Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge

by Over the Edge

  'No,' said Josh. 'He was antisocial and rude, but there was nothing cruel about him. If anything, his conscience was overdeveloped.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Because after he said or did something unpleasant, he always brooded. He wouldn't apologise, but you could tell he was upset.'

  'He didn't like himself very much,' said Felicia. 'He seemed burdened by life.'

  While the boys nodded assent, Jennifer squirmed impatiently.

  'Let's get back on track,' she said. 'It seems obvious that there's a significant discrepancy between his diagnosis and what he's accused of doing. Has anyone seriously looked into the possibility that he didn't do the slashings. Or is it just one of those cases where they pick a scapegoat and perseverate?'

  Her face had filled with indignation. And hope that I regretted having to snuff out.

  'Despite the contradictions, Jen, the evidence strongly indicates he was involved in the murders.'

  'But the - '

  'I don't see any contradiction at all,' said David. 'Try this hypothetical on for size; He was psychotic, and his boyfriend, Chancellor, was a psychopath who manipulated him into killing people. Presto, there goes your discrepancy.'

  I sat up straighter.

  'What led you to that?'

  'No brilliant deducation.' He shrugged. 'The guy used

  to come by and pick Jamey up. Flagrantly weird - but he had a lot of influence on Jamey.'

  'Weird in what way?'

  'Physically and behaviourally. He was big - pumped up like Schwartzenegger - and he dressed like a banker, but his hair was permed and dyed blond, he wore mascara and pancake make-up, and he smelled and moved like a woman.'

  'What you're saying,' interjected Jennifer, 'is that he was gay. Big deal.'

  'No,' David insisted. 'Gay is one thing. This was more than that. He was... conspicuous about it. Theatrical. Calculating. I can't put my finger on why, but he seemed like someone who'd enjoy manipulating others.' He paused and looked at me. 'Does that make sense?'

  'Sure. Why do you think he was a major influence on Jamey?'

  'It was obvious to anyone who saw them together that there was major hero worship in progress. Jamey had no use for people. Hell, he elevated skulking to a fine art. But the moment Chancellor walked in the door, he'd light up and start to chatter like a rhesus.'

  'It's true,' said Josh. 'The change was remarkable. And after Jamey met him, he shifted his whole intellectual orientation. From poetry to business and economics, like that.' He snapped his fingers.

  'Chancellor even had him doing research for him,' added David, 'poring over books he never would have gone near before.'

  'What kind of books?'

  'Econ, I guess. I never looked closely. That stuff bores me, too.'

  'I came across him one time in the stacks of the business library,' said Josh. 'When he noticed me, he closed his books and told me he was busy. But I saw that he'd been compiling charts and columns. It looked as if he'd been researching security ratings - stocks and bonds.'

  'Mind-numbing.' David smiled. 'If Chancellor could get him to do that, homicide would be a cinch.'

  'That's really tacky,' snapped Jennifer. The bearded boy gave an aw-shucks look and shrugged.

  'What do you think of David's theory, Jen?' I asked.

  'It makes sense, I guess,' she said unenthusiastically. 'Conceptually it could fit.'

  I waited for her to say more. When she didn't, I went on.

  'A few minutes ago you mentioned thinking he might be having a drug reaction. What kind of stuff was he into?'

  A chilly draught of silence blew into the room. I smiled.

  'I'm not interested in your private lives, people.'

  'Our private lives aren't the issue,' said Josh. 'This involves someone who isn't here.'

  That took a moment to assimilate.

  'Gary got into dope?' I asked.

  'I said before you wouldn't recognise him.'

  'He went through a lot of changes last summer,' said Jennifer. 'It's a sensitive topic around here.'

  'Why's that?'

  David laughed cynically. 'The word's come down from on high that any discussion of Mr. Yamaguchi is bad PR. A two out of six freak-out rate doesn't bode well for grant renewal.'

  'I'm not interested in PR either,' I said. 'Or in hassling Gary. But if he got Jamey into dope, I need to know about it.'

  'We have no proof,' said Josh.

  'Educated guesses will suffice.'

  'I've give you mine,' said Jennifer. 'When Gary decided to stop being a good little boy, he got heavily into dope -speed, acid, coke, downers, ludes. He spent most of last year blitzed. It was the first time in his life he'd ever rebelled, and he went overboard, just like a new convert; each time he got stoned it was a cosmic revelation, everyone else just had to try it. Jamey didn't have any friends, but Gary was the nearest approximation. Both of them were outsiders, and when they weren't insulting each other, they liked to huddle in the corner and sneer at the rest of us. It stands to reason that Gary got Jamey on something.'

  Josh looked uncomfortable.

  'What is it?' I asked.

  'I saw something indicating they were closer than that. Once when Chancellor picked Jamey up at the library, Gary showed up, too, and left with them. The next day I overheard him teasing Jamey about being Chancellor's little harem boy.'

  'Is Gary gay?' I asked him.

  'I never thought so, but who knows?'

  'How did Jamey react to being ridiculed?'

  'He just got this spacey, disoriented look in his eyes and said nothing.'

  'I need to talk to Gary,' I said. 'Where can I find him?'

  This time the response was more forthright.

  'I saw him a couple of months ago,' said David. 'Peddling grass on North Campus. He'd gone punk and was very hostile, bragging about how free he was while the rest of us slaved for Dr. Flowers. He said he was living in a loft downtown with a bunch of other artists and due to have an exhibit at one of the galleries.'

  ' What kind of art was he into?'

  Shrugs all around.

  'We never saw any of it,' said David. 'Probably of the emperor's clothing genre.'

  'Alex,' said Jennifer, 'are you saying drugs might have had something to do with Jamey's breakdown?'

  'No. At this point I don't know enough to say anything.'

  It was a blatant hedge, and it didn't satisfy her. Nevertheless, she didn't push it. Soon after, I ended the meeting and thanked them for their time. Felicia and the boys left quickly, but Jennifer lagged behind, taking out an emery board and making a show of filing her nails.

  'What is it, Jen?'

  She put down the board and looked up.

  'None of it makes sense. Conceptually.'

  'What's bothering you specifically?'

  'The whole notion of Jamey as a serial killer. I didn't like him, and I know he had serious problems, but he just doesn't fit the profile.'

  The human animal has a perverse say of resisting

  attempts to fit it into neat, predictive packages like psychological profiles. I didn't tell her that; a few more years of study, and she'd learn it on her own. But the questions she'd raised during the discussion went beyond theori-sation and dovetailed with my own.

  'So you don't like David's scenario?'

  She shook her head, and the plastic earrings swung pendulously.

  'That he was manipulated by Chancellor? No. Jamey may have looked up to Chancellor, but he was an individualist, not one to be programmed. I just can't see him as a pawn.'

  'What if psychosis weakened that individuality and made him more vulnerable?'

  'Psychopaths prey on weak-willed, low self-esteem types with personality disorders, don't they? Not schizophrenics. If Jamey was psychotic, he'd be too unpredictable to programme, wouldn't he?'

  She was brilliant and single-minded, her questions fuelled by youthful outrage.

  'You're raising good points,' I told her. 'I w
ish I could answer them.'

  'Oh, no,' she said. 'I don't expect you to. Psych's too imprecise a science to come up with pat answers.'

  'Does that bother you?'

  'Bother me? It's what intrigues me about it.'

  Karen saw me walking toward Sarita's office and came forward, indignant, her body language combative. 'I thought you said you wouldn't be needing her.' 'A few things came up. It won't take long.' 'Perhaps I can help you with them.' 'Thanks, but no. I need to talk with her directly.' Her nostrils flared, and her full lips tightened. I moved toward the office door, but she'd blocked the way with her body. Then, after the merest instant of silent hostility, she slid away gracefully, turned, and marched off. A casual observer wouldn't have noticed a thing.

  My knock was greeted by the squealing and scraping of rubber wheels on vinyl, then the outward swing of the door. Sarita waited until I'd entered, then closed it herself. Palming backward, she stopped at the desk-table, which was stacked high with computer printouts.

  'Good morning, Alex. Was the meeting helpful?'

  'They're insightful kids.'

  'Aren't they?' She smiled maternally. 'They've developed so beautifully. Magnificent specimens.'

  'It must give you great satisfaction.'

  'It does.'

  The phone rang. She picked it up, said yes and uh-huh several times, and put it down, smiling.

  'That was Karen letting me know she told you I was busy but you bullied your way in here anyway.'

  'Pretty protective, isn't she?'

  'Loyal. Which is conspicuously rare nowadays.' She swung the chair around. 'Actually she's a remarkable young woman. Very bright but grew up in Watts, dropped out of school when she was eleven, ran away, and lived on the streets for five years doing things you and I never dreamed off. When she was sixteen, she pulled herself together, went back to night school, and earned a high school diploma in three years. Then she read an article about the project, thought it might be an opportunity to get more education, and showed up one morning, asking to be tested. Her story was fascinating, and she did seem sharp, so I went along with it. She tested high - in the one-forties -but not, of course, sufficiently high to qualify. Nevertheless, she was too good to let go, so I hired her as a research assistant and got her enrolled here as a part-time student. She's pulling a three-point-eight and wants to go to law school at Boalt or Harvard. I have no doubt she'll make it. She smiled again and brushed nonexistent lint from her lapel. 'Now, then, what can I do for you?'

  'I want to get in touch with Gary Yamaguchi, and I need his latest address.'

  Her smile died.

  'I'll give it to you, but it won't help. He's been drifting for the past six months.'

  'I know. I'll give it my best shot.'

  'Fine,' she said coldly. After swivelling sharply, she yanked open a file cabinet and drew out a folder. 'Here. Copy this down.'

  I pulled out my notepad. Before it was open, she hurriedly recited an address on Pico near Grand, just west of downtown - a murky, downscale neighbourhood that catered to illegal aliens and street people with a menu of rotting slums, sewing shops, and shabby bars. During the last year a few artists and would-be artists had illegally established living quarters in industrial lofts, trying to create SoHo West. So far L.A. wasn't buying it.

  'Thanks.'

  'What do you expect to get from talking to him?' she demanded.

  'Just trying to establish as complete a data base as possible.'

  'Well, you won't get very far by utilising - '

  The phone rang again. She snatched it up and said, 'Yes!' sharply. As she listened to the reply, annoyance surrendered to surprise, which rapidly swelled to shock.

  'Oh, no. That's terrible. When - yes, he's right here. Yes, I'll tell him.'

  She put down the phone.

  'That was Souza, calling from the jail. Jamey tried to kill himself early this morning, and he wants you to come as soon as you can.'

  I jumped to my feet and put away my notepad.

  'How badly is he hurt?'

  'He's alive. That's all I know.'

  She wheeled toward me and started to say something apologetic and conciliatory, but I was moving too fast to hear it.

  HE'D BEEN moved to one of the inpatient rooms that Montez had shown me during my tour of the jail. Three deputies, one of them Sonnenschein, stood guard outside the door. I looked through the window in the door and saw him lying face up on the bed, head swaddled in bloodstained bandages, spidery limbs restrained by padded cuffs. An IV line dripped into the crook of one arm. In the midst of the gauzy turban was a fleshy patch - a few square inches of face, battered and swollen. He was asleep or unconscious, purpled lids closed, cracked lips parted lifelessly.

  Souza stood next to a short, bearded man in his early thirties. The lawyer wore a gun-metal-coloured suit of raw silk that reminded me of armour. When he saw me, he walked forward and said, angrily:

  'He threw himself repeatedly and forcefully against the wall of his cell.' He glared at the deputies, who responded with stony looks of their own. 'There are no broken bones or apparent internal injuries, but his head absorbed most of

  the damage, and Dr. Platt here suspects a concussion. He'll be moving him to County Hospital any minute.'

  Platt said nothing. He wore a rumpled white coat over jeans and a work shirt and carried a black leather bag. Clipped to his lapel was a county badge identifying him as an attending neurologist. I asked him how bad it looked.

  'Hard to tell,' he said softly. 'Especially with the psychotic overlay. I came over on a stat call, and I don't have much in the way of instruments. His reflexes look okay, but with head injuries you never know what can happen. We'll be observing him over the next few days, and hopefully we'll have a clearer picture then.'

  I looked through the window again. Jamey hadn't moved.

  'So much for security,' said Souza, loud enough for the deputies to hear. 'This puts a whole new complexion on things.'

  He pulled a miniature tape recorder out of his briefcase and dictated the details of the suicide attempt in a courtroom voice. After walking over to the deputies, he peered at their badges and recited their names into the machine, spelling each one with exaggerated enunciation. If they were intimidated, they didn't show it.

  'What's in the IV line?' I asked Platt.

  'Just nutrition. He looked pretty cachectic to me, and I didn't want him dehydrating, especially if there is some internal haemorrhaging.'

  'Sounds as if he took quite a beating.'

  'Oh, yeah. He hit that wall hard.'

  'Nasty way to do yourself in.'

  'Gotta be.'

  'See this kind of thing a lot?'

  He shook his head.

  'I do mostly rehab - deep-muscle EMGs. But the doc who usually takes jail calls is out on maternity leave, so I'm filling in. She sees plenty of it, mostly PCP ODs.'

  'This kid never took drugs.'

  'So they say.'

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A pair of ambulance attendants entered with a stretcher. One of the deputies unlocked the door to the room, went in, and emerged a moment later, mouthing the word okay. A second deputy followed him back in. Sonnenschein remained outside', and when our eyes met, he gave a small meaningful nod. The second deputy stuck his head out and told the attendants and Platt to come in. The attendants carried the stretcher to the threshold and, contorting, managed to get it halfway into the room. Souza moved closer to the door, glowering protectively. I followed him. After several moments of tugging and hoisting, they disconnected the IV, rolled Jamey's limp body off the bed and onto the stretcher, and reset the drip. The silence was broken by a crisp symphony of buckling and snapping.

  One of them held up the IV bottle and said, 'Ready when you are.'

  Platt nodded. 'Let's roll.' The other attendant and the two deputies moved forward and lifted the stretcher. Jamey's head rolled like a skiff in choppy waters.

  'I'll accompany my client to the ambula
nce,' said Souza. No one argued. To me: 'I need to confer with you. Please meet me at the entrance to the jail in ten minutes.'

  I said I'd be there and watched them cart him away.

  When we were alone, Sonnenschein raised one eyebrow and told me to come with him. He sauntered down the main corridor and led me toward a key-operated elevator. Inmates in yellow pyjamas sat hunched on slatted benches, scanning us. An operatic scream echoed from around a corner. The ward smelled of vomit and disinfectant.