Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "It's for sale," said the hairless man wearily. His voice was half an octave below bassoon, clogged and wheezy.

  "Interesting."

  "If you meant that, you'd buy it. I got it from a guy used to work on her pictures. It's all bona fide."

  I showed him my police consultant badge. The small print tells them I've got no real authority. When they're going to be helpful, they never bother to check. When they're not, a real badge wouldn't impress them.

  The old man barely looked at it. His skin was pallid and dull, compressed in spots, lumped like cooling tallow. Licking his lips, he smiled. "Didn't think you were checking in for a room, not with that sport jacket. What is it, cashmere?"

  He stretched a hand toward my sleeve and for a moment I thought he'd touch it. But he drew back.

  "Just wool," I said.

  "Just wool." He humphed. "Just money. So what can I do for you?"

  "Several months ago a woman from L.A. checked in and—"

  "Killed herself. So why're you here now? When it happened, the police didn't barely want to talk to me. Not that they should've, I wasn't working that night, my son was. And he didn't know much, either— you read the report, you know."

  I didn't deny it. "Where is your son?"

  "Florida. He was only visiting, doing me a favor 'cause I was indisposed." His fingers brushed against one of the medicine bottles. "Back in Tallahassee. Drives a truck for Anheuser-Busch. So what's up?"

  "Just doing some follow-up," I said. "For the files. Did your son ever talk to you about who checked Ms. Doss in that night?"

  "She checked herself in— the coward. Barnett said she didn't look too good, unsteady on her feet, but she did it all, paid with a credit card— you guys took the receipt." He smiled. "Not our usual clientele."

  "How so?"

  His laughter began somewhere in his belly. By the time it reached his mouth he was coughing. The paroxysm lasted too long to be trivial.

  "'Scuse me," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a dimpled hand. "Like you don't know what I'm talking about."

  He smiled again. I smiled back.

  "Not poor, not horny, not drunk," he said, amused. "Just a rich coward."

  "A coward because—"

  "Because God grants you your particular share of years, you go and laugh in His face? She was like that, too." Pointing to the Monroe case. "Body like that and she wasted it on politicians and other scum. That bikini's worth something, you know. Big money, but no one around here appreciates memorabilia. I think I'm gonna get myself a computer, list it on the Internet."

  "Did your son mention anyone with Ms. Doss?"

  "Yeah, there was someone out in the car, waiting. Behind the wheel. Barnett never looked to see who it was. We look too hard, we don't get business, right?"

  "Right," I said. "Was there anyone else here who might've noticed?"

  "Maybe Maribel, the cleaning girl. The one who found it. She came on at eleven at night, was working till seven. Asked for night work because she had a day job over at the Best Western in Palmdale. But you guys already talked to her. She didn't tell you much, huh?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah, she was a little . . ."

  "She was sick is what she was," he said. "Pregnant, ready to drop. Already had a miscarriage. After she found . . . what she found, she wouldn't stop crying, I thought we were gonna have one of those real-life video situations right out there in the parking lot— ever deliver a baby?"

  I shook my head. "She end up delivering okay?"

  "Yup, a boy."

  "Healthy?"

  "Seems to be."

  "Any idea where can I find her?"

  He crooked a thumb. "Out back, Unit Six, she's working days now. Someone had a party last night in Six. Longhair types, Nevada plates, paid cash. Should've known better than to give pigs like that a room. Maribel'll be cleaning that one for a while."

  I thanked him and headed for the door.

  "Here's a little secret," he said.

  I stopped, turned my head.

  He winked. "Got the Monroe Playboy, too. Don't keep it in the case, 'cause it's too valuable. One price gets you all of it. Tell all your friends."

  "Will do."

  "Sure you will."

  • • •

  Maribel was young, short, frail-looking, in a pink-and-white uniform that seemed incongruously proper for the pitted lot and the splintering red doors. She was gloved to the elbows. Her hair was tied back, but loose strands were sweat-glued to her forehead. A wheeled cart pulled up to Unit Six was piled with cleaning solvents and frayed towels. The trash bag slung from the side overflowed with filthy linens, empty bottles and stink. She gave the badge a bit more attention than her boss had.

  "L.A.?" she said, with the faintest accent. "Why're you coming out here?"

  "The woman who killed herself. Joanne Doss—"

  Her face closed up tight. "No, forget it, I don't wanna talk about that."

  "Don't blame you," I said. "And I'm not interested in making you go through it again."

  Her gloves slammed onto her hips. "Then what?"

  "I'd like to know anything you can remember about before. Once Ms. Doss went in the room, did she ever come out? Did she ask for food, drinks, do anything that caught your attention?"

  "Nope, nothing. They went in after I got here— around midnight, I already told them that. I didn't see them until . . . you know."

  "Them," I said. "Two people."

  "Yup."

  "How long did the other person stay?"

  "Don't know," she said. "Probably a while. I was up at the front desk, mostly, 'cause Barnett— Milton's son— wanted to go out and party and not tell his dad."

  "But the car wasn't there in the morning."

  "Nope."

  "Who was the other person?"

  "Didn't get a good look."

  "Tell me what you did see."

  "Not much, I never saw the face." Her eyes filled with tears. "It was disgusting— it's not fair bringing all this up—"

  "I'm sorry, Maribel. Just tell me what you saw and we'll be finished."

  "I don't wanna get anyone in trouble— I don't wanna be on TV or nothing."

  "You won't be."

  She pulled at the finger of a glove.

  Didn't speak. Then she did.

  And suddenly, everything made sense.

  37

  JUST WOOL AGAIN.

  My best blue suit, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, yellow-print tie, shiny shoes.

  Dressed for court.

  I pushed open the double doors to Division 12 and walked right in. More often than not, family sessions are closed, witnesses kept out in the corridor, but this morning I got lucky. Judy was hearing motions from a pair of reasonable-sounding attorneys, scheduling hearings, bantering with her bailiff, a man named Leonard Stickney, who knew me.

  I sat in the back row, the only spectator. Leonard Stickney noticed me first and gave a small salute.

  A second later, Judy saw me and her eyes opened wide. Black-robed and regal behind the bench, she turned away, got businesslike, ordering the lawyers to do something within thirty days' time.

  I sat there and waited. Ten minutes later, she dismissed both attorneys, called for recess, and motioned Leonard over. Covering her mike with one hand, she whispered to him behind the other, stepped off the bench and exited through the door that led to her chambers.

  Leonard marched up to me. "Doctor, Her Honor requests your presence."

  • • •

  Soft lighting, carved desk and credenza, overstuffed chairs, certificates and award plaques on the walls, family photos in sterling silver frames.

  I concentrated on one particular snapshot. Judy's younger daughter, Becky. The girl who'd gotten too thin, needed therapy, tried to play therapist with Stacy.

  Becky, who'd been tutored by Joanne. Whose grades had dropped after the tutoring had stopped.

  Becky, who'd gotten too thin as Joanne grew obese. Had severed her relation
ship with Stacy.

  Judy slipped out of her robe and hung it on a mahogany rack. Today's suit was banana yellow, formfitting, trimmed with sand-colored braiding. Big pearl earrings, small diamond brooch. Every blond hair in place.

  Shiny hair.

  She reclined in her desk chair. Glittery things occupied a good portion of the leather desktop. The picture frames, a crystal bud vase, an assortment of tiny bronze cats, millefleur paperweights, a walnut gavel with a bronze plate on the handle. Her bony hands found a weight and rubbed it.

  "Alex. What a surprise. We don't have any cases pending, do we?"

  "No," I said. "Don't imagine we ever will."

  She squinted past me. "Now, why would you say that?"

  "Because I know," I said.

  "Know what?"

  I didn't answer, not out of any psychological calculation. I'd thought about being here, rehearsed it mentally, had gotten the first words out.

  I know.

  But the rest of it choked in my chest.

  "What is this, riddle time?" she said, trying to smile but managing only a peevish twist of her lipstick.

  "You were there," I said. "At the motel with Joanne. Someone saw you. They don't know who you are, but they described you perfectly."

  What Maribel had really seen was hair. Short yellow hair.

  A skinny woman, no butt on her. I only saw the back of her, she was getting into the car when I came out to fill the ice machine.

  She had this hair— real light, real shiny, a really good color job. That hair was shiny from across the parking lot.

  "Mate had nothing to do with it," I said. "It was just you and Joanne."

  Judy reclined a bit more. "You're talking nonsense, my dear."

  "One way to look at it," I said, "was you were helping a friend. Joanne had made her decision, needed someone to be there with her at the end. You'd always been a good friend to her. The only problem is, that friendship had cooled. For good reason."

  I waited. She wasn't moving. Then her right eyelid twitched. She pushed back from the desk another inch. "You're starting to sound like one of those psychic idiots— talking obliquely in the hope someone will take it for wisdom. Have you been under strain, Alex? Working too hard? I always thought you pushed yourself—"

  "So friendship would be the charitable interpretation of what brought you out to Lancaster with Joanne, but unfortunately that wasn't it at all. Joanne's motivation for destroying herself was crushing guilt— some sin she couldn't forgive herself for. Richard never forgave her, either. And neither did you. So when she asked you to be there, I don't think you minded one bit about seeing her reach the end."

  Her lips folded inward. Her hand reached out among the objects on her desk and found one. Walnut gavel. Brass plaque on the handle. An award. The walls were paneled with tributes.

  "Having you there was part of the punishment," I said. "Like when family members of victims are invited to attend the execution."

  "This is ridiculous," she said. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but you're talking gibberish— please leave."

  "Judy—"

  "This minute, Alex, or I'll call for Leonard."

  "My leaving won't change things. Not for you, not for Becky. Does Bob know? Probably not all of it, I'd guess, because he would've expressed his anger more directly, immediately. Wouldn't have let it sit. But he's mad about something, so he must know something."

  She took hold of the gavel, waved it at me. "Alex, I'm giving you one last chance to leave like a gentleman—"

  "Joanne and Becky," I said. "When did it happen?"

  She shot forward, half standing, and the gavel slammed down on the desk. But instead of making direct contact, the wood twisted, slipping out of her grip, skidding along the leather, pushing a paperweight to the carpet. The glass landed on the carpet with a feeble thump.

  Pathetic sound. Maybe that's what did it, or maybe she really wanted to talk.

  Her fingers curled into talons that she placed against her breast. As if ready to claw out her own heart. Suddenly they dropped and she sat back down and her hair was no longer in place. Hot eyes, wet eyes, a mouth that shook so badly it took a while for her to speak.

  "You bastard," she said. "You goddamn, goddamn bastard. I'm calling Leonard."

  But she didn't.

  • • •

  We sat staring at each other. I tried to look as sympathetic as I felt. I'd convinced myself this was all for the best, but now I wondered if it boiled down to feeding my own obsessiveness. A moment more and I might've gotten up and left. But she stood first, crossed the big, beautiful room, locked the door. When she sat back down, her eyes dropped to the gavel.

  That's when she reminded me of my oath of confidentiality. Repeated the warning.

  I told her of course I'd never talk.

  Even then, she kept it theoretical, the way Richard had, could barely stop herself from slapping me, kept drifting into corollary anger.

  "What if you were a parent?" she said. "Why aren't you, anyway? I always meant to ask you that. Working with other people's kids, but you never had any of your own."

  "Maybe one day," I said.

  "So it's not a physical problem? Not shooting blanks?"

  I smiled.

  "Kind of arrogant, Alex. Preaching to other people about how to raise their kids when you don't have any direct experience."

  "Maybe so."

  "Sure, agree with me— you guys all do that, another one of those little tricks they teach you in shrink school. Did you know Becky wants to become a psychologist? What do you think of that?"

  "I don't know Becky, but offhand it sounds fine."

  "Why's it fine?" she demanded.

  "Because people who've dealt with crisis can develop a special kind of empathy."

  "Can?"

  "Sometimes it goes the other way. I don't know Becky."

  "Becky's beautiful— a beautiful person. If you'd bothered to father any of your own, maybe you'd have a clue."

  "You're probably right," I said. "I mean that."

  "Think of it," she said, as if talking to herself. "You carry this creature inside you for nine months, rip your body up pushing them out, and that's when the real work starts— Do you have any idea what it takes to nurture a child nowadays in this fucking urbanized, overfeeding, over stimulating world we've created? Do you have a clue?"

  I kept quiet.

  She said, "Think about it: you go through all that, feeding them with your body, waking up in the middle of the night, wiping their ass, getting them through all the tantrums and the hurt feelings and the bad habits, getting them past puberty, for Christ's sake, and someone comes along— someone you trust— and sabotages all that."

  She sprang up, paced the space behind her desk.

  "I'm not telling you a damn thing, even if I did you couldn't repeat a word of it— and believe me, if I pick up the merest hint you've let on to anyone— your wife, anyone— I'll make sure you lose that license of yours."

  Race-walking the width of the room, back again, another circuit.

  "Picture this, Doctor: you put all that into another human being, entrust them to someone they've known their whole life. Someone you've done favors for, and what are you asking? Tutoring, stupid tutoring, because the kid's smart but numbers have a way— math— just math, not another goddamn thing. And then you walk in and find that person with— with your treasure, this treasure you've wrought, and they've shattered it . . . by the pool, the goddamn pool. And where are the math books? Where's the tutoring? Getting wet on the deck next to the pool while they— wet swimsuits lying all wrinkled— oh that would be just great with you, wouldn't it? You'd let that pass, right?"

  "Was it the first time?" I said.

  "Joanne claimed it was— Becky did, too, but they were both lying. I can't blame Becky for that, she was ashamed— no, it wasn't the first time, I could tell it wasn't. Because it explained all sorts of things. A little girl who used to talk to me, who after
she turned sixteen and started getting tutored didn't talk to me anymore. A little girl who'd suddenly cry for no good reason, leave the house, not tell us where she was going— her grades started to drop, even with the tutoring— she was sixteen, Alex, and that bitch raped her! For all I know it had gone on for years."