Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “And all this time I was obsessing on Cindy. Brilliant, Eves.”

  “I zeroed in on her too. We all did. She was a perfect Munchausen suspect. Low self-esteem, easygoing manner, early experiences with serious illness, health-care training. He probably came across the syndrome in his readings, saw the fit, and realized he had an opportunity to get her. That’s why he didn’t have Cassie transferred to another hospital. He wanted to give us time to develop our suspicions. Worked us like an audience— the way he works his students. He’s the exhibitionist, Steph. But we never saw it because the books say it’s always a woman.”

  Silence.

  “He killed Chad, didn’t he?” she said.

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  “Why, Alex? Why use his own kids to get at Cindy?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll tell you one thing. He hates Cassie. Before they took him away he gave her a look that was really disturbing. Pure contempt. If the tape caught it and it’s ruled admissible in court, it’s all the prosecutor will need.”

  Shaking her head, she returned to the bed and stroked Cassie’s hair.

  “Poor little baby. Poor little innocent baby.”

  I sat there, not wanting to think or do or talk or feel.

  A trio of LuvBunnies sat on the floor near my feet.

  I picked one up. Passed it from hand to hand. Something hard in the belly.

  Undoing the flap, I poked around the foam stuffing, just as I had in Cassie’s bedroom. This time, I found something tucked into a fold near the groin.

  I drew it out. A packet. About an inch in diameter. Tissue paper fastened with cellophane tape.

  I unwrapped it. Four pills. Pale-blue, each with a heart-shaped cutout.

  Stephanie said, “Valium.”

  “Here’s our secret stash.” I rewrapped the packet and set it aside for Milo. “He made such a big deal about not having any dope with him. Everything’s a game with him.”

  “Vicki bought those bunnies,” Stephanie said. “Vicki’s the one who got Cassie started on them.”

  “Vicki will be talked to after this,” I said.

  “Too weird,” she said. “The stuff they don’t teach you in sch—”

  A squeak came from the bed. Cassie’s eyes blinked spasmodically, then opened. Her little mouth turned down. She blinked some more.

  “It’s okay, baby,” said Stephanie.

  Cassie’s mouth worked, finally producing a sound:

  “Eh eh eh.”

  “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine now.”

  “Eh eh eh eh.”

  More blinks. A shudder. Cassie tried to move, failed cried out in frustration. Scrunched her eyes. Crinkled her chin.

  Stephanie held her and rocked her. Cassie tried to twist away from Stephanie’s caress.

  I remembered the way she’d fought me in her bedroom.

  Reacting to her mother’s anxiety? Or memories of another man who came in the night, shrouded by darkness, and hurt her?

  But then, why hadn’t she panicked whenever she saw Chip? Why had she jumped up into his arms, so willingly, the first time I’d seen them together?

  “Eh eh eh . . .”

  “Shh, baby.”

  “Eh . . . eh eh . . . eh.”

  “Go back to sleep, honey. Go back to sleep.”

  Very faintly: “Eh . . .”

  “Shh.”

  “Eh . . .”

  Closed eyes.

  Soft snores.

  Stephanie held her for several moments, then slipped her hands free.

  “Must be the magic touch,” she said sadly. Looping her stethoscope over her neck, she walked out of the room.

  34

  A nurse and a policewoman arrived soon after.

  I gave the cop the packet of pills and sleep-walked my way to the teak doors.

  Out in Five East, people were moving and talking, but I didn’t focus on them. I rode the elevator down to the basement. The cafeteria was closed. Wondering if Chip had a key to that, too, I bought coffee from a machine, found a pay phone, and sipped as I asked information for a number on a Jennifer Leavitt. Nothing.

  Before the operator could break the connection, I had him check for any Leavitts in the Fairfax district. Two. One of them matched my vague memory of Jennifer’s parents’ home number.

  My watch said 9:30. I knew Mr. Leavitt went to sleep early in order to make it to the bakery by 5:00 A.M. Hoping it wasn’t too late, I punched numbers.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Leavitt? It’s Dr. Delaware.”

  “Doctor. How are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Very good.”

  “Am I calling too late?”

  “Oh, no. We’re just watching television. But Jenny’s not here. She has her own apartment now— my daughter the doctor, very independent.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  “What’s not to be proud of? She’s always made me proud. Do you want her new number?”

  “Please.”

  “Hold on . . . She’s in Westwood Village, right near the U. With another girl, a nice girl . . . Here it is. If she’s not there, she’s probably in her office— she’s got an office, too.” Chuckle.

  “That’s great.” I copied down the numbers.

  “An office,” she said. “You know, raising a child like that, it’s a privilege. . . . I miss her. For my taste, the house is too quiet.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You were very helpful to her, Dr. Delaware. College at her age wasn’t so easy— you should be proud of yourself.”

  • • •

  No one answered at Jennifer’s apartment. But she picked up her office phone after one ring: “Leavitt.”

  “Jennifer, it’s Alex Delaware.”

  “Hi, Alex. Did you solve your Munchausen by proxy?”

  “The whodunit,” I said. “But the whydunit’s not clear yet. It turned out to be the father.”

  “Well, that’s a twist,” she said. “So it isn’t always the mother.”

  “He was counting on our assuming it was. He set her up.”

  “How Machiavellian.”

  “He fancies himself an intellectual. He’s a professor.”

  “Here?”

  “No, at a junior college. But he does his serious research at the U, which is why I’m calling you. My bet is he read up exhaustively on the syndrome in order to create a textbook case. His first child died of SIDS. Another textbook case, so I’m wondering if he set that up too.”

  “Oh, no— this sounds grotesque.”

  “I was thinking about the SAP system,” I said. “If he’s got a faculty account, would there be some way to find out?”

  “The library keeps a record of all users, for billing.”

  “Do the bills list which articles were pulled?”

  “Absolutely. What time is it? Nine forty-seven. The library’s open till ten. I could call down there and see if anyone I know is working. Give me the bastard’s name.”

  “Jones, Charles L. Sociology, West Valley Community College.”

  “Got it. I’m going to put you on hold and call them on the other line. Just in case we get cut off; give me your number.”

  Five minutes later she clicked in.

  “Voilà, Alex. The idiot left a beautiful paper trail. Pulled everything the system’s got on three topics— Munchausen, sudden infant death, and the sociological structure of hospitals. Plus a few isolated articles on two other topics: diazepam toxicity and— are you ready for this?— women’s fantasies about penis size. It’s all there: names, dates, exact hour. I’ll get a printout for you tomorrow.”

  “Fantastic. I really appreciate it, Jennifer.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “He’s not the only one who used the account. There’s another signature on some of the searches— a Kristie Kirkash. Know anyone by that name?”

  “No,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised
if she’s young, cute, and one of his students. Maybe even plays sorority softball.”

  “Sleazy affair for the prof? How do you figure?”

  “He’s a creature of habit.”

  35

  Hot morning and the Valley was frying. A big rig had overturned on the freeway, showering all lanes with eggs. Even the shoulder was blocked and Milo cursed until the highway patrolman waved us through.

  We arrived at the junior college ten minutes behind schedule. Made it to class just as the last students were entering.

  “Damn,” said Milo. “Improv time.” We climbed the stairs to the trailer. I remained in the doorway and he went up to the blackboard.

  It was a small room— half the trailer, partitioned by an accordion wall and set up with a conference table and a dozen folding chairs.

  Ten of the chairs were occupied. Eight women, two men. One of the women was in her sixties; the rest were girls. Both men were fortyish. One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other, Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried himself in a book.

  Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. “Mr. Jones won’t be making it today. I’m Mr. Sturgis, your substitute.”

  All eyes on him, except those of the reader.

  One of the girls said, “Is he okay?” in a strained voice. She had very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic balls on nylon fishing line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth, tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of both.

  Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.

  Milo said, “Not really, Kristie.”

  She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.

  She said, “Hey, what’s going on?” and grabbed her purse.

  Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.

  “You tell me, Kristie.”

  She froze. The other students gawked. The reader’s eyes floated above the pages of his book. Moving slowly.

  I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.

  Shoes.

  Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn’t go with his silk shirt and his designer jeans.

  Milo’s eyes narrowed. The reader’s fixed on mine, then sank out of view as he raised the book higher.

  Theories of Organizations.

  Kristie started to cry.

  The other students were statues.

  Milo said, “Yo Joe! Cavity check!”

  The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was enough.

  Bland face. Dick and Jane’s dad from a half-block distance. Up close, details destroyed the paternal image: five o’clock shadow, pockmarks on the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.

  And the sweat— a coat of it, shiny as fresh lacquer.

  He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.

  He picked up his books and stepped away from the table while keeping his head down.

  Milo said, “Hey, c’mon, stay. I’m an easy grader.”

  The man stopped, began to lower himself, then he threw the books at Milo and made a rush for the door.

  I stepped in front of him, locking my hands in a double-arm block.

  He shouldered me full-force. The impact slammed me against the door and pushed it open.

  I fell backward onto the cement, landing hard and feeling my tailbone hum. Reaching out, I grabbed two handfuls of silk. He was on top of me, clawing and punching and spraying sweat.

  Milo pulled him off, hit him very fast in the face and the belly and shoved him hard against the bungalow. The man struggled. Milo kidney-punched him, hard, and cuffed him as he sank, groaning.

  Milo forced him down on the ground and put one foot on the small of his back.

  A pat-down produced a wad of cash, a flick-knife with a black handle, a vial of pills, and a cheap plastic billfold stamped RENO: NEVADA’S PLAYGROUND. Milo pulled three different driver’s licenses out of the fold.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here? Sobran comma Karl with a K, Sebring comma Carl with a C, and . . . Ramsey comma Clark Edward. Which one’s real, turkey, or are you suffering from multiple personality syndrome?”

  The man said nothing.

  Milo nudged one of the black shoes with a toe.

  “Good old prison clumpers. County or state?”

  No answer.

  “You need new heels, genius.”

  The man’s back muscles moved under his shirt.

  Milo turned to me. “Find a phone and call the Devonshire substation. Tell them we’ve got a suspect on a Central Division homicide and give them Dawn Herbert’s full name.”

  The man on the ground said, “Bullshit.” His voice was deep and muddy.

  One of the young students came out onto the stairs. Twenty or twenty-one, short blond pageboy, sleeveless white dress, Mary Pickford face.

  She said, “Kristie’s pretty upset,” in a very timid voice.

  “Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute,” said Milo.

  “Um . . . sure. What did Karl do?”

  “Sloppy homework,” said Milo.

  The man on the ground growled and the girl looked startled.

  Milo kept his knee on the man’s back and said, “Shut up.”

  The blond girl gripped the doorjamb.

  Softening his voice, Milo said, “It’s okay— nothing to worry about. Just go inside and wait.”

  “This isn’t some kind of experiment or anything, is it?”

  “Experiment?”

  “A role-play. You know? Professor Jones likes to use them to raise our awareness.”

  “Bet he does. No, miss, this is real. Sociology in action. Take a good look— it’ll be on the final.”

  36

  The envelope arrived by messenger at 7:00 P.M., just before Robin got home. I put it aside and tried to have a normal evening with her. After she went to sleep, I took it to the library. Turned on all the lights and read.

  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERROGATION

  DR# 102—789 793

  DR# 64—458 990

  DR# 135—935 827

  PLACE: L.A.C. JAIL, BLOCK: HIGH-POWER

  T/DATE: 6/1/89, 7:30 P.M.

  SUSPECT: JONES, CHARLES LYMAN III, MW,

  6’3’’

  BRO, BLU

  AGE: 38

  DEF ATTORNEY: TOKARIK, ANTHONY M., ESQ.

  LAPD: MILO B. STURGIS #15994, WLA (SPEC. ASSIGNMENT)

  STEPHEN MARTINEZ, #26782, DEVSHR.

  DET. STURGIS: This is video-audiotape session number two with Suspect Charles Lyman Jones the Third. Suspect was informed of his rights at the time of arrest for attempted murder. Miranda warning was repeated and taped at a previous session, eleven A.M. June 1, 1989, and transcribed on that day at two P.M. Said session was terminated on advice of suspect’s counsel, Mr. Anthony Tokarik, Esquire. This session represents resumption of interview at request of Mr. Tokarik. Do I need to re-Mirandize him, Counselor, or does that second warning hold for this session?

  MR. TOKARIK: It will hold, unless Professor Jones requests re-Mirandization. Do you want to be warned again, Chip?

  MR. JONES: No. Let’s get on with this.

  MR. TOKARIK: Go ahead.

  DET. STURGIS: Evening, Chip.

  MR. TOKARIK: I’d prefer that you address my client respectfully, Detective.