"Or lied about it to Motor Vehicles," said Fusco. "Doesn't everyone?"
"People reduce their weight, but they don't generally claim to be shorter."
"Michael isn't people," said Fusco. "You'll also notice that the license says brown eyes. His true color's green-blue. Obviously, Burke jerked them around— either because he was hiding something or just having fun. On his Unitas I.D., he's back to blue."
I examined the last photo.
Michael F. Burke, MD, Dept. of Emergency Medicine.
Clean-shaven. Square-jawed, even fuller, the hair thinner but worn slightly longer, flatter. Burke had been content with a decent comb-over.
I compared the last shot with Grant Rushton's high-school photo, searching for some commonality. Similar bone structure, I supposed. The eyes were the same shape, but even there, gravity had tugged sufficiently to prevent immediate identification. Huey Mitchell's beard obscured everything. Rushton's bang-shadowed brow and Burke's clear forehead gave the rest of their faces entirely different appearances.
Five faces. I'd never have linked any of them.
Milo shut the folder and placed it back in the file. Fusco had been waiting for some kind of response and now he looked unhappy, curled his fingers around his glass.
"Anything else?" said Milo.
Fusco shook his head. Unfolding a paper napkin, he wrapped the half-eaten brisket sandwich and stashed it in a pocket of his sport coat.
"You bunked down at the Federal Building?" said Milo.
"Officially," said Fusco, "but mostly I'm on the road. I wrote down a number in there that routes automatically to my beeper. My fax runs twenty-four hours a day. Feel free, anytime."
"On the road where?"
"Wherever the job takes me. As I said, I've got projects other than Michael Burke, though Michael does tend to occupy my thoughts. Tonight, I'll be flying up to Seattle, see if I can get U. Wash to be a bit more forthcoming. Also, to look into those unsolveds, which is a mite touchy. With all the publicity about the Pacific Northwest being the serial-killer capital of the world and no resolution on Green River, they don't like being reminded of loose ends."
Milo said, "Bon voyage."
Fusco slid out of the booth. No briefcase. His jacket bulged where he'd stuffed the sandwich. Not a tall man, after all. Five-eight, tops, with a big torso riding stumpy, bowed legs. His jacket hung open and I saw several black pens lined up in his shirt pocket, the beeper and a cell phone hitched to his belt. No visible weapon. Fingering his white hair, he left the restaurant, limping. Looking like a tired old salesman who'd just failed to make his quota.
20
MILO AND I stayed in the booth.
The waitress was leaning protectively over the old woman. He waved for her. She held up a finger.
He said, "Just like the Feds— we get stuck for the check."
"He liked the brisket, but didn't eat much of it," I said. "Maybe his gut's full of something else."
"Like what?"
"Frustration. He's been on this for a while— got a bit touchy when I called Burke his project. Sometimes that can lead to tunnel vision. On the other hand, there's a lot that seems to match."
"What—'geometry'?"
"A killer with a medical background and artistic interests, the combination of 'euthanasia' and lust-murder. And he was awfully close when he described the de- tails of Mate's murder, down to the blitz attack and the cleanup."
"That he could've gotten from a departmental leak."
The waitress came over. "It's been taken care of, sir. The white-haired gentleman."
"And a gentleman he is." Milo handed her a ten.
"The tip's also been taken care of," she said.
"Now it's been taken care of twice."
She beamed. "Thanks."
When she was gone, I said, "See, you judged him too harshly."
"Force of habit . . . Okay, so some of my income tax came back to me. . . . Yeah, there are similarities, there often are with psycho killers, right? Limited repertoire: you bludgeon, you shoot, you cut. But it's far from a perfect match. Starting with the basics: Mate's not a young girl and he wasn't tied against a tree. Fusco can fudge all he wants, but, PhD or not, in the end it comes down to his feelings. And where does making Burke a suspect lead me? Trying to chase down some phantom the Bureau hasn't been able to snag for three years? I've already got prospects close to home."
His hand grazed the file folder. "If I don't cooperate eventually, he'll call the brass and I'll be stuck with task-force bullshit. For the moment, he's trying cop-to-cop."
A couple of multiple-pierced kids dressed in black entered the deli and took a booth at the front. Lots of laughter. I heard the word "pastrami" used as if it was a punch line.
"Nitrites for the night crawlers," Milo muttered. "Wanna do me a big favor? One that won't put you in conflict of interest?" Tapping the file. "Go over this for me. You come up with something juicy, I take it more seriously. . . . Artistic. Burke draws, he doesn't paint. We've already got a good idea who did that masterpiece. . . . So, you mind?"
"Not at all."
"Thanks. That frees me up for the fun stuff."
"Which is?"
"Scrounging through putrid squats in Venice. Cop's day at the beach."
He hoisted himself out of the booth.
"Feds with PhDs," he said. "Bad guys with MDs. And moi with a lowly master's— it's not pretty, being outclassed."
• • •
I brought the file home just after three. Robin's truck was gone and the day's mail was still in the box. I collected the stack, made coffee, drank a cup and a half, brought the file to my office and called my service.
Richard Doss's secretary had phoned to let me know Eric would be a half hour early for his four o'clock appointment. The boy had been examined by Dr. Robert Manitow; if I had time, please call the doctor.
She'd left Manitow's number and I punched it. His receptionist sounded harried and my name evoked no recognition. She put me on hold for a long time. No music. Good.
I'd never met Bob or talked to him, knew him only from silver-framed family photos on a carved credenza in Judy's chambers.
A clipped voice said, "Dr. Manitow. Who's this?"
"Dr. Delaware."
"What can I do for you?" Curt. Had his wife never mentioned working with me?
"I'm a psychologist—"
"I know who you are. Eric's on his way over to see you."
"How's he doing physically?"
"He's doing fine. It was your idea to have me check him out, wasn't it?" Each word sounded as if it had been dragged over broken glass. No mistaking the accusatory tone.
I said, "I thought it would be a good idea, seeing what he's gone through."
"What exactly is he supposed to have gone through?"
"Beyond the long-term effects of losing his mom, his behavior was unusual, according to his father. Disappearing without explanation, refusing to talk—"
"He talks fine," said Manitow. "He just talked to me. Told me this whole thing was bullshit, and I heartily concur. He's a college student, for God's sake. They leave home and do all kinds of crazy things— didn't you?"
"His roommate was concerned enough to—"
"So the kid decided not to be perfect, for once. Of all people, I thought you'd evaluate the source before getting sucked into all this hysteria."
"The source?"
"Richard," he said. "Everything in Richard's life is one big goddamn production. The whole family's like that— nothing's casual, everything's a big goddamn deal."
"You're saying they overdramatize—"
"Don't do that," he said. "Don't bounce my words back to me like I'm on the couch. Hell yes, they over- dramatize. When they built that house of theirs, they should've included an amphitheater."
"I'm sure you know them well," I said, "but given what happened to Joanne—"
"What happened to Joanne was hell for those poor kids. But the truth is, she was screwed up ps
ychologically. Pure and simple. Not a damn thing wrong with her other than she chose to drop out of life and eat herself to death. She discarded her good sense. That's why she called that quack to finish the job. Nothing more than depression. I'm no shrink, and I could diagnose it. I told her to get psychiatric help, she refused. If Richard had listened to me in the first place and had her committed, they could've put her on a good tricyclic and she might be alive today and the kids could've been spared all the shit they went through."
He wasn't talking loud but I found myself holding the phone away from my ear.
He said, "Good luck with the kid. I've got to run."
Click. His anger hung in the air, bitter as Septem- ber smog.
Yesterday, after viewing Stacy's pain as we walked along the beach, I'd decided not to call Judy, wondering about entanglements between the Manitows and the Dosses, something that went beyond Mommy and Me, country-club tennis, Laura Ashley bedrooms. Now my curiosity took off in a whole new direction.
Her Eric, my Allison, then Stacy and Becky . . .
Becky having trouble in school— tutored by Joanne, then dropping back down to D's when Joanne could no longer see her . . . Was Bob's anger a reaction to perceived rejection?
Becky getting too skinny, entering therapy, trying to play therapist with Stacy, then cooling off.
Eric dumping Allison. Yet another rejection?
Bob Manitow smarting at his daughter's broken heart? No, it had to be more than that. And his resentment of the Dosses' problems wasn't shared by his wife. Judy had referred Stacy to me because she cared about the girl. . . . Just another case of male impatience versus female empathy? Or had Bob's empathy been trashed by his inability to rouse Joanne from what he saw as "nothing more than depression"? Sometimes physicians get angry at psychosomatic illness . . . or maybe this physician was just having a really bad day.
I thought of something else: Stacy's tale of how Bob had stared with distaste as Richard and Joanne groped each other in the pool.
A prudish man, offended? Perhaps his resentment at having to confront the Dosses' tribulations was emotional prudishness. I'd seen that most often in those running from their own despair, what a professor of mine had called baloney fleeing the slicer.
No sense speculating, the Manitows weren't the issue; I'd allowed Bob Manitow's anger to take me too far afield. Still, his reaction had been so intense— so out of proportion— that I had trouble letting go of it, and as I waited for Eric my thoughts kept drifting back to Judy.
Pencil-thin Judy in her chambers. Impeccable office, impeccable occupant. Tanned, tight-skinned, strong-boned good looks. Hanging her robe on a walnut valet, revealing the body-hugging St. John Knits suit underneath.
The room perpetually ready for a photo shoot: polished furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases, soft lights, gelid convexities. No hint that the fury and tedium of Superior Court waited just beyond the door.
Those family photos. Two lithe blond girls with that same strong-boned beauty. Thin, very thin. Dad in the background . . . Had any of them smiled for the camera? I couldn't remember, was pretty sure Bob hadn't.
Stick-mom and a pair of stick-daughters, Becky carrying it too far. Did Judy's attention to detail manifest as pressure upon her kids to look, sound, act, be faultless? Had the Dosses and their problems somehow become enmeshed with their neighbors?
Maybe I was indulging myself in speculation because the family was far less unpleasant than the file I'd taken from the deli. Geometry.
Finally, the red light flashed.
• • •
Richard and Stacy at the side door. Eric between them.
Richard in his usual black shirt and slacks, the little silver phone in one hand. Looking a bit haggard. Stacy's hair was loose and she wore a sleeveless white dress and white flats. I thought of a little girl in church.
Eric gave a disgusted look. His father and his sister had spoken about him in a way that connoted a huge presence. But when it came to physical stature, Doss DNA hadn't faltered. He was no taller than Richard, and a good ten pounds lighter. A dejected slump bowed his back. Small hands, small feet.
A frail-looking boy with enormous black eyes, a delicate nose, and a soft, curling mouth. Rounder face than Stacy's, but that same leprechaun cast. Copper skin, black hair clipped so short the curls had diminished to fuzz. His chambray shirt was oversize, and it bagged over the sagging waistband of dirt-stained baggy khakis wrinkled to used-Kleenex consistency. The cuffs accordioned atop running shoes encrusted with gray dried mud. Skimpy beard stubble dotted his chin and cheeks.
He looked everywhere but at me, his fingers flexed against his thighs. Delicate hands. Blackened, cracked nails, as if he'd been clawing in the dirt. His father hadn't tried to clean him up. Or maybe he'd tried and Eric had resisted.
I said, "Eric? Dr. Delaware," and extended my hand. He ignored the gesture, stared at the ground. The fingers kept flexing.
Good-looking kid. On a certain kind of sweet, convincing, college night, girls attracted to the brooding, sensitive type would be drawn to him.
Just as I began to retract my hand, he gripped it. His skin was cold, moist. Turning to his father, he grimaced, as if bracing for pain.
I said, "Richard, you and Stacy can wait out here or walk around in the garden. Check back in an hour or so."
"You don't need to talk to me?" said Richard.
"Later."
His lips seemed on the verge of a retort— making a point— but he thought better of it. "Okay then, how about we get coffee or something, Stace? We can make it into Westwood and back in an hour."
"Sure, Daddy."
I caught Stacy's eye. She gave a tiny nod, letting me know seeing her brother was okay. I nodded back, the two of them left, and I closed the door behind Eric and myself and said, "This way."
He followed me into the office, stood in the center of the room.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said. "Or at least as comfortable as you can be."
He moved to the nearest chair and lowered himself slowly.
"I can understand your not wanting to be here, Eric. So if—"
"No, I want to be here." A big man's voice flowed out of the cupid's mouth. Richard's baritone, even more incongruous. He flexed his neck. "I deserve to be here. I'm fucked up." He fingered a shirt button. "That's absurd, isn't it?" he said. "The way I just phrased that. The way we use 'fuck' as a pejorative. Supposedly the most beautiful act in the world and we use it that way." Sickly smile. "Scroll back and edit: I'm dysfunctional. Now you're supposed to ask in what way."
"In what way?"
"Isn't your job finding out?"
"Yup," I said.
"Good deal, your job," he said, looking around the office. "No need for any equipment, just your psyche and the patient's encountering each other in the great affective void, hoping for a collision of insight." The briefest smile. "As you can see, I've had intro psych."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Nice relief from the cold, cruel world of supply and demand. One thing did bother me, though. You people put so much emphasis upon function and dysfunction but pay no attention to guilt and expiation."
"Too value-free for you?" I said.
"Too incomplete. Guilt's a virtue— maybe the cardi- nal virtue. Think about it: what else is going to moti- vate us bipeds to behave with proper restraint? What else prevents society from sinking into mass, entropic fuckupedness?"
His left leg crossed over his right and his shoulders loosened. Using big words relaxed him. I imagined his first, precocious utterances, met with astonishment, then cheers. Achievements piling up, expectations exceeded.
I said, "Guilt as a virtue."
"What other virtue is there? What else keeps us civilized? Assuming we are civilized. Highly open to debate."
"There are degrees of civilization," I said.
He smiled. "You probably believe in altruism for its own sake. Good deeds carried out for the intrinsic satisfaction. I thin
k life's essentially an avoidance paradigm: people do things to avoid being punished."
"Does that come from personal experience?"
He shifted back in the chair. "Well, well, well. Isn't that a bit directive, considering I've been here all of five minutes and it's not exactly a voluntary transaction?"
I said nothing.
He said, "Get too pushy and I could revert to the treatment I gave my father when he chanced upon my meditation spot."
Dr. Death Page 21