday.

  The cars—the entire neighborhood—screamed old money but there was no reason to think Colonel Bedard’s family had held on to the place. I scooped Blanche into my arms and walked to the double doors. The bell chimed Debussy or something like it. Rapid footsteps were followed by a click behind the peephole and one of the doors opened on the maid I’d seen chasing the squirrel.

  Late forties, built low to the ground, skin the color of strong tea, black hair plaited into glossy coils. Wary black eyes. The pink uniform was spotless, edged with white lace. Legs in seamed stockings bowed as if clamping a cello. Her hand tightened around a chamois cloth stained with tarnish.

  Blanche purred and did her smiley thing. The maid’s expression softened and I produced my LAPD consultant badge.

  It’s a plasticized clip-on, long expired, and pretty much useless, but it impressed her enough to stifle a cluck of disapproval.

  Tanya had mentioned the name of the housekeeper who’d worked with Patty…Cecilia. This woman was old enough to have been around twelve years ago.

  “Are you Cecilia?”

  “No.”

  “Are the owners home?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bedard?”

  “No home.”

  Blanche panted.

  “But they do live here?”

  “What kind dog?”

  “French bulldog.”

  “Spensive?”

  “Worth it.”

  She frowned.

  I said, “Do you remember Colonel Bedard?”

  No answer.

  “The old man who—”

  “I no work for him.”

  “But you knew him.”

  “Cecilia work for him.”

  “You know Cecilia?”

  No answer. I flicked the I.D.

  “My sister,” she said.

  “Where can I find your sister?”

  Longer pause.

  “She’s not in trouble, just to ask a few questions.”

  “Zacapa.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Guatemala.”

  Blanche purred some more.

  “Nie dog,” said the woman. “Lie a mownkey.”