Alex 18 - Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Talk about an ego trip, if she succeeded.”

  “Psychologist solves multiple murders,” I said. “Talk about public relations.”

  He thought about that for a long time. “One of her patients is a very bad guy.”

  “No forced entry,” I said. “Someone she knew and let into the house. It’s worth looking into.”

  “I can’t get hold of her patient records.”

  “Her partners might know something.”

  “They’re shrinks, too, Alex. Same confidentiality restriction.”

  “I’m not sure of the legal issues; but if the bad guy isn’t officially their patient, they might be okay talking about him in general terms.”

  “Sounds like legal precedent to me,” he said. “What the hell, it’s worth a shot.” He phoned information, got numbers for Drs. Larsen and Gull, and left messages to call him.

  I said, “How’s it going with the prints from Koppel’s house?”

  “There are so damn many, the print guys are figuring at least a week. One thing they did tell me: not a single print near the body. At least a ten-foot radius had been wiped clean. A psych patient who’s meticulous. Not an overt nutcase, right?”

  “Not even close to nuts,” I said.

  He flipped open the murder book that had been opened on Mary Lou Koppel. “Ballistics faxed a report this morning. The .22 used to shoot her was similar but not identical to either the Gavin Quick or the Flora Newsome guns. Even discounting Flora, we’ve got two separate weapons for two murders. This is some guy with easy access to cheapies, knows his way around the street.”

  “An experienced con,” I said. “The kind Flora Newsome could’ve met on the job.”

  “Would a guy like that go into therapy?”

  “If he had to. Look at Gavin Quick.”

  His eyes widened. “Alternative sentencing. Someone who had to get shrunk. And that gives me a way to get around the goddamn confidentiality. Go through court records, see if any judges assigned any other patients to Koppel.”

  He slumped. “Huge job.”

  “Narrow it down to a year or two and put your worker ant on it.”

  “I will,” he said. “I will definitely do that. It’s also time to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Quick again, find out about their boy’s problem, if he harassed anyone else. So far all I get is their answering machine. I called the D.A. who prosecuted Gavin and the defense attorney. No help at all from them, just another case. I also recontacted Gavin’s two friends from the accident, and they had no idea he stalked Beth Gallegos or anyone else. On the intake Koppel did for the court, she said Gavin’s obsession could be related to brain damage. What do you think?”

  “Another form of obsessive behavior,” I said. “Sure, it could be consistent with a prefrontal injury. The other thing to consider is that the vindictive boyfriend wasn’t the blonde’s. He’s Beth Gallegos’s beau. What if Gavin broke the terms of his probation and resumed stalking?”

  “So the guy stalks Gavin in return, offs him and the blonde? And Koppel?”

  “No accounting for passion,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s visit the object of Gavin’s passion.”

  *

  Phone work revealed that Beth Gallegos had switched jobs again, from the Long Beach clinic to a private educational therapy firm in Westwood.

  “Westwood’s close to Beverly Hills,” I said, as we drove there. “If Gavin was still stalking her, I doubt she’d have chanced it.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  *

  Beth Gallegos was gorgeous. That did nothing to explain Gavin’s obsession—stalking is psychopathology, and plain people are victimized as often as lookers—it was simply a fact.

  Petite and black-haired and dusky-skinned, she wore a pale blue uniform cut for blandness that couldn’t conceal her tiny waist, flaring hips, and bountiful breasts. Her eyes were amber, her lashes long and curling. Twenty-seven years old, she wore no makeup and looked eighteen. A clean, fresh eighteen. Her nails were unpolished and clipped short. The black hair, sleek and wavy, was tied back in a ponytail and fastened by a rubber band.

  Aiming for low-key. Her perfect-oval face and cameo features and lush body rendered the effort useless.

  She was uncomfortable talking to us in the lobby of the educational service, and we took the elevator down to the ground-floor coffee shop. A young waitress approached us with a smile, but even though Milo smiled back, something in his greeting wiped the joy from her face.

  Beth Gallegos ordered tea, and Milo and I had Cokes. When the order came, he pressed a bill into the waitress’s palm. She left quickly and never reappeared.

  Gallegos had been edgy since we’d shown up, and Milo tried to put her at ease with chitchat about her job. The outfit she worked for was called Comprehensive Rehab and specialized in stroke victims. Her job was to help patients regain fine motor skills. She found the challenge satisfying.

  Milo said, “Sounds like it would be.”

  Gallegos fumbled with her teacup and avoided our eyes.

  “Let’s talk about Gavin Quick,” said Milo. “Have you heard what happened to him?”

  “Yes. I read it in the paper. It was horrible. I cried.” She had a slightly nasal, little-girl voice and narrow hands with smooth fingers. A diamond chip ring banded the third finger of her left hand.

  More than a boyfriend.

  “You cried,” said Milo.

  “I did. I felt terrible. Despite what Gavin put me through. Because I knew what he’d been through. Knew it was the CHI making him do it.”

  Milo blinked.

  “Closed head injury,” I said.

  Beth Gallegos nodded and spooned sugar into her tea but didn’t drink. “CHIs are weird that way. Sometimes nothing shows up on scans, but people change drastically. I’m sure Gavin wouldn’t have done those things if he hadn’t been injured.”

  “You’ve had other brain-damaged stalkers?” said Milo.

  Gallegos’s hand flew to her mouth. “No, God forbid I should ever go through that more than once. I’m just saying the brain controls everything, and when it’s compromised, you get problems. That’s why I did everything I could to avoid making it a criminal situation for Gavin.” Her eyes got wet.

  “The way I see it, ma’am, he left you no choice.”

  “That’s what everyone told me.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “My family.”

  “Your family local?”

  “No,” she said. “My parents live in Germany. My father’s a captain in the Army. At first, I didn’t tell them what was going on because I knew how my dad would react.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For sure he’d have gotten himself a leave, flown right over, and had a stern talk with Gavin. Once he did find out, I had a hard time convincing him not to do exactly that. That’s part of what led me to file charges. I had to assure Dad I was taking care of myself. But I had to do it, no matter what. It was just getting too intense, and Gavin obviously needed help.”

  “You never told your family, but they found out.”

  “My sister told them. She lives in Tucson and I confided in her and made her promise not to tell.” She smiled. “Of course, she didn’t listen to me. Which I understand, I’m not mad. We’re close, she had my best interests at heart.”

  “Anyone else tell you to file charges?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Milo looked at her ring.

  Beth Gallegos said, “He wasn’t my fiancé, then. Actually, we started dating right before I filed charges.”

  Milo tried to put warmth in his smile. “What’s the lucky young man’s name?”

  “Anson Conniff.”

  “When’s the big day?”

  “Fall.” Gallegos’s dark eyes picked up some wattage. “Lieutenant, why all these questions about me and my family?”

  “I need to tie up loose ends.”

  “Loose ends? Lieutenant, please don’t g
et me involved. I really can’t go through it again—please.”

  Raising her voice. The coffee shop was nearly empty, but the few patrons present turned to stare. Milo glared at them until they turned away.

  “Go through what, ma’am?”

  Gallegos whimpered and wiped her eyes. “Legal stuff, the courts—I never want to see an affidavit again. Please keep me out of it.”

  “I’m not out to cause you grief, Ms. Gallegos, but I do need to talk to anyone Gavin had conflict with.”

  Gallegos shook her head. “There was no conflict. I never yelled at Gavin, never complained. It’s just that the problem got out of hand. He needed to deal with it.”

  “Did he stop?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Completely?”

  “Completely.”

  Her eyes danced to one side. I said, “You never heard from him again?”

  She picked at her napkin, shredded the corners, created a small pile of confetti that she collected and placed on her saucer.

  “It was basically over,” she said. “It was over.” Her voice shook.

  Milo said, “Beth, you’re obviously a good person. That means you’re also a very poor liar.”

  Gallegos glanced at the coffee shop door, as if plotting her escape.

  Milo said, “What happened?”

  “It was just once,” she said. “A month ago. Not really a problem call, a nothing call, that’s why I never told anyone.”

  “Where’d he find you?”

  “Here. At the office. I was between patients, and the secretary handed me the phone. He told her he was a friend. She has no idea about my . . . history with Gavin. When I heard his voice I . . . it made my heart pound, and I broke into a sweat. But he was . . . okay. Nothing weird. He said he was sorry for what he’d done, wanted to apologize. Then he told me he’d met someone and was getting his life together, and he hoped I’d forgive him. I said I already had, and that was that.”

  “You figure he was telling the truth?” said Milo. “About meeting someone.”

  “He sounded sincere,” she said. “I told him congratulations, I was happy for him.” She exhaled. “He sounded more . . . mature. Settled.”

  “Did he tell you about the person he’d met?”

  “No. He sounded happy.”

  “He’s happy, he doesn’t bug you.”

  “That, too,” she said, “but at the time what I thought was, ‘Gavin’s finally getting it together.’ ” She touched the handle of her teacup, swirled the bag. “I never disliked him, Lieutenant. All I ever felt for him was pity. And fear, when things got really intense. But I was happy things were working out for him.”

  I said, “Anson’s probably happy, too.”

  “I didn’t tell Anson about the call.”

  “Too upsetting.”

  “He’s been through enough with me,” she said. “We just started dating when the stalking began. It’s not a great way to start a relationship.”

  Milo said, “Anson must’ve been pretty upset.”

  “Wouldn’t anyone be?” Gallegos’s eyes got clearer. “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

  “We are, Beth.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, anyone who had conflict with Gavin.”

  “Anson didn’t have conflict—please, don’t go there—don’t draw Anson into this. He’d never hurt Gavin, or anyone else. He’s not like that.”

  “Easygoing?” said Milo.

  “Mature. Disciplined. Anson knows how to control himself.”

  “What kind of work does he do?”

  “Work?” said Gallegos.

  “His job.”

  “You’re actually going to talk to him?”

  “We have to, ma’am.”

  Beth Gallegos placed her face in her hands and kept it there for several moments. When she revealed herself again, she’d gone pale. “I’m so, so sorry Gavin got killed. But I really can’t stand any more of this. When Gavin had his trial I was subpoenaed; it was horrible.”

  “Testifying was rough.”

  “Being there was rough. The people you see in the halls. The smells, the waiting. I waited an entire day and never was called to testify. Thank God. It really wasn’t much of a trial, Gavin admitted what he’d done. Later, he and his parents walked right past me and his mother looked at me as if I was the guilty one. I didn’t even tell Anson I was going, didn’t want him to lose a day’s work.” Her attention shifted to the left. She bit her lip. “No, that’s not the real reason. I didn’t want the case to . . . pollute my relationship. I want Anson to see me as someone strong. Please let us be.”

  Milo said, “Beth, I have no interest in adding stress to your life. And there’s no reason to believe you—or Anson—will be involved any further. But this is a homicide investigation, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Okay,” Gallegos said, barely audible. “I understand . . . stuff happens.”

  “What’s Anson’s address?”

  “We live together. At his place. Ogden Drive, near Beverly. But he won’t be there, he’s working.”

  “Where?”

  “He teaches martial arts,” she said. “Karate, tae kwan do, kickboxing. He was a regional kickboxing champ back in Florida, just got hired by a dojo near where we live. Wilshire near Crescent Heights. He also does youth work. On Sunday, for a ministry in Bell Gardens. We’re both Christians, met at a church mixer. We’re getting married in September.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “He’s a great guy,” said Gallegos. “He loves me and gives me my space.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  I drove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

  Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

  “At least he saw it that way.”

  “If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

  A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit—those karate dances—”

  “Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

  “You make it to black belt?”

  “Brown.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Not angry enough.”

  “I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

  “Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

  “Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

  STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

  One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

  Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

  Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

  Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

  Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

  “Police? What about?”

  “Gavin Quick.”

  “Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

  “Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

  “Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it—kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”


  Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

  Milo said, “Why’s that?”

  “Because the idea of my killing anyone—hurting anyone—is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

  “Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

  The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.

  “That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

  “The Army?” said Milo.

  “Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden stare off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

  Conniff smiled. “I guess I’m just not very death-oriented.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “People who are.”

  “You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

  Conniff motioned around the dojo. “This? It’s a job.”