Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She finished her pie.

  Milo said, "Is there anything you can tell us that might help us learn who killed your husband?"

  "I'd say someone didn't like what Eldon was doing."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  "No," she said. "I'm just talking . . . logical. There's got to be lots of people who didn't approve of Eldon. Not God-fearing people, God-fearing don't go running around killing. But maybe someone . . ." Smile. "You know, it could be someone like Eldon. Got no faith and a big hate grew inside him about Eldon. 'Cause Eldon had a difficult personality— didn't care what he said or how he said it. Least, that's the way he was back when we were married. Always getting into it with people— bring him into a place like this and he'd be complaining about the food, marching up to the manager and starting an argument. Maybe he got the wrong person mad and this person said, Look what he does and gets away with it, sure, it's okay to kill, it's no different from tying my shoes. 'Cause let's face it, if you don't believe in the world hereafter, what's to stop you from killing or raping or robbing or doing whatever it is your lust tells you to do?"

  Milo sat there, probing the rim of his piecrust with his fork. I wondered if he was thinking what I was: a lot of insight in one little speech.

  "So," she said, "who do I talk to about that pension? And the will?"

  • • •

  Back in the car, Milo made a series of calls and got her the number of the army pension office.

  "As far as the will is concerned," he told her, "we're still trying to contact Dr. Mate's lawyer. A man named Roy Haiselden. Has he ever called you?"

  "That big fat guy always with Eldon on TV? Nope— you think he has the will?"

  "If there is one, he might. Nothing's been filed with County Records. If I learn anything, I'll let you know."

  "Thanks. I guess I'll be staying in town for a few days, see what I can find out. Know of any clean, cheap places?"

  "Hollywood's a tough area, ma'am. And nothing decent's gonna be that cheap."

  "Well," she said, "I'm not saying I don't have any money. I work, I brought two hundred dollars with me. I just don't want to spend more than I have to."

  We drove her to a West Coast Inn on Fairfax near Beverly and checked her in. She paid with a hundred-dollar bill, and as we walked her to her first-floor room, Milo warned her about flashing cash on the street and she said, "I'm not stupid."

  The room was small, clean, noisy, with a view across Fairfax: cars whizzing by, the sleek, modern lines of the CBS studios a black-and-white subpanel to the horizon.

  "Maybe I'll see a game show," she said, parting the drapes. She removed another floral dress from the macramé bag and headed for the closet. "Okay, thanks for everything."

  Milo handed her his card. "Call me if you think of anything, ma'am— by the way, where's your son?"

  Her back was to us. She opened the closet door. Took a long time to hang the dress. On the top shelf was an extra pillow that she removed. Fluffing, compressing, fluffing.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Don't know where Donny is," she said.

  Punching the pillow. All at once, she looked tiny and bowed. "Donny's real smart, just like Eldon. Did a year at San Francisco State. I used to think he'd be a doctor, too. He got good grades, he liked science."

  She stood there, hugging the pillow.

  "What happened?" I said.

  Her shoulders heaved.

  I went over and stood next to her. She edged away, placed the pillow atop a dresser. "They said it was drugs— my friends at church said it had to be that. But I never saw him take any drugs."

  "He changed," I said.

  She bent, cupped a hand over her eyes. I risked taking her by the elbow. Her skin was soft, gelatinous. I guided her onto a chair, handed her a tissue that she grabbed, crushed, finally used to wipe her face.

  "Donny changed totally," she said. "Stopped taking care of himself. Grew long hair, a beard, got filthy. Like one of those homeless people. Only he's got a home, if he'd ever come back there."

  "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

  "Two years."

  She sprang up, marched into the bathroom, closed the door. Water ran for a while, then she emerged announcing she was tired. "When I'm ready to eat, where can I get some dinner around here?"

  "Do you like Chinese, ma'am?" said Milo.

  "Sure, anything."

  He phoned up a takeout place and asked them to deliver in two hours. When we left, she was consulting the cable TV channel guide.

  • • •

  Out in the car, Milo sat back in his seat and frowned. "One happy family. And Junior's a homeless guy with mental problems, maybe a druggie. Someone with a reason to kill Mate— who might still want to be Mate. Maybe I was wrong to dismiss the street bum so quickly."

  "If Donny was intelligent to begin with, even with some sort of mental breakdown, he might've held on to enough smarts to be able to plan. Mate abandoned and rejected him in the worst kind of way. Exactly the kind of primal anger that leads to violence. Mate's getting famous wouldn't have helped things. Maybe Donny smoldered, seethed, decided to come back, take over the family business . . . Oedipus wrecks. Maybe Mate finally agreed to see him, arranged a talk up in Mulholland because he didn't want Donny in his apartment. He could've even had concerns about his safety, that's why he backed the van in. But he went through with it— guilt, or he enjoyed the danger."

  He made no comment, got on the phone, hooked up with NCIC, asked for a felony search on Eldon S. Mate. Nothing. But plugging in Eldon Salcido pulled up three convictions. All in California, and the vital statistics fit.

  Driving under the influence six years ago, larceny two years after that, assault eighteen months ago. Jail time in Marin County. Release six months ago.

  "A year and a half in jail and he doesn't call his mother," I said. "Socially isolated. And he progressed from DUI to assault. Getting more aggressive."

  "Family values," he said. "Be interesting to see what the grieving widow does when she finds out Mate left over three hundred grand in the bank. Wonder if Alice or anyone else will press a claim— that's really why old Willy came down here. It always boils down to anger and money— okay, I'll look into Donny, but in the meantime let's try to ferret out that goddamn lawyer."

  11

  ROY HAISELDEN WAS living better than his prime client, but he was no sultan.

  His house was a peach-colored, one-story plain- wrap on Camden Avenue, west of Westwood, south of Wilshire. Mown lawn but no shrubs, empty driveway. Alarm-company sign staked in the grass. Milo rang the bell, knocked on the door— dead-bolted with a sturdy Quikset— pushed open the mail slot and sighted down.

  "Just some throwaway flyers," he said. "No mail. So he left recently."

  He rang and knocked again. Tried to peer through the white drapes that sheathed the front windows, muttered that it just looked like a goddamn house. A check in back of the house revealed more grass and a small oval swimming pool set in a brick deck, the water starting to green, the gunite spotted with algae.

  "If he had a pool man," I said, "looks like he canceled a while back. Maybe he's been gone for a while and put on a mail stop."

  "Korn and Demetri checked for that. And the gardener's been here."

  The garage was a double, locked. Milo managed to pry the door upward several inches and he peered in. "No car, old bicycle, hoses, the usual junk."

  He inspected every side of the house. Most of the windows were barred and bolted and the back door was secured by an identical dead bolt. The kitchen window was undraped but narrow and high, and he boosted me up for a look.

  "Dishes in the sink, but they look clean . . . no food . . . another alarm sticker high on the window, but I don't see any alarm leads."

  "Probably a fake-out job," he said. "One of those clever boys who thinks appearance is everything."

  "Overconfident," I said. "Just like Mate."

  He let me down. "Okay, let's see what the
neighbors have to offer."

  Both of the adjacent houses were empty. Milo scrawled requests to call on the back of his business cards and left them in the mailboxes. In the second house to the south, a young black man answered. Clean-shaven, full-faced, barefoot, wearing a gray athletic shirt with the U. logo and red cotton shorts. Under his arm was a book. A yellow underlining pen was clenched between his teeth. He removed it, shifted the book so I could see the title: Organizational Structure: An Advanced Text. The room behind him was set up with two bright-blue beanbag chairs and not much else. Soda cans, potato chip bags, an extra-large pizza box mottled with grease on the thin khaki rug.

  He greeted Milo pleasantly, but the sight of the badge caused his face to tighten.

  "Yes?" The unspoken overtone: What now? I wondered how many times he'd been stopped for driving in Westwood.

  Milo stepped back, bent his knee in a relaxed pose. "I was wondering, sir, if you've seen your neighbor Mr. Haiselden recently."

  "Who— oh him. No, not for a few days."

  "Could you say how many days, Mr. . . ."

  "Chambers," said the young man. "Curtis Chambers. I think I saw him drive away five, six days ago. Whether he's been back since, I can't say, 'cause I've been holed up here studying. Why?"

  "Do you recall what time of day it was when you saw him, Mr. Chambers?"

  "Morning. Before nine. I was going to meet with a prof and he needed to do it by nine. I think it was Tuesday. What's going on?"

  Milo smiled and held up a delaying finger. "What kind of car was Mr. Haiselden driving?"

  "Some kind of van. Silver, with a blue stripe down the side."

  "That his only vehicle?"

  "Only one I've seen him in."

  "Anyone else live there with him?"

  "Not that I know," said Curtis Chambers. "Could you please tell me what's up?"

  "We're trying to contact Mr. Haiselden about a case—"

  "Dr. Death's murder?"

  "You've seen him with Dr. Mate?"

  "No, but everyone knew he was Dr. Death's lawyer. People in the neighborhood talk about it. He's a jerk, Haiselden. Last year, we had a party— there are four of us living here, grad students. Nothing wild, we're all grinds, all we had was that single party the entire year to celebrate semester-end. We tried to be considerate, even sent notes around to the neighbors. One woman— Mrs. Kaplan next door— sent us a bottle of wine. No one had a problem with it except Haiselden. He called the cops on us. Twenty after eleven and believe me, it was nothing wild, just some music, maybe it got a little loud. What an uptight hypocrite. After all the disruption he brought to the neighborhood."

  "What kind of disruption?"

  "Reporters, media, all that garbage."

  "Recently?"

  "No, a few years ago," said Chambers. "I never saw it, wasn't living here back then, but one of my roommates was— he said the whole street was a zoo. This was back when Mate was still getting arrested. He and Haiselden threw press conferences right here. TV crews would show up— lights, cameras, the works. Blocked driveways, cigarettes and garbage left on the lawns. Some of the neighbors finally complained to Haiselden, but he ignored them. So after all that, he goes and calls the cops on us. A jerk, always had this irritated look on his face. So why do you want him? Did he kill his buddy?"

  "Why would you say that, Mr. Chambers?"

  Chambers grinned. "Because I don't like the man . . . and the fact that he split. You'd think, his being Mate's mouthpiece, that he'd stick around, grab some more PR. 'Cause that's what it was all about, right? That's the only problem I have with what Mate did."

  "What do you mean?" said Milo.

  "The tackiness, making a spectacle out of other people's pain. You want to put a sick person out of their misery, fine. But shouldn't it be private? From what my roommate told me about the way Haiselden used to behave, he loved playing for the cameras. So you'd think he'd be doing the same thing now. Though I guess there's nothing for him to comment on anymore, with Mate gone."

  "Guess not," said Milo. "Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"

  "Nope— listen, if you leave me your number and I see him, I'll call you. Siccing the cops on our party. What a jerk."

  • • •

  Driving back to the station, Milo said, "First Mrs. Mate, now him. Insights from the man on the street. Everyone seems to have figured things out except me."

  "A lawyer who drives a van."

  "Yeah, yeah, psycho killer's transport of choice. Wouldn't that be something? One serial killer representing another in court. And winning."

  "Only thing he did win," I said. "He couldn't make a living practicing law, so he turned to coin-ops. Zoghbie said it was because of Mate, but maybe he was struggling before and Mate was his salvation. He latches on to the whole travel thing, rides the coattails, enjoys the glory. Then he and Mate have some kind of rift. Or, as you said, Haiselden starts yearning for more."

  "Up the suspect ladder he goes. Time for a pass by his office."

  "Where's that?"

  "Miracle Mile, the old part, east of Museum Row. He leases some space over a Persian restaurant. Him and some other low-rent outfits. The place has a moldy feel to it, like out of an old movie."

  "No secretary?"

  "I've been there twice, Korn and Demetri another two times. The door's always locked and no one answers. Time to find the landlord. No sense wasting your time. Go home to Robin and Fido."

  I didn't argue. I was tired. And Stacy Doss was coming in tomorrow; I needed to review her file.

  "So who're you concentrating on?" I said. "Haiselden or Donny Mate?"

  "Do I have to choose between Door Number One and Door Number Two, Monty? Can I take Number Three? Better yet, I'll concentrate on both of them. If Donny's our street wacko, it may take a while to find him. I wanna find out if he was released clean or placed on parole. Maybe he's got a P.O. I can talk to. If he was the bum Mrs. Krohnfeld saw, maybe he's still hanging in Hollywood. That would also fit with your idea about stalking Mate."

  "Stalking Daddy."

  "Who's off in his own world and thinks he's immor- tal . . . I think I'll touch base with Petra, she's as clued in to the streets as anyone."

  Petra Connor was a Hollywood Division homicide detective, young, bright, intense, recently promoted to D-II because of some help she'd given Milo on a series of killings of handicapped people. Just after that, she and her partner had solved the Lisa Ramsey case— ex-wife of a TV actor, found hacked up in Griffith Park. She'd referred me a case, a twelve-year-old boy who'd witnessed the crime while living in the park, a brilliant, complex child, one of the most fascinating patients I'd ever encountered. Rumors were that her partner, Stu Bishop, was in line for a major administrative job and that she'd be a D-III by year's end, then groomed by the new chief for something conspicuous.

  "Give her my best," I said.

  "Sure," he said, but his tone was detached and his eyes were somewhere off in the distance.

  Staring into his own world. At that moment, I was happy not to be sharing.

  12

  MONDAY, NINE-THIRTY P.M., nearing the end of a very long day.

  Robin was soaking in the bath and I was in bed, reviewing Stacy Doss's chart.

  Tomorrow morning, Stacy and I would be talking, ostensibly about college.

  She'd used college as a cover the first time.

  • • •

  March, a warm Friday afternoon. I'd seen two other kids before her, sad children caught up in the poison of a custody dispute. The next hour was spent writing reports. Then waiting for Stacy. Curious about Stacy.

  Despite my preconceptions about Richard Doss— because of them— I'd labored to keep an open mind about his daughter. Still, I wondered. What kind of girl would result from the union of Richard and Joanne? I really had no clue.

  The red light signaling someone at the side door lit up precisely on time and I went to fetch her. A small girl— five-two in brown loafer
s. Perfect genetic logic; no reason for the Dosses to produce a basketball player. A bright-green oversize book was sandwiched between her right arm and her chest, the title obscured by her sleeve. She wore a white cotton mock turtle, snug blue jeans, white socks with the loafers.

  Normal teenage curves, a bit of flesh on her face, but certainly not overweight. If she'd gained ten pounds, as Judy Manitow had claimed, she'd have been extremely thin before. That made me wonder about Judy— her own tendency toward sharp angles, snapshots of her daughters in her chambers. A pair of bright-eyed blondes in very short, very tight party dresses . . . also skinny. The younger one— Becky— veering too close to skeletal?