He kneeled and inspected for a long time. Stood, frowning. “You're right, these are useless. Looks to me like someone took the time to mess them up.”
He checked around the pond area some more, taking his time, getting his pants dirty. “Nope, nothing here worth a damn. Sorry.”
That same troubled tone in his voice that I'd heard over the phone. He was holding back something, but I knew it was useless to probe.
Back in the living room, I said, “Something to drink?”
“Later.” He opened the vinyl case and took out a brown plastic box. Removing a videocassette from it, he bounced it against one thigh.
The tape was unmarked, but the box was printed with the call letters of a local TV station. Rubber-stamped diagonally across the label was the legend PROPERTY LAPD: EVIDENCE RM. and a serial number.
“Dorsey Hewitt's last stand,” he said. “Definitely not for prime time, but there's something I want you to check out—if your stomach can take it.”
“I'll cope.”
We went into the library. Before inserting the cartridge into the VCR, he peered into the machine's load slot.
“When's the last time you lubricated this?”
“Never,” I said. “I hardly use it except to record sessions when the court wants visuals.”
He sighed, slid the cartridge in, picked up the remote control, pressed PLAY, and stood back, watching the monitor with his hands folded across his waist. The dog jumped up on a big leather chair, settled, and regarded him. The screen went from black to bright blue and a hiss filtered through the speakers.
A half minute more of blue, then the TV station logo flashed over a digital date, two months old.
Another few moments of video stutter were followed by a long shot of an attractive, one-story brick building, with a central arch leading to a courtyard and wood-grilled windows. Tile roof, brown door to the right of the arch.
Close up on a sign: LOS ANGELES COUNTY MENTAL HEALTH CENTER, WESTSIDE.
Swing back to a long shot: two small, dark-garbed figures crouched on opposite sides of the arch—toylike: G.I. Joe figurines holding rifles.
A side shot revealed police barriers fencing the street.
No sound other than static, but the dog's ears had perked and pitched forward.
Milo raised the volume, and a soup of incomprehensible background speech could be heard above the white noise.
Nothing for a few seconds, then one of the dark figures moved, still squatting, and repositioned itself to the left of the door. Another figure came from around a corner and lowered itself to a deep crouch, both hands on its weapon.
A close-up inflated the new arrival, turning dark cloth into navy blue, revealing the bulk of protective vesting, white letters spelling out LAPD across a broad back. Combat boots. Blue ski mask revealing only eyes; I thought of Munich terrorists and knew something bad was going to happen.
But nothing did for the next few moments. The dog's ears were still stiff and his breathing had quickened.
Milo rubbed one shoe with another and ran his hand over his face. Then the brown door on the screen swung open on two people.
A man, bearded, long-haired, scrawny. The beard, a matted frenzy of blond and gray corkscrews. Above a blemished, knotted forehead, his hair haloed in spiky clumps, recalling a child's clumsily drawn sun.
The camera moved in on him, highlighting dirty flesh, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes so wide and bulging they threatened to shoot off the shaggy launchpad of his face.
He was naked from the waist up and sweating furiously. The wild eyes began rotating madly, never blinking, never settling. His mouth was agape, like a dental patient's, but no sound issued forth. He appeared to be toothless.
His left arm was clamped around a heavy black woman, imbedded so tightly in her soft, skirted waist that the fingers disappeared.
The skirt was green. Over it the woman wore a white blouse that had come partially untucked. She was around thirty-five and her face was wet, too—perspiration and tears. Her teeth were visible, lips stretched back in a rictus of horror.
The man's right arm was a bony yoke around her neck. Something silvery flashed in his hand as he pressed it up against her throat.
She closed her eyes and kept them clenched.
The man was leaning her back, pressing her to him, convexing her neck and revealing the full breadth of a big, shiny carving knife. Red-stained hands. Red-stained blade. Only her heels touched the pavement. She was off balance, an unwilling dancer.
The man blinked, darted his eyes, and looked at one of the SWAT cops. Several rifles were aimed at him. No one moved.
The woman trembled and the collaring hand moved involuntarily and brought forth a small red mark from her neck. The blotch stood out like a ruby.
She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead. The man screamed something to her, shook her, and they closed again.
The camera stayed on the two of them, then shifted smoothly to another of the SWAT men.
No one moved.
The dog was standing on the chair, breathing hard.
The bearded man's knife elbow quivered.
The man closed his mouth, opened it. Looked to be screaming at the top of his lungs, but the sound wasn't carrying.
The woman's mouth was still open. Her wound had already coagulated—just a nick.
The man propelled her onto the sidewalk, very slowly. One of her shoes came off. He didn't notice it, was looking from side to side, cop to cop, screaming nonstop.
All at once the sound came on. Very loud. New microphone.
The dog began barking.
The man with the knife screamed, a howling, hoarse and wet.
Panting. Wordless.
Pain scream.
My hands dug into my thighs. Milo faced the screen, immobile.
The bearded man shifted his head from side to side some more, faster, harder, as if being slapped. Screaming louder. Pressing the knife up under the woman's chin.
Her eyes shot open.
The dog's barks turned to growls, guttural and bearish, loud enough to be scary and a lot more threatening than the warning sounds he'd uttered last night.
The man with the knife was directing his screams at a SWAT man to his left, haranguing wordlessly, as if the two of them were friends turned hateful.
The cop might have said something because the madman upped his volume.
Roaring. Shrieking.
The man backed away, hugging the woman more tightly, concealing his face behind hers as he dragged her into the doorway.
Then a smile and a short, sharp twist of his wrist.
Another spot of blood—larger than the first—formed on the woman's throat.
She raised her hands reflexively, trying to bend out from under the knife, losing her balance and stumbling.
Her weight and the movement surprised the man, and for one brief moment, as he tried to keep her upright and haul her backward, he lowered his right arm.
A quick, sharp sound—like a single handclap—and a red dot appeared on the man's right cheek.
He spread his arms. Another dot materialized, just left of the first one.
The woman fell to the pavement as a rain of gunfire sounded—corn popping in an echo chamber. The man's hair blew back. His chest burst, and the front of his face turned into something amoebic and rosy—a pink and white kaleidoscope that seemed to unfold as it imploded.
The hostage was facedown, fetal. Bloodspray showered down on her.
The man, now faceless, slumped and sagged, but he remained on his feet for one hellish second, a gore-topped scarecrow, still gripping the knife as red juice poured out of his head. He had to be dead but he continued to stand, bending at the knees, his ruined head shadowing the hostage's shoulder.
Then all at once he let go of the knife and collapsed, falling on the woman, limp as a blanket. She twisted and struck out at him, finally freed herself and managed to rise to her knees, sobbing and covering her head wit
h her hands.
Policemen ran to her.
One of the dead man's bare feet was touching her leg. She didn't notice it, but a cop did and kicked it away. Another officer, still ski-masked, stood over the faceless corpse, legs spread, gun pointed.
The screen went black. Then bright blue.
The dog was barking again, loud and insistent.
I made a shushing sound. He looked at me, cocked his head. Stared at me, confused. I went over to him and patted his back. His back muscles were jumping and drool trickled from his flews.
“It's okay, fella.” My voice sounded false and my hands were cold. The dog licked one of them and looked up at me.
“It's okay,” I repeated.
Milo rewound the tape. His jaw was bunched.
How long had the scene lasted—a few minutes? I felt as if I'd aged watching it.
I stroked the dog some more. Milo stared at the numbers on the VCR's counter.
“It's him, isn't it?” I said. “Hewitt. Screaming on my tape.”
“Him or a good imitation.”
“Who's the poor woman?”
“Another social worker at the center. Adeline Potthurst. She just happened to be sitting at the wrong desk when he ran out after killing Becky.”
“How is she?”
“Physically, she's okay—minor lacerations. Emotionally?” He shrugged. “She took disability leave. Refused to talk to me or anyone else.”
He ran a hand along the edge of a bookshelf, grazing book spines and toys.
“How'd you figure it out?” I said. “Hewitt on the “bad love' tape?”
“I'm not sure what I figured, actually.”
He shrugged. His forelock cast a hat-brim shadow over his brow, and in the weak light of the library, his green eyes were drab.
The tape ejected. Milo put it on an end table and sat down. The dog waddled over to him, and this time Milo looked pleased to see him.
Rubbing the animal's thick neck, he said, “When I first heard your tape, something about it bugged me—reminded me of something. But I didn't know what it was, so I didn't say anything to you. I figured it was probably “bad love'—Hewitt's using the phrase, my reading about it in the clinic director's witness report.”
“Had you watched the video before?”
He nodded. “But at the station, with half an ear—a bunch of other detectives sitting around, cheering when Hewitt bit it. Splatter's never been my thing. I was filling out forms, doing paperwork. . . . When you told me about the tape, it still didn't trigger, but I wasn't that bugged. I figured what you did—a bad joke.”
“The phone call and the fish make it more than a joke, don't they?”
“The phone call, by itself, is stupidity—like you said, cowardly shit. Someone coming on your property in the middle of the night and killing something is more. All of it put together is more. How much more I don't know, but I'd rather be a little paranoid than get taken by surprise. After we spoke on the phone this afternoon I really wracked my brains about what was bothering me. Went back into the Basille files, found the video, and watched it. And realized it wasn't the phrase that I remembered, it was the screams. Someone had stuck Hewitt's screams on your little gift.”
He pulled his wet hand away from the dog's maw, looked at it, wiped it on his jacket.
“Where'd the video come from?” I said. “TV station's raw footage?”
He nodded.
“How much of it was actually broadcast?”
“Not much at all. This TV station has a twenty-four-hour crime-watch van with a scanner—anything for the ratings, right? They got to the scene first and were the only ones to actually record the whole thing. Their total footage is ten minutes or so, mostly no-action standoff before Hewitt comes out with Adeline. What you just saw is thirty-five seconds.”
“That's all? It seemed a lot longer.”
“Seemed like a goddamn eternity, but that's what it was. The part that actually made it to the six o'clock news was nine seconds. Five of Hewitt with Adeline, three of Rambo close-ups on the SWAT guys, and one second of Hewitt down. No blood, no screaming, no standing dead man.”
“Wouldn't sell deodorant,” I said, pushing the image of the teetering corpse out of my head. “Why was the sound off for most of it? Technical difficulties?”
“Yup. Loose cable on their parabolic mike. The sound man caught it midway through.”
“What did the other stations broadcast?”
“Postmortem analysis by the department mouthpiece.”
“So if the screams on my tape were lifted, the source had to be this particular piece of footage.”
“Looks that way.”
“Meaning what? Mr. Silk's an employee of the TV station?”
“Or a spouse, kid, lover, pal, significant other, whatever. If you give me your patient list, I can try to get hold of the station's personnel records and cross-check.”
“Be better if you give me the personnel list,” I said. “Let me check it against my patients, so I can preserve confidentiality.”
“Fine. Another list you might try to get is the one for your “bad love' conference. Anyone who attended. It was a long time ago, but maybe the hospital keeps records.”
“I'll call tomorrow.”
He got up and touched his throat. “Now I'm thirsty.”
We went into the kitchen, opened beers, and sat at the table, drinking and brooding.
The dog positioned himself between us, licking his lips.
Milo said, “He doesn't get to go for the gusto?”
“Teetotaler.” I got up and slid the water bowl over. The dog ignored it.
“Bullshit. He wants hops and malt,” said Milo. “Looks like he's closed a few taverns in his day.”
“There's a marketing opportunity for you,” I said. “Brew a hearty lager for quadrupeds. Though I'm not sure you could set your criteria too high for a species that imbibes out of the toilet.”
He laughed. I managed a smile. Both of us trying to forget the videotape. And everything else.
“There's another possibility,” I said. “Maybe Hewitt's voice wasn't lifted from the video footage. Maybe he was taped simultaneously by someone at the mental health center. Someone who happened to have a recorder handy the day of the murder and switched it on during the standoff. There'd probably be machines lying around the center, for therapy.”
“You're saying there's a therapist behind this?”
“I was thinking more of a patient. Some paranoids make a fetish of keeping records. I've seen some lug tape recorders around with them. Someone who'd been bearing a grudge since seventy-nine could very well be highly paranoid.”
He thought about that. “Nutcase with a pocket Sony, huh? Someone you once treated who ended up at the mental health center?”
“Or just someone who remembered me from the conference and ended up at the center. Someone tying me in with bad love—whatever it means to him. Probably anger at bad therapy. Or therapy he perceived as bad. De Bosch's theory has to do with bad mothers letting their kids down. Betrayal. If you think of therapists as surrogate parents, the stretch isn't hard to make.”
He put down his bottle and looked at the ceiling. “So we've got a nut, one of your old patients, gone downhill, can't afford private treatment so he's getting county help. Happens to be at the center the day Hewitt freaks out and butchers Becky. Recorder in his pocket—keeping tabs on all the people talking behind his back. He hears the screams, presses RECORD . . . I guess it's possible—anything's possible in this city.”
“If we're dealing with someone who's been stewing for a long time, witnessing Becky Basille's murder and the SWAT scene could have set him off. Hearing Hewitt screaming about bad love could have done it, too, if he'd had experiences with de Bosch or a de Boschian therapist.”
He rolled the bottle between his palms. “Maybe. But two nuts with a “bad love' fixation just happening to show up at the same place on the same day is too damned cute for my taste.”<
br />
“Mine, too,” I said.
He drank some more.
“What if it wasn't a coincidence at all, Milo? What if Hewitt and the taper knew each other—even shared a common rage about bad love, de Bosch, therapists in general? If the mental health center's typical, it's a crowded place, patients waiting for hours. It wouldn't be that strange for two disturbed people to get together and discover a mutual resentment, would it? If they were paranoid to begin with, they could have played upon each other's fears and delusions. Confirming for each other that the way they saw the world was valid. The taper might even be someone who wouldn't have been violent under different circumstances. But seeing Hewitt murder his therapist and then seeing Hewitt's face blown off could have pushed him over.”
“So now he's ready to do his own therapist? So what's the tape and the call and the fish?”
“Preparing the scene. Or maybe he won't go any further—I don't know. And something else: I might not even be his only target. He might have a current therapist who's in danger.”
“Any idea who it could be? From your patient list?”
“No, that's the thing. There's no one who fits. But my patients were all kids. Lots can happen over time.”
He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.
“Speaking of kids,” he said. “Where does the kid's voice fit in with your two-nut scenario?”
“I don't know, dammit. Maybe the taper's got a kid. Or he's abducted one—God, I hope not, but that voice stank of coercion, didn't it? So flat—did Hewitt have any children?”
“Nope. The report has him as unmarried, unemployed, un-everything.”
“Be good to know who he hung out with at the center. We could also try to verify that my tape was taken from the video footage. Because if it wasn't, we wouldn't have to bother cross-referencing the station personnel list.”
He smiled. “And you wouldn't have to expose your patient list, right?”
“Right. That would be a major betrayal. I still can't justify it.”
“You're sure it's not any of them?”
“No, I'm not sure, but what am I going to do? Call hundreds of people and ask them if they've grown up to be hate-crazed nuts?”
“No Mr. Silk in your past, huh?”
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