Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "She must've really hated me," he said.

  "Why would she hate you, Richard?"

  "For not forgiving her."

  "What did she do?"

  "No," he said. "No more of this, don't strip off my skin, just let me get through this with my skin on, okay? I won't try to tell you how to do your job, just let it be. Help my kids. Please."

  "Sure," I said. "Of course."

  27

  THE FOOTSTEPS FROM above resumed. Moments later Joe Safer knocked on the doorjamb. Richard was still staring through the glass. He turned.

  Safer said, "Everything all right?"

  "Joe, I'm really bushed, think I'll lie down." Trudging to the sofa, Richard removed his shoes, lined them up at the base of the couch, stretched out.

  "Why don't you go upstairs to bed?" said Safer.

  "Nah, I'll just sack out here. This is my relaxation spot." Richard reached for a remote control, clicked on seventy inches of the Home & Garden channel. Someone wearing a plaid shirt and a massive tool belt building a redwood deck. Making it look as easy as licking an envelope, the way those types always do.

  Within seconds, Richard seemed hypnotized.

  "Ready for the children?" Safer asked me.

  "Ready."

  • • •

  I followed him up a rear staircase, arranging the file cards in my head.

  Guilt, expiation. I didn't forgive her.

  Joanne transgressing— probably exactly what I'd guessed: an affair.

  Eric, close to his father, aligned with his father. Had Joanne's transgression led her son to despise her? Spending time with her as she destroyed herself, loving her but also hating her? Could that explain the Polaroids? Documenting her descent— her punishment— then passing the pictures to Richard . . .

  That level of filial contempt was hard to imagine, but Eric was explosive and impulsive and he had the genes for it. Now, months later, was he coming to grips with what he'd done? Seeking his own expiation?

  Richard had just admitted paying Quentin Goad to murder the death doctor.

  Make it look bloody . . . the wrong guy to cheat on. With Richard's need for control, how could Joanne have expected anything but rejection and retribution?

  Attempted murder as closure . . . and, if Mate hadn't helped Joanne die, a grand mistake.

  If he hadn't, who had?

  Do-it-yourself job? As a microbiologist, Joanne had access to lethal chemicals, the skills for self-injection. But given her physical condition I couldn't see driving to Lancaster by herself . . .

  She hated me. Now I had a reason she'd died in the Happy Trails Motel.

  So maybe Mate had been there, agreeing to revert back to rented rooms in order to respect Joanne's wishes. Same for the lack of publicity: perhaps Joanne had requested he keep it quiet. For the sake of the kids? No, that made no sense. If she'd wanted to shield Eric, why choose such a conspicuous suicide?

  Why kill herself by any means?

  One thing seemed clear: Mr. and Mrs. Doss had suffered through a troubled relationship. Mrs. had sinned and Mr. had refused to forgive her.

  Joanne had bought into Richard's rage. Hating herself enough to self-destruct.

  But she hadn't gone out without a parting shot.

  Taking control of the last day of her life. Contacting Mate— or someone else— on the sly. Dying on her own terms.

  Lancaster. The ultimate screw-you to Richard.

  Because she knew Richard well, knew he'd try to direct his anger everywhere else and a corpse in a cheap motel would be something he couldn't escape.

  Or so she'd hoped. If funneling Richard toward crushing introspection had been Joanne's goal, she'd failed miserably. As Judy had said, Richard was a blamer.

  And Richard liked to crush his adversaries.

  A few minutes before, spinning his "hypothetical" tale, he'd brushed off the deal with Quentin Goad as an act of folly, denied he'd made a second attempt.

  Yet he'd come prepared with an alibi, was already talking about temporary insanity. Milo would laugh all that off. You didn't have to be a detective to laugh it off. Because Richard was a ruthless, self-centered control freak who'd believed himself aggrieved. And as I'd just seen, Richard had a very bad temper.

  Now here I was in his house, on his terms.

  Safer reached the top of the stairs and paused at a small back landing that faced a closed door. "They're both in Eric's room," he said. "Would you like to see them together or separately?"

  "Let's see how it goes."

  "But together would be okay?"

  "Why?"

  He frowned. "To be frank, Doctor, neither of them wants to be alone with you."

  "They still think I betrayed them?"

  Safer righted his yarmulke. "I'm sorry. Richard talked to them and so did I, but you know adolescents. I hope this doesn't turn out to be a complete waste of your time."

  Or worse, I thought.

  Safer touched the doorknob but didn't turn it. "So how did it go with Richard?"

  "Richard seems to feel rosy about the future," I said.

  Rosy. The moment I said it I realized it was the same word I'd thought of upon seeing Richard's anger-flush. Poor old Dr. Freud wasn't getting enough respect in the age of Prozac.

  "We-ell," said Safer, "a positive attitude is a good thing, wouldn't you say?"

  "In Richard's case, is it justified?"

  One big, gnarled hand came forward and smoothed the beard. "Let's put it this way, Doctor. I can't promise to bring everything to a close immediately, but I'm feeling positive, as well. Because when you get down to it, what do the police have? The Johnny-come-lately accusations of a habitual felon facing a three-strikes life sentence? Allegedly corroborative eyewitness testimony about some sort of envelope being handed over to someone by someone else in a poorly lit bar for who knows what purpose?"

  I smiled. "Richard just happened to be there?"

  Safer shrugged. "Richard has no specific memory of that particular meeting, but he says if it did occur, it was to pay Mr. Goad. It's customary for him to pay his workers in cash when they're short of funds—"

  "Altruism?" I said. "Or good commerce when you deal with ex-cons?"

  Safer smiled. "Richard employs people no one else wants to hire, sometimes helps them out when they're down. I have a long list of other employees who'll testify to his goodwill."

  "So the eyewitnesses are a wash," I said.

  "Eyewitnesses," he said, as if it were a diagnosis. "I'm sure you're familiar with the psychological research on the unreliability of eyewitness testimony. I wouldn't be surprised if a careful check into the backgrounds of these particular eyewitnesses reveals histories of alcoholism, drug abuse, criminal behavior."

  "And poor lighting."

  "That, as well."

  "Sounds open-and-shut," I said.

  "Overconfidence is dangerous, Doctor, but unless I receive an unpleasant surprise . . ." Safer's green eyes narrowed. "Are there any contingencies I should be aware of?"

  "None that I know of."

  "Good, that's very good. Now, I'll continue to do my job and I'll let you do yours."

  • • •

  The door opened to a long, central hallway that mirrored the corridor downstairs. Bare beige walls, outlet to the front steps at the far end, closets and alcoves to the left, bedrooms to the right, the tinge of dirty laundry in the air. Safer led me past double doors that framed a huge, white-carpeted chamber. Gold-upholstered chairs. Arboreal wallpaper— the paper I'd seen in Eric's snapshots of Joanne . . . I peeked in, saw the sleigh bed, made up with a silk comforter. Had no trouble picturing a disembodied head, bloated body swaddled to the neck . . .

  The other bedroom doors were shut. Safer skipped the first and knocked on the second. No answer, he opened the door a crack, then all the way. The dirty-laundry smell intensified.

  Faded blue paper— repeating print of tiny athletes in combative poses. A poster on the facing wall said, WELCOME TO THE COMFOR
T OF CHAOS. Other posters on two other walls, mostly concert mementos: Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, Everclear, Barenaked Ladies. A cartoon of Albert Einstein with his pants down and his genitals dangling, looking confused. The caption: WHO THE FUCK SAYS YOU'RE SO SMART?

  Academic certificates hung crookedly. National Merit Scholarship, Bank of America Award, General Studies Award, Science Achievement Award, valedictorian. Two curtained windows, doors to a private bathroom and a closet, a chrome-and-glass storage unit stuffed with paperbacks, spiral notebooks, three-ring binders, loose paper, a cheap Tijuana plaster statue of a bull. On a top shelf, a collection of gold plastic men proclaimed the joys of athletic accomplishment.

  Double bed, its sheet tangled, wrinkled, half off the mattress. Behind the sleeping platform, stereo equipment, computers, printers. The floor was littered with wadded underwear, shirts, jeans, socks, a pair of dirty sneakers. Empty blue nylon backpack, food wrappers, Snapple bottles, crushed cans of Surge.

  Eric sat near the headboard, Stacy was perched at the foot. Their backs to each other. She had on a yellow T-shirt over white capris. He wore black jeans and a black sweatshirt. Like father . . .

  Both of them barefoot. Both of them red-eyed.

  Eric slid one fingernail under another, flicked something. "Here it comes," he said.

  "Son," said Joe Safer.

  Eric's upper lip curled. "Yes, Dad?"

  Stacy shuddered and hugged herself. Raw cuticles on her fingers. Her hair was unbound, wild and ragged, like her father's.

  Safer said, "Dr. Delaware was kind enough to come here at this hour. Your father would like you to talk to him."

  "Talk talk talk," said Eric. "Hap-hap-happy talk."

  Stacy shuddered again. She managed to look at me, aiming but pulling off scared.

  "Eric," said Safer, "I'm asking you to be courteous. Your father and I are both asking you."

  "How is Dad?" said Stacy. "Where is he? What's he doing?"

  "He's downstairs resting, dear."

  "Does he want something to eat?"

  "No, he's fine, dear," said Safer. "I made him a sandwich a while back."

  "Was it kosher?" said Eric.

  Silence in the stale room.

  Safer stroked his beard and smiled sadly.

  "Nice kosher pickle," said Eric. "Nize leetle piece of corned beef—"

  Stacy said, "Stop it, Eric—"

  "Nize little matzo ball—"

  "Shut up, Eric!"

  "Stop what? What the fuck am I doing?"

  "You know what you're doing. Stop being rude!"

  They glared at each other. Stacy turned away first. Gave a small, furious wave, showed Eric her back. Stood up. "Enough of this, I'm out of here— I'm sorry, Dr. Delaware, I just can't talk to you or anyone else right now. If I need you, I'll call you— I really will, Mr. Safer."

  "Safer," muttered Eric. "Dad's writing him huge checks, and are any of us any safer?"

  Stacy shouted, "You are so . . ."

  "I'm what?"

  Another dismissive wave. Stacy moved toward the door.

  Eric said, "I'm what, smart-girl?"

  Stacy kept going.

  "Go ahead, leave, but don't think you're out of it," Eric called after her. "We're never really out of our misery unless we put ourselves out of it."

  Stacy stopped. Another shudder took hold of her body. Her face convulsed and white foam bubbled at the corners of her mouth. Turning, she canted forward, tiny hands compressed into hard little fists. For a moment, I thought she'd charge him. Flushed, herself. The Doss flush.

  "You!" she said. "You . . . are . . . evil."

  She ran out, I followed, caught up with her at the door to the last bedroom.

  "No! Please! I know you want to help but . . ."

  "Stacy—"

  She rushed into the bedroom but left the door open. I walked in.

  Smaller room than Eric's. Pink and baby-blue paper, ribbons and leaves and flowers. White iron bed with brass accents, pink comforter, stuffed animals piled into an upholstered armchair. Clothes and books strewn about, but not the calculated entropy of Eric's personal space.

  She walked to a window, touched shuttered blinds. "This is so humiliating, you seeing us like this."

  "These are tough times," I said. House calls. How much didn't I know about thousands of other patients?

  "There's no excuse," she said. "We're just . . ."

  She trailed off. Hunched her back like an old woman and tore at a cuticle.

  "I'm here to help, Stacy."

  No answer. Then: "It's secret, right? Whatever we talk about? Nothing changes that?"

  "Nothing," I said. Unless you're planning to kill someone.

  I waited for her to talk. She didn't.

  "What's on your mind, Stacy?"

  "He is."

  "Eric?"

  Nod. "He scares me."

  "How does he scare you, Stacy?"

  "By— he— the way he talks— the things he says . . . No, no, forget it, forget I just said that. Please. Just forget it. He's fine, everything's fine."

  She slipped a finger between the blades of the blinds and peered out at the night.

  I said, "What did Eric say that scared you?"

  She spun around. "Nothing! I said forget it!"

  I stood there.

  "What?" she said.

  "If you're scared, let me help."

  "You can't— there's nothing you can— it's— I just— he— Helen— we were sitting there. After we got back from the police station and he started talking about Helen."

  "Your dog."

  "What's the difference? Please! Please don't make me get into it!"

  "I can't make you do anything, Stacy. But if Eric's in some kind of danger—"

  "No, no, that's not what I mean— he— you remember what I told you about Helen . . ."

  "She was sick. Eric took her up to the mountains and you never saw her again. What's he saying about her?"

  "Nothing," she said. "Nothing, really . . . Besides, what's the big deal? It was the right thing to do— she was sick, she was a dog, for God's sake, people do that all the time, it's the humane thing to do."

  "Putting her out of her misery. Eric told you he did it?"

  "Yes— never before, not till now. I mean I knew, but he never mentioned before, not once. Then tonight, after we got back. Dad and Mr. Safer were downstairs and we were up here and all of a sudden he starts getting into it. Laughing about it."

  She sat down on the edge of the armchair, crushing stuffed animals. Reaching behind, she took one in her arms— a small, frayed elephant.

  "He laughed about Helen," I said. "And now he's talking about people being put out of their misery."

  "No— just forget it." Weak voice, lacking conviction.

  "You're worried," I went on. "If Eric could do that to Helen, maybe he could do it to a human being. Maybe he had something to do with your mother's death."

  "No!" she shouted. "Yes! That's what— he basically told me! I mean, he didn't come out and say it but he kept hinting around at it. Talking about Helen, how her eyes looked— how she was okay with it, peaceful. She looked up at him and licked his face and he hit her over the head with a rock. One time, he said. That's all it took. Then he buried her— it was brave of him, right? I couldn't have done it, it needed to be done, she was so sick."

  She rocked in the chair, held the elephant to her breast.

  "Then he got a creepy smile. Said sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands, how no one knows what's right or wrong unless they're in your shoes. How maybe there really is no right or wrong, just rules that people take on because they're too scared to make their own decisions. He said helping Helen was the noblest thing he'd ever done."

  She squeezed the elephant harder and its tiny face compressed to something grotesque. "I'm so scared. What if he did another Helen?"

  "No reason to believe that," I said, lying because now I had an explanation for why Mate hadn't claim
ed Joanne. I went on in my best therapist voice: "He's upset, just as you are. Things will settle down, Eric will settle down."

  My voice and my brain diverged as I continued to comfort, thinking all the while: mother and son, guilt, expiation. Joanne and Eric planning . . . Eric taking pictures because he knew she'd be leaving soon, wanted to grasp every opportunity for memorial.