Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Stubborn girl…what would stop…

  The next morning I pretended to be rested.

  When Robin got out of the shower, she said, “Did you have a rough night?”

  “I was playing the sinus-tuba?”

  “No, but you moved around a lot.”

  “Maybe that’s the cure,” I said.

  “Being restless?”

  “Symptom substitution.”

  “I’d rather you be peaceful.”

  “I’m fine, babe.”

  We dressed in silence. “Breakfast, Alex?”

  “No, thanks, not hungry.”

  “What’s on your mind, sweetie?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  She took my hand. “You’ve done what you can for her. With all those detectives looking, those creeps will be found.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Let’s at least have coffee before I go.”

  After she left for work, I drove to the U., parked in a pay lot on the south end, and walked to the science quad. Hordes of students and faculty crossed the square. No sign of Robert Fisk or Blaise De Paine. Or Tanya.

  I drifted north to the inverted fountain, walked through the physics building. Exited at the back and continued along a tree-shaded pathway. Foot traffic was heavy for the summer. Seconds later I spotted a small, muscular, shaved-head guy among the students. Wearing all black; perfect fit to Fisk’s stats.

  Sauntering along the outer edge of the crowded pathway.

  I got closer, trailed him until the front steps of the anthropology building, where two young women in tight jeans ran up to greet him.

  As he turned toward them, I caught a glimpse of his face. Mid-forties, clean-shaven.

  One of the women said, “Hi, Professor Loewenthal. Could we talk to you about the exam?”

  I bought coffee at a kiosk, strolled to the library, was just about to enter when my phone beeped.

  Milo said, “Ballistics just came back on the bullets that killed Moses Grant. Perfect match to the slugs dug out of Leland Armbruster. Little Petey was real precocious. Lord knows what else he’s done that we haven’t uncovered. Talk to Tanya yet?”

  “She’s moving in with Kyle.”

  “Girl in a big house,” he said. “So now it’s Gothic. Think it’s a good idea?”

  “It’s what they’ve decided.”

  “Kyle playing Lord Protector. A few more years of living and he might conceivably be minimally qualified.”

  “He’s green but motivated. The larger problem is he can’t be with her every second. What do you think about faxing the photos of De Paine and Fisk over to the unicops?”

  “Sure, but don’t expect too much. First thing outta those guys’ mouths is always how understaffed they are. Let’s talk later about beefing up security for her. Meanwhile, we just might be getting a little closer to whatever happened ten years ago. Mary Whitbread left her house at nine thirty and Biro followed her. She’s still out, trying on designer duds at Neiman Marcus. Petra got to the neighborhood by ten fifteen, found someone on Blackburn who remembered the bad old days. Lives right behind Mary. He wouldn’t talk at his house or the station but Petra convinced him to meet over in Encino where his office is. One p.m.” He read off the address.

  “Nervous fellow,” I said.

  “Seems to be. Maybe he should practice what he preaches. He’s one of you guys.”

  Before setting out for the Valley, I pulled Dr. Byron Stark’s stats from the psychology licensing board Web site. Twenty-eight years old, B.A., Cornell, Ph.D., University of Oregon, postdoc at the Portland V.A., freshly certified.

  His building was a six-story mirrored cube on Ventura and Balboa that had all the charm of a head cold. The door said Advent Behavioral Group. Stark’s was the last of fourteen names. Six psychiatrists, eight psychologists, specialties in eating disorders, substance abuse, strategic management, career guidance, “life coaching.”

  Stark’s single-window office and hard beige furniture fit his status.

  He was midsized and narrow-shouldered, wore a blue minicheck buttondown shirt, maroon tie, and pressed khakis. A round, pink baby-face was topped by a beige crew cut. A fuzzy goatee looked glued on. Beneath the wisps, his small mouth seemed permanently pursed; the resulting look of disapproval wouldn’t serve him well with patients.

  When I’d started out, I’d tried to ward off the Doctor, how old are you?s with facial hair. I have a heavy beard and sometimes it worked. Stark would need another source of gravitas.

  Petra, Milo, and I crowded in front of his desk.

  She said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doctor.”

  Stark said, “Byron’s fine.”

  Boyish voice. Use the title, kid. Harness every bit of placebo.

  “I didn’t expect a symposium, Detective Connor.”

  Petra said, “It’s an important case. We brought our psychological consultant.” She introduced me.

  He said, “What do you do for them, profiling?”

  I shook my head. “Formal profiling’s pretty much useless when it comes to solving crimes. I weigh in on a case-by-case basis.”

  “I considered a forensics fellowship until I read up on profiling and found it basically without merit. Talk about restricted sampling.”

  We traded jargon for a while. Stark relaxed. When he broke to take a phone call—something about billing for inpatient services—Petra gave me a go-ahead nudge.

  “Sorry,” he said, hanging up. “Still learning the system.”

  I said, “We appreciate your talking to us about Peterson Whitbread.”

  “It’s funny to hear you say that. I never thought this day would come.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Right after the girls disappeared, my father called the police. They were totally unresponsive.”

  “The girls…”

  Stark’s mouth compressed to a pink bud. “You’re not here about that.”

  Milo said, “We’re here to listen, Doctor.”

  Stark laughed. “I agreed to this because I thought someone was finally going to investigate, like one of those cold cases on TV.” To Petra: “That was the clear implication you gave me, Detective Connor.”

  “What I told you was the truth, Dr. Stark. We’re looking into Peterson Whitbread’s background. Our immediate focus is on several crimes he’s suspected of committing recently, but we’re certainly interested in anything he might’ve done in the past. If you have knowledge of a crime, you need to tell us.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Stark. “So he’s suspected of something new. No big revelation, his tendencies were obvious even to me.”

  “Even?”

  “I was a senior in high school.”

  I said, “You’re the same age as Pete.”

  “I am, but we didn’t hang out. My parents were teachers who took out loans so my brother and I could attend Burton Academy and Harvard-Westlake. All my spare time was spent studying. Pete always seemed to be out on the street. I’m not sure he even attended high school.”

  “What tendencies did you notice?”

  “Antisocial personality,” said Stark. “He lurked around the neighborhood at all hours, with no clear purpose. Smiled a lot but there was no warmth to it. He was blithe to the point of recklessness—would smoke dope openly, just amble up my block toking away, not even trying to hide it. Other times, he’d walk around with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his rear pocket.”

  “Not much parental supervision.”

  “None that I ever saw. My mother said his mother was an airhead more concerned with fashion than child-rearing. I was fifteen when we moved in, my brother a year younger. Mom sized up the situation pretty quickly and forbade both of us from having anything to do with him.”

  I said, “Some teens would rebel at that kind of restriction.”

  “Some would, I didn’t,” said Stark. “He was clearly someone who wouldn’t be good for me. And that was buttressed by what happened a few mont
hs after we moved in. There were a bunch of burglaries in the neighborhood. Nighttime break-ins, while people were sleeping. My parents were convinced Pete had something to do with it. My dad, in particular, was certain he had criminal tendencies.”

  “Why?”

  “Pete sassed him a couple of times. And I wouldn’t discount Dad’s opinion. He worked as a high school counselor, had experience with acting-out adolescents.”

  Milo said, “Tell us about the girls.”

  “There were two of them, the summer before my senior year they lived above Mrs. Whitbread and Pete. Older than me, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. A few months later—after I took my SATs but before I went on a college tour, so it would have to be late September or early October—they disappeared. Dad tried to spur some police interest but couldn’t get anyone to take him seriously.”

  Petra said, “Where can I reach your father?”

  “Eugene, Oregon. His and my mom’s pensions stretch a lot further up there, so after I graduated they sold me their place and got a house with acreage.”

  “Names and number, please.”

  “Herbert and Myra Stark. I can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate. When the police didn’t get back to Dad about the girls, he got so irate he complained to his councilman. But no help there, either. No one cared.”

  Petra said, “What were the girls’ names?”

  “I never knew their surnames, their first names were Roxy and Brandy. We knew that because they’d shout to each other, didn’t matter what time of day. Bran-deee, Rox-eee.”

  “What did they do for a living?”

  “My parents said those were stripper names, they had to be strippers, but I had my doubts.”

  “Why?”

  “Strippers would work at night, right? But those two had irregular hours. Sometimes they’d be gone during the day, other times, at night. They always left together, arrived together. Weekends they’d sleep in, never show themselves. During the week they’d be out, working and partying.”

  “Tell us about the partying.”

  “I don’t know for a fact, I’m using logic. They’d drive up three, four a.m., race the engine, slam the car door, and if that hadn’t woken us, their laughter and chattering did the trick. They were extremely raucous and from the way they slurred their words, high on something.”

  “Your parents ever complain?”

  “Never, not their style. Instead, they fumed and gossiped and regaled Galen and me with morality tales using the girls as negative examples. Of course, the end result was to get Galen and me interested. A couple of wild girls living right across the backyard? But we never tried to talk to them, even if we’d had the guts there was no opportunity. When they were home, we were at school, and when we were home they were sleeping or out.”

  Milo said, “They’d come and go together in the same car?”

  “Every time I saw.”

  “Remember the make and model?”

  “Sure do. White Corvette, red interior. Dad called it the Bimbo-mobile.”

  Petra said, “Tell us about the disappearance and why you suspect Pete.”

  “Right before I took the SATs I was up in my room and got distracted by loud music. The way my bedroom’s situated, I have an angled view of Mrs. Whitbread’s yard. The girls were out there sunbathing and blasting a tape deck—dance music. I was about to close the window but got even more distracted by what was going on. They were rubbing lotion on each other, giggling, playing with each other’s hair, slapping each other’s butts.” Stark tightened his tie. “Totally naked, it was kind of hard not to notice.”

  Milo said, “Good-looking girls.”

  “Of that type,” said Stark. “Long blond hair, long legs, sunlamp tan, big chests. They looked alike, for all I know they were sisters.”

  “Roxy and Brandy,” said Milo. “What year Corvette?”

  “Sorry, I’m not a car guy.”

  “Who’d they hang out with?”

  “I never saw them hang with anyone, but that doesn’t mean much. Except for that week of SAT prep, I barely saw them during the day. What I can tell you is that Pete Whitbread was aware of them. Midway through the week, when I was cramming advanced vocab, really trying to concentrate, the music started blasting again. Same deal, naked girls, lots of merriment. But good little grind that I was, I actually intended to ignore it. Then I noticed Pete sidling down the driveway and sneaking around toward the back. I say sneak because his head was darting all around, obviously furtive. And he’d pressed himself against the wall, found himself a vantage spot where the girls wouldn’t notice him. He stood there watching them for a while, then he unzipped his fly and did the predictable. But not normally—he was yanking at himself so hard I thought he’d rip it off. With a bizarre smile on his face.”

  I said, “Bizarre in what way?”

  “Teeth bared, like a…coyote. Pleasuring himself but he looked angry. Enraged. Or maybe it was just sexual intensity. Whatever it was, it grossed me out and I moved away from the window and never went back. Even when the music blasted the next day and the next.”

  “The girls had no idea they were being watched?”

  “Were they putting on a show for him? I’ve wondered about that.”

  “Did you ever see Pete with them?”

  “No, but as I said, I wouldn’t have. What you should be concerned about is a few weeks later, they were gone. Just like that.” Snapping his fingers. “No moving van, no truck being loaded. And when they moved in, they did use a van, had tons of stuff. I knew they weren’t sleeping in because (A) it wasn’t the weekend, (B) the lights never went on for two consecutive days, and (C) on the second day my mother took a walk by and the door to the upstairs apartment was open and a cleaning crew was working full-guns. Plus, the Corvette was still there. Parked in back next to the garage, the girls always parked in the driveway. It sat there for an entire week, then one night I heard it start up and looked out. Someone was easing it out the driveway. Driving extremely slowly, with the headlights off. I told my father and that’s when he called the police.”

  Milo said, “Two days of dark windows.”

  Byron Stark said, “If you want to believe they just moved to Kansas, be my guest. But maybe you should reserve judgment until I tell you the rest. The night after the car was moved, my father was walking the dog over on Fourth, I’m talking one in the morning.”

  “Kind of late for a dog-walk.”

  Stark smiled. “I could tell you the dog had a bladder problem but sure, Dad was curious, we all were. And it paid off. A van was pulled up to Mrs. Whitbread’s building and two guys were loading stuff. When Dad got closer he could see it was Pete and his friend and what they were hauling were garbage bags. Lots of them. When they saw Dad, they jumped in the van and slammed the door shut. Didn’t drive away, just sat there. Dad kept walking, circled the block again, stood at the corner. The van was still there but a second later it took off full-speed.”

  “Did the dog react?” I said.

  “Are you asking if he smelled something? Chester wasn’t a bloodhound. He was a fourteen-year-old mostly blind, deaf, senile chow mix. It was all Dad could do to get him to exercise. Anyway, Dad came home, told my mom about the van, the two of them decided something horrible had taken place, they had to persist with the police. Frankly, Galen and I thought they were overreacting. But a few weeks later, when Pete’s friend showed up dead, we started to believe them. Unfortunately, you guys didn’t.”

  Petra said, “Let’s back up a bit, Dr. Stark. Who was Pete’s friend and how did he die?”

  “An older guy, thirty or so. Tall, thin, long hair, unruly beard, kind of bummy. He drove a motorcycle but not a chopper. A Honda, not huge. I had a 350 in grad school and this one was definitely smaller. Noisy little contraption. He’d pick Pete up on it and they’d zoom off. My parents said his name was Roger but I can’t tell you where they got that and they never mentioned a last name. More like ‘that bum Roger.’ Or ‘Here’s Roger again on
that stupid rattletrap.’ Their theory was he and Pete were selling dope around the neighborhood, doing the break-ins, as well. It wouldn’t surprise me, Roger looked like a doper. Emaciated, spacy, unsteady walk.”

  Stark ruffled his crew cut. “I know it sounds as if Mom and Dad were obsessed but they weren’t. Granted, both of them are huge murder mystery fans and they’re into puzzles, but they’re also insightful and completely sane. My mother taught in the inner city for twenty years, so she’s not naive. And on top of his counseling background, my father was a military policeman in Vietnam and served as a reserve officer in Bakersfield before we moved to L.A. That made it especially irritating when the police here shined him on.”

  Milo said, “Exactly what did he report?”

  “You’d have to talk to him but my recollection is he reported the disappearance as well as the car being moved a week later, plus the van and the garbage bags.”

  “Not the part about Pete masturbating near the girls?”

  Stark colored. “No, I never mentioned that to anyone but my brother. Are you trying to say that would’ve made a difference? I can tell you it wouldn’t. The police were unresponsive.”

  “What did the police tell your father?” said Petra.

  “That Roger’s death was an overdose, case closed.”

  “Please tell us about the death, Doctor.”

  “From what I understand, the body was found in the gutter, right on Fourth, not far from Pete’s building. It happened in the middle of the night and by the time I was awake, the scene was clear.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “My father heard from a neighbor who didn’t know whose corpse it was. Dad called the police for details and of course they didn’t want to give any out. Finally, he pried out the fact that it was Roger. That got him to try again to stir up interest in the girls. But whoever he talked to kept insisting there was no evidence of any crime, the girls were adults, a missing person case hadn’t been filed, and Roger’s death was ruled accidental.”

  Petra hid her frown behind one hand as she wrote with the other. “After that, did Pete cause any other problems?”

  “Not that I heard. But by December I had a girlfriend, wasn’t interested in anything at home. Then I went to China as a volunteer with Operation Smile, then to Cornell. This is the first time I’ve been back in ten years.”