Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Put your hands up, punk,” he said, making a finger-gun. “Lemme see your grade-point average. Two D's and an F? Off to the lineup.”

  He chuckled some more, exhaled. “Anyway, except for strangulation and both being retarded, I still don't see any parallels with your case.”

  “Strangulation, retarded, and no rape,” said Milo.

  “We don't know for sure if there was no rape,” said Hooks.

  “But if there wasn't any— no assault at all— that's interesting, right, Willis? How many sex fiends don't do anything to the body?”

  “Maybe. But who knows what goes on in assholes' heads? Maybe hanging her got him off, he watched her dangle, came in his pants, went home, had sweet dreams. I remember one, few years back, guy got off on playing with their feet. Killed 'em first, set 'em up on their beds, played with their feet. That was enough to get him off— what do you think of that, Doctor?”

  “Something for everyone,” I said.

  “This guy, the foot guy, he didn't even have to yank the monkey. Just playing with the toes did it for him.”

  “I had a foot guy, too,” said Milo. “But he didn't kill, just tied 'em up and played.”

  “Probably woulda killed if he'd kept on.”

  “Probably.”

  “You could probably sit down and dig up lots of stories about perverted stuff.” Hooks stiffened and shot Milo a quick, embarrassed look. Milo's face remained still. “Anyway, if Mac and I come up with something, we'll let you know.”

  “Ditto, Willis.”

  “Yeah.”

  A young white cop jogged over.

  “Excuse me, Detective,” he said to Hooks. “Coroner's driver wants to know if we can transport the vic.”

  “You got anything more you want to do, Milo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Go ahead,” Hooks said. The officer hustled back, delivered the word, and two morgue attendants came forward with a gurney and a black body bag.

  I noticed movement from the north end of the playground. A few teachers had come closer to the tape and were watching while drinking coffee.

  “School days,” said Hooks. “I was born on Thirty-second. We moved to Long Beach when I was three, otherwise I woulda gone here.”

  The attendants got the body into the bag and lifted it on the gurney. As they wheeled her away, the white cop turned his attention to the ground and called over another uniform, a tall black man, even darker than McLaren. Then he jogged back to us.

  “It's probably nothing, sir, but you might want to take a look.”

  “At what?” said Hooks, already moving.

  “Something under the body.”

  We followed him over. The black uniform had his arms folded and his eyes were aimed at a small scrap of white paper, maybe two inches square.

  “It's probably nothing,” the first cop repeated, “but it was under her and there's something typed on it.”

  I saw the letters.

  Hooks squatted. “D-V-L-L. That mean anything to anybody?”

  The cops looked at one another.

  “No, sir,” said the first.

  “Maybe the devil,” said the second.

  “Any gang using that moniker?”

  Shrugs all around.

  “And since when do gang bangers type,” muttered Hooks. “Okay, you're the eagle eye, Officer . . . Bradbury. Do me a favor and check that graffiti on the school buildings over there, see if the same thing comes up anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir.” As Bradbury approached the yellow-tape border, the teachers backed away. But they watched as he scanned the graffiti.

  “DVLL,” said Hooks. “Mean anything to you, Milo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, neither. And seeing as she was laid down by the janitor, it was probably just something lying there on the cement before she got here. Maybe a piece of school memo or something.”

  The paper remained motionless in the static, metallic air.

  “Should I not bother to tell the techs?” said the black cop.

  “No, tell them to bag it, take a picture,” said Hooks. “We wouldn't want to be accused of shoddy police work by some scumbag lawyer, would we?”

  12

  Milo drove out to the street and parked behind my Seville.

  “Ah,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Finally, the games begin.”

  Behind us, a TV van from a local station had just pulled up, disgorging a gear-toting crew that sprinted for the gate. As the uniform checked with Hooks, a small gray car pulled away from the curb and passed us. The driver, Hispanic and wearing the same institutional-gray Montez had on, glanced at us for an instant and continued to Western.

  “A diplomat's kid on the West Side and a crack-kid down here,” said Milo. “What do you think?”

  “Some physical resemblance between Irit and Latvinia, both of them retarded, death by strangulation, no sexual assault on Irit, no evidence so far of an assault on Latvinia. And the position of the body. But Latvinia wasn't strangled with broad force and the janitor moved her.”

  “The janitor.”

  “You like him?”

  “Sure. Because he was there. And because he moved her.”

  “Sparing the grandchildren,” I said. “Janitors clean up. Janitors use brooms.”

  “Something else, Alex: He cuts her down, arranges her respectfully but doesn't tuck the tongue back in her mouth? Hooks asked him about that and he said when he realized she was really dead he didn't want to mess things up. Make sense to you?”

  “The average person seeing a hanging body would probably run for the phone. But if Montez is action-oriented, a family man, with strong attachments to the school, it could fit. But so does another scenario: Montez has a date with Latvinia— he admitted knowing her. They meet on the schoolyard because it's his turf. He kills her, hangs her, then realizes students are going to show up soon, maybe there isn't enough time to get rid of the body. So instead he plays hero.”

  “Or it was colder: There was enough time to get rid of the body but he left her there because he got off on thumbing his nose at us. On being a hero— thinks he's smart, a pretender, just like you said. Like those firefighters who torch stuff and show up to hold the hose.”

  “Another thing,” I said. “Montez wears a uniform. His is gray and the park worker I saw mowing at the conservancy was wearing beige, but someone else might not draw the distinction.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Irit.”

  “To her it might have connoted someone official. Someone who belonged and could be trusted. Most people relate to uniforms that way.”

  “Montez,” he said. “Well, if there's anything to learn about him, Hooks is as good a detective as any.”

  “That piece of paper,” I said. “DVLL.”

  “Mean something to you?”

  “No. I'm sure it's nothing— what Hooks said, a scrap of school memo.”

  He turned to me. “What, Alex?”

  “It just seemed too cute. Move the body and there it is. Nothing like that was found near Irit. According to the files.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “small things get overlooked.”

  He frowned. “You think Montez or whoever killed Latvinia left a message?”

  “Or it was in her pocket and fell out, either when she was hung or when Montez cut her down.”

  He rubbed his face. “I'll get to the morgue and look at the evidence bags personally. That is, if the stuff hasn't been returned to the family. Speaking of which, Carmeli called me this morning, said he has copies of the consulate crank mail, I should come by and pick them up. I'll do it around five, after I play phone tag to see if anyone's got deaf or retarded victims that look interesting. If I drop the letters off this evening, could you analyze them?”

  “Be happy to, for what it's worth. Quick cooperation on Carmeli's part. Attitude adjustment?”

  “Maybe he was impressed 'cause I brought along a psychologist.”


  “Sure,” I said. “That and the tie.”

  I got home at two-thirty. Robin and Spike were out and I drank a beer, went through the mail, paid some bills. Helena Dahl had phoned an hour and a half ago— not long after her session— leaving her work number. And Dr. Roone Lehmann had returned my call.

  The Cardiac Care Unit clerk told me Helena was in the middle of a procedure and couldn't come to the phone. Leaving my name, I phoned Lehmann.

  This time no service; an answering tape with a low, dry-but-mellow male voice picked up, and as I introduced myself, the same voice clicked in.

  “This is Dr. Lehmann.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Doctor.”

  “Certainly. Officer Dahl's sister called, too, but I thought I'd speak with you first. What exactly is she after?”

  “Some understanding of why he killed himself.”

  “I sympathize,” he said. “Of course. But can we ever really understand?”

  “True,” I said. “Did Nolan leave any clues?”

  “Was he despondent or profoundly depressed, overtly suicidal or making oblique cries for help? Not when I saw him, Dr. Delaware, but— hold on.”

  He was off the line for thirty seconds, came back sounding rushed. “I'm sorry. Something came up and I can't talk at length right now. Not that I could, anyway. Even though the patient's dead and even though the courts have been hacking away at confidentiality, I'm one of those old-fashioned fellows who takes our vows seriously.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me that might help her?” I said.

  “Anything,” he repeated, drawing out the word. “Hmm . . . let me think on that— do you ever get downtown? I could give you a few moments. Because I'd rather not discuss these things on the phone. A police case and all that, the current climate. One never knows where the media lurks.”

  “Do you see lots of police cases?”

  “Enough to be cautious. Of course, if it's too much of a problem to drive all the way—”

  “No problem,” I said. “When?”

  “Let me check my calendar— I do want to emphasize that I can't promise anything until I go over the file. And I'd prefer not to speak to the sister directly. Please tell her we talked.”

  “Sure. Have you had problems with these types of cases?”

  “Not . . . as a rule. Ounce of prevention and all that— there's something you might want to consider, Doctor. As the sister's therapist. The search for understanding is normal, but the value of digging things up varies from case to case.”

  “You don't think this case merits it?”

  “What I'm . . . let's just say Officer Dahl was . . . an interesting fellow. Anyway, I'll leave it at that, for the moment. I'll be in touch.”

  An interesting fellow.

  Warning me?

  Some dark secret that Helena was better off not knowing?

  I thought of what I'd learned about Nolan.

  Mood swings, sensation seeking, sudden shifts to political extremes.

  Had he stepped over the line— in the course of police work? Something best left unexplored?

  Something political— on the fringe?

  A police case and all that. The current climate.

  Videotaped beatings of suspects, cops sitting around as rioters torched the city, bungling of evidence in major cases, case after case of felonious cops caught in the act. LAPD was as popular as an abortionist at the Vatican.

  The media lurking.

  Had Lehmann been involved in other cop cases that had left him gun-shy?

  Whatever the reason, he was definitely trying to steer me away from a psychological autopsy of Nolan.

  The department hadn't argued when Helena had chosen to skip the full-dress funeral.

  Eager to move things along?

  Nolan, bright, different because he read books.

  Alienated.

  The switch from West L.A. to Hollywood.

  Because he liked action?

  Illegal action?

  Had he gotten himself into something that left suicide the only option?

  As I thought about it, Helena phoned, sounding breathless.

  “Rushed?” I said.

  “Busy. We just had a patient infarct in the middle of an angio. Big artery the cardiologist hadn't known about, he's Roto-Rootering one and the other jams up. But he's okay, the patient, things have quieted down. The reason I called is, right after our session I went over to Nolan's apartment, all motivated to go through his stuff, maybe find something.” She paused and I could hear her inhale and blow it out. “I went to the garage first and it was fine but someone broke into the place, Dr. Delaware. It was a wreck. They took his stereo and his TV, his microwave, all his flatware, a couple of lamps, pictures off the walls. Probably some clothes, too. Someone must have come with a truck and loaded up.”

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

  “Lowlifes.” Her voice shook. “Scumbags.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  “They probably did it at night. It's a duplex, just Nolan and the landlord and she's a dentist, out of town at a convention. I called the police and they said it would take at least an hour to get there. I had to be at work by three, so I gave my number and left. What can they do, anyway? Write a report and file it? The damage is already done. Even if the bastards come back, there's nothing to take except . . . Nolan's car— God, why didn't I think of that! His Fiero. In the garage. Either they didn't see it or they didn't have time and are coming back— God, I've got to go back there, get someone to take me so I can drive the Fiero over to my place . . . so many things to handle, the lawyer just called me about the final papers . . . robbing a cop. This damn city . . . his rent is paid up for the month but eventually I'm going to have to clean everything up and . . . go back there . . .”

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “You'd do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “That's so nice, but no, I couldn't.”

  “It's okay, Helena. I don't mind.”

  “I just— you're serious?”

  “Where's the apartment?”

  “Mid-Wilshire. Sycamore near Beverly. I can't leave right now, too many iffy patients. Maybe midshift, if we're staffed enough. If they take the damn car before then, fine.”

  “Tonight, then.”

  “I can't impose on you to come out late, Dr. Delaware—”

  “It's no problem, Helena. I'm a night person.”

  “I'm not sure exactly when I'll be free.”

  “Call me when you are. If I'm free, I'll meet you there. If not, you're on your own. Okay?”

  She laughed softly. “Okay. Thanks so much. I really didn't want to go alone.”

  “Have a minute?” I said.

  “Unless someone else starts dying.”

  “I spoke with Dr. Lehmann.”

  “What'd he say?”

  “As we expected, nothing, because of confidentiality. But he did agree to reread Nolan's file and if he comes up with something he feels comfortable discussing, he'll meet with me.”

  Silence.

  “That is, if you want me to, Helena.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Sure, that's fine. I started, might as well finish.”

  13

  Milo chomped a dead cigarillo and carried the consulate crank letters in an oversized, unlabeled white envelope.

  “A year's worth,” he said, remaining out on the terrace.

  “What do they do with the old ones?”

  “Don't know. This is what Carmeli gave me. Or rather, his secretary. Still haven't gotten past the hall, yet. Thanks, Alex. Back to the phones.”

  “No luck yet?”

  “Lots of callbacks pending. Hooks has started to work on Montez. So far, the guy's clean. Totally. Just to be careful I double-checked the offender files. Nothing. See you.”

  He patted my shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Milo, are you aware of any scandals brewing in the departme
nt? West L.A. or Hollywood, specifically?”

  He stopped short. “No. Why?”

  “Can't say.”