Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Scary stuff, and the fact that psychology had once swallowed it whole disgusted me.

  The racist swill propagated by Goddard and Terman still reverberated in my head. Both had been names uttered with reverence in the corridors of the Psych Tower.

  Like a child discovering his parents are felons, I felt a cold, dark pit open in my gut.

  I'd administered countless IQ tests, had prided myself upon knowing the limitations of the instrument as well as the virtues.

  Properly done, testing was valuable. Still, the rotten spot I'd just found at the core of my field's golden apple made me wonder what else I'd missed, despite all my education.

  It was 1:00 P.M. and I'd been in the library for five hours. Lunchtime, but I had no appetite.

  I picked up The Brain Drain.

  The book's sole premise became obvious within pages:

  Material success, morality, happy marriages, superior parenthood— all were caused by high g— a supposed general-intelligence trait whose validity had been debated for years.

  This author presented it as a given.

  The book had a smarmy, congratulatory tone: addressing itself to “you, the highly intelligent reader.”

  The ultimate kiss-up, virtue by association.

  Maybe that— and a harnessing of upper-middle-class anxiety during hard times— could explain its best-sellerdom.

  It sure wasn't the science, because I came across page after page of faulty assumptions, shoddy referencing, articles the author claimed as supportive that turned out to be just the opposite when I looked them up.

  Promises to back up assertions with numbers that never appeared. Revival of Galton's one-gene theory of intelligence.

  Hundred-year-old nonsense— who'd written this garbage?

  The author bio at the back said a “social scholar” named Arthur Haldane, Ph.D.

  Resident scholar at the Loomis Institute in New York City.

  No further credentials.

  No book jacket on the library copy, so no photo.

  Ugly stuff.

  Ugly times.

  So what else was new?

  My head hurt and my eyes ached.

  What would I report to Milo and Sharavi?

  Pseudoscientific crap sold well?

  What connection was there to three dead kids?

  The killer, watching, stalking, culling the herd . . .

  With scholarly justification?

  Because some lives just weren't worth living?

  So he wasn't really a murderer.

  He was a freelance bioethicist.

  29

  The only thing i hadn't gotten to was Twisted Science, the critique of The Brain Drain, and though I couldn't see what it could add, I checked it out and took it home with me.

  One message at my service. Milo's home number but the caller was Dr. Richard Silverman.

  Rick and Milo had lived together for years but he and I rarely spoke. He was more prone to listening than talking. Reserved, meticulous, fit, always well-dressed, he was a striking contrast to Milo's aesthetic impairment and some people saw the two of them as an odd couple. I knew they were both thoughtful, driven, highly self-critical, had suffered deeply from being homosexual, had taken a long time to find their niche, both as individuals and members of a couple. Both buried themselves in bloody work— Rick spent over one hundred hours a week as a senior E.R. physician at Cedars-Sinai— and their time together was often silent.

  He said, “Thanks, Alex. How's everything?”

  “Great. With you?”

  “Fine, fine. Listen, I just wanted to ask how Helena Dahl's doing— nothing confidential, just if she's okay.”

  “I haven't seen her recently, Rick.”

  “Oh.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Well,” he said, “she quit the hospital yesterday, no explanation. I guess what's happened to her could unnerve anybody.”

  “It's tough,” I said.

  “I met the brother once. Not through her. He came in with a gunshot case, never mentioned being her brother, and I wasn't paying attention to nametags. But someone told me later.”

  “Helena wasn't on duty?”

  “No, not that particular night.”

  “Anything unusual about him?”

  “Not really. Big guy, young, very quiet, could have stepped right out of an LAPD recruiting poster. Back when that was the type they recruited. I was struck by the fact that he never bothered to ask for Helena, thought maybe he knew she was off. But when I told her he'd been in, she looked surprised. Anyway, I don't want to pry. Take care. If you do see her, say hi.”

  “Will do.”

  He laughed. “Say hi to Milo, too. You're probably seeing him more than I am. This case— the retarded kids— it's really disturbing him. Not that he's been talking about it. But he's been tossing in his sleep.”

  It was two-thirty. I hadn't come up with a thing on the DVLL killings. Robin was out for the afternoon, the house was too damn big, and the day seemed hollow.

  I'd pushed Helena and Nolan to the back of my mind but Rick's call got me ruminating again.

  What had caused her to make such a complete break?

  Those family photos in Nolan's garage? Primal memories that strong?

  She was tough and competent on the job but isolated in her private life.

  More like her brother than she'd realized?

  Had his self-destruction gotten her wondering about where she'd end up? Paths that hadn't been taken?

  Depression ran in families. Had I missed something?

  I called her home. The phone kept ringing and worst-case scenarios flashed through my head.

  I thought about Nolan's showing up at the E.R., never asking for her.

  Even when we were little kids we went our separate ways. Just ignored each other. Is that normal?

  That kind of distance could pass for civility when life's rhythms remained shallow. But when things went bad, it could lead to the worst kind of guilt.

  Parents dead, abandoned by her husband when he moved to North Carolina.

  Going to work each day at the E.R., performing heroics. Coming home to . . . ?

  Had the reliable engine finally broken down?

  I had nothing to do and decided to take a drive out to her house.

  Maybe I'd find her in a bathrobe on the sofa, watching soap operas and stuffing her face with junk food. Maybe she'd get angry at the intrusion and I'd feel like a fool.

  I could live with that.

  It took forty-five minutes to reach the west end of the Valley and another ten to find her address in Woodland Hills.

  The house was a small yellow structure of no particular style on a hot, wide side street lined with mature bottlebrush trees in full bloom. Red flowers and sticky patches from the trees littered the sidewalks and California jays dove among the branches. The sun bore down through the haze and even though I couldn't hear the freeway, I could smell it.

  The front lawn was dry and needed mowing. Big, shapeless margarita daisy bushes pushed up against the front porch. No sign of her Mustang in the driveway and the garage door was shut. The mailbox was empty and my ring and knock went unanswered.

  Two cars in the driveway next door, a white minivan and a white Acura.

  I went over there. The ceramic plaque beneath the bell said THE MILLERS under a crucifix, and looked homemade. A window air conditioner played a waltz.

  I rang and the brass cover on the peephole snicked back.

  “Yes?” Male voice.

  “My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I'm a friend of your neighbor, Helena Dahl. She hasn't been around for a while and some of us have been getting a little concerned.”

  “Um . . . one second.”

  The door opened and cold air hit my face. A couple in their late twenties looked me over. He was tall, dark, bearded, with a sunburned nose, and wore a pink Hawaiian shirt, denim shorts, no shoes. The can of Sprite in his hand was sweating but he wasn't.

&nb
sp; The woman next to him was slim, broad-shouldered, nice-looking, with butter-colored multiflipped hair sporting two curlers on top. An electric blue T-shirt was tucked into black shorts and her nails were long and pearly white.

  “Who's concerned about Helena?” he said.

  “Her friends, people she works with at Cedars.”

  No answer.

  I said, “She quit her job without explaining why. Has she left town?”

  He gave a reluctant nod, but didn't say more. Behind him was a neatly appointed living room, home-shopping show on a big screen hawking a pearl necklace with matching earrings, only 234 left.

  “We just wanted to know how she's doing,” I said. “Do you know about her brother?”

  He nodded. “He never came around. At least not since we've lived here, which is two years.”

  The woman said, “But they both grew up here. It was their parents' house.” Southern accent. “Helena said he was a police officer. How strange, what he did.”

  “Any idea where she is?” I said.

  “She said she was going on vacation,” said the man. He took a drink from the can and offered it to his wife but she shook her head.

  “Did she mention where?”

  “No,” he said.

  “When did she leave?”

  “What'd you say your name was?”

  I repeated it and held out my business card and my police-consultant badge.

  “You're police, too?”

  “I work with them sometimes but that has nothing to do with Officer Dahl.”

  His posture loosened. “My work's kind of related to police work. I teach traffic school, just opened my own business— you're sure this doesn't have anything to do with him— investigating his death, for insurance or something like that?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “I'm just concerned about Helena.”

  “Well, she just went away to get some rest. At least that's what she said, and can you blame her?”

  I shook my head.

  “Poor thing,” said the woman.

  Her husband stuck out his hand. “Greg Miller, this is Kathy.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “She left yesterday,” he said. “Pardon the suspicion, but you can't be too careful, all the stuff that goes on, nowadays. We're trying to get a block association together, in order to look out for each other. Helena asked us to watch her house while she was gone.”

  “Crime problems in the neighborhood?” I said.

  “It's not Watts but it's worse than you'd think— mostly stupid kid stuff, now they've got the white kids thinking they're gang bangers, too. There was a party last week, over in Granada Hills. Gang bangers showed up and when they didn't let 'em in, they did a drive-by. Sometimes I work nights so I taught Kathy how to shoot and she's good. Probably gonna get an attack dog, too.”

  “Sounds like serious problems.”

  “Serious enough for me,” he said. “I believe in prevention. All we had til recently was kids driving by booming their stereos late at night, speeding, screaming, throwing out bottles. But the last few months there've been burglaries, even during the day, while people are at work.”

  Another glance between them. She nodded and he said, “Last burglary was Helena, as a matter of fact. Just two days ago. With her brother and that, you can't really blame her for wanting to take off, right?”

  “Two days ago?”

  “At night, hers was a nighttime thing. She went out to do some grocery shopping, came back, found the back door jimmied. Kathy and I were out, thankfully they didn't hit us. They took her TV and the stereo and some jewelry, she said. Next day she was packed up and asking us to look after the house. Said she'd had enough of L.A.”

  “Did she call the police?”

  “No, she said she'd had enough of the police, too. I figured she meant her brother, didn't want to push it. Even though I thought we definitely should call it in. For block security. But she was so stressed out.”

  “Of all the people for it to happen to,” said Kathy. “She was so down to begin with. And she's such a nice person. Mostly she kept to herself, but she was always real nice.”

  “Any idea where she went?” I said.

  “Nope,” said Kathy. “She just said she needed a rest and we didn't want to be nosy. She had a couple suitcases in the back of the car but I don't even know if it was a driving trip or she was heading for the airport. I asked her how long she'd be away but she said she wasn't sure, she'd call to let us know if it was going to be long. If she does call, would you like me to tell her you were by?”

  “Please,” I said. “And good luck with your block association.”

  “Luck's what you make it,” said Greg. “God helps those who help themselves.”

  Heavy traffic and bad tempers on the freeway ride back to the city. As I sat in a jam just north of the Sunset exit, I thought of the luck of the Dahl family.

  Both Nolan's and Helena's homes defiled.

  L.A.'s burglary rate had skyrocketed, but I'd never worshiped at the altar of coincidence and it made me edgy.

  Someone out to get them?

  Someone looking for something? Information about Nolan's death?

  Data Helena had?

  The family photo albums were all she'd taken the day I'd gone with her to Nolan's place, but maybe she'd returned, picked through the mess, discovered something that had upset her enough to cancel her therapy, quit her job, and leave town?

  Or maybe it was just the final straw.

  Traffic started again, then stopped.

  Honks, lifted middle fingers, shouted expletives.

  Civilization.

  30

  That night, at eight, Robin and I were in the bath when the phone rang. She faced me, her hair up, water reaching the bottoms of her breasts.

  We played toesies. The damn thing quieted.

  Later, drying off, I listened to the taped message.

  “It's Milo. Call me on the car phone.”

  I did and he said, “Found another DVLL case. Hollywood Division, before Raymond Ortiz. Seventeen months ago.”

  “Another poor kid,” I said. “How old—”

  “No. Not a kid. And not retarded, either. On the contrary.”

  I met him at a twenty-four-hour coffee shop on Highland north of Melrose named Boatwright's. Rocket-to-the-moon architecture, boomerang-shaped counter, three of the stools occupied by pie-eating newspaper-nosers, the Hollywood Strings on scratchy soundtrack.

  He was in his usual cop's back booth, sitting opposite a dark-haired woman. He waved and she turned. She looked around twenty-five. Very thin, pretty in a severe way, she had a pointed chin and ski-slope nose, ivory skin, glossy black wedge-cut hair, glossy brown eyes. Her pantsuit was black. In front of her was a big chocolate malt in a real glass. Milo had a napkin tucked under his chin and was eating fried shrimp and onion rings and drinking iced tea.

  The woman kept watching me until I got two feet away. Then she smiled, more the right thing to do than amiability. Scanning me from head to shoe, as if measuring for a suit.

  “Alex, this is Detective Petra Connor, Hollywood Homicide. Petra, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Connor. A little makeup added depth to eyes that didn't need any more. She had very long, very thin hands with warm, strong fingers that squeezed mine for a second, then flew back to the straw in her malt.

  I slid in next to Milo.

  “Something to eat?” he said.

  “No, I'm fine. What's up?”

  “What's up is Detective Connor is an eagle eye.”

  “Pure luck,” she said in a soft voice. “Most of the time I never pay attention to memos.”

  “Most of the time they're bullshit.”

  She smiled and twirled the straw.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I forgot. Working with Bishop you probably never hear sullied speech.”

  “I don't, but Bishop does,” said Connor.

  “Her partner's
a Mormon,” Milo told me. “Very smart, very straight, probably be chief one day. Petra and he picked up the case in question a while back. He's currently off with the wife and million kids in Hawaii so she's riding alone.”