Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “We have to, ma’am.”

  Beth Gallegos placed her face in her hands and kept it there for several moments. When she revealed herself again, she’d gone pale. “I’m so, so sorry Gavin got killed. But I really can’t stand any more of this. When Gavin had his trial I was subpoenaed; it was horrible.”

  “Testifying was rough.”

  “Being there was rough. The people you see in the halls. The smells, the waiting. I waited an entire day and never was called to testify. Thank God. It really wasn’t much of a trial, Gavin admitted what he’d done. Later, he and his parents walked right past me and his mother looked at me as if I was the guilty one. I didn’t even tell Anson I was going, didn’t want him to lose a day’s work.” Her attention shifted to the left. She bit her lip. “No, that’s not the real reason. I didn’t want the case to . . . pollute my relationship. I want Anson to see me as someone strong. Please let us be.”

  Milo said, “Beth, I have no interest in adding stress to your life. And there’s no reason to believe you— or Anson—will be involved any further. But this is a homicide investigation, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Okay,” Gallegos said, barely audible. “I understand . . . stuff happens.”

  “What’s Anson’s address?”

  “We live together. At his place. Ogden Drive, near Beverly. But he won’t be there, he’s working.”

  “Where?”

  “He teaches martial arts,” she said. “Karate, tae kwan do, kickboxing. He was a regional kickboxing champ back in Florida, just got hired by a dojo near where we live. Wilshire near Crescent Heights. He also does youth work. On Sunday, for a ministry in Bell Gardens. We’re both Christians, met at a church mixer. We’re getting married in September.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “He’s a great guy,” said Gallegos. “He loves me and gives me my space.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I drove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

  Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

  “At least he saw it that way.”

  “If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

  A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit— those karate dances—”

  “Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

  “You make it to black belt?”

  “Brown.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Not angry enough.”

  “I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

  “Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

  “Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

  STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

  One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

  Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

  Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

  Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

  Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

  “Police? What about?”

  “Gavin Quick.”

  “Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

  “Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

  “Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it— kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”

  Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

  Milo said, “Why’s that?”

  “Because the idea of my killing anyone— hurting anyone— is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

  “Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

  The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.

  “That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

  “The Army?” said Milo.

  “Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden stare off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

  Conniff smiled. “I guess I’m just not very death-oriented.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “People who are.”

  “You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

  Conniff motioned around the dojo. “This? It’s a job.”

  Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

  “Not killing Gavin Quick.” Conniff relaxed his posture.

  “In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

  “How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Conniff tightened his black belt and widened the space between his feet. “I mourn Gavin Quick in the sense that I mourn the loss of any human life, but I’m not going to tell you I cared for him. He put Beth through incredible misery. But Beth insisted on dealing with it in her own way, and she was right. The stalking stopped. I had no reason to want to hurt him.”

  “Her own way,” said Milo.

  “Avoiding him,” said Conniff. “Going through the legal system. I wanted to confront Gavin— on a verbal level. I thought a man-to-man talk might convince him. Beth said no, and I respected her wishes.”

  “Man-to-man.”

  Conniff rubbed his palms along the sides of his tunic. His hands were small and callused. “Yes, I can get protective. I love Beth. But I didn’t hurt Gavin Quick. I’d have no reason to.”

  “Where were you Monday?”

  “With Beth. We stayed in. Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust Beth. She’s all about forgiveness, operates at a high level, spiritually.”

  “What’d you have for dinner?” said Milo.

  “Who remembers . . . let’s see, Monday, so it was probably leftovers. Sunday we barbecued steaks and had a lot of leftovers . . . yeah, definitely, leftover steak. I cut it up and sautéed it with peppers and onions, did a stir-fry. Beth cooked up some rice. Yeah, for sure. We stayed in
.”

  “Ever been in psychotherapy, Mr. Conniff?”

  “Why is that your business?”

  “Covering bases,” said Milo.

  “Well, I find the question kind of intrusive.”

  “Sorry, sir, but—”

  “I’ll answer it anyway,” said Conniff. “My entire family went into therapy after Bradley died. We all saw a wonderful man named the Reverend Dr. Bill Kehoe, and I talked to him by myself a few times, as well. He was the pastor of our church and a fully qualified clinical psychologist. He saved us from despair. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “That’s the only time you had therapy,” said Milo.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. It took a while— a long while— to stop feeling guilty about Bradley’s dying and my surviving, but I got there. Life’s darned good, nowadays.”

  Milo reached into his pocket and brought out the death shot of the blonde. “Ever see this girl?”

  Conniff studied the picture. “Nope. But I know the look. Pure dead. That’s the look that flavored my childhood. Who is she?”

  “Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”

  “Sad,” said Conniff. “There are always sad things in this world. The key is to push past all that and lead a spiritual life.”

  *

  Back in the car, Milo ran Conniff’s name through the data banks. Two parking tickets.

  “No con, but he’s a strange one, no?”

  “Tightly wound,” I said.

  “The type to clean up carefully.”

  “He says he was with Beth.”

  “I’ll ask Beth,” he said.

  “Her say-so will be enough?”

  “Like he said, she operates at a high level.”

  *

  A call from the car produced the same story from Beth Gallegos.

  Steak stir-fry.

  We returned to the station where Milo found a faxed artist’s rendering of the dead girl and a message to call Community Relations.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Michelangelo’s rolling in his crypt.”

  The drawing was sketchy, lacking in character, useless. He crumpled and tossed it, phoned CR downtown, listened, hung up, grinding his teeth.

  “This city, everything’s a goddamn audition. They talked to the papers, and the papers aren’t interested. Maybe it’s even true.”

  “I can call Ned Biondi. He retired from the Times a few years ago, but he’d know who to talk to.”

  “Now that the PR idiots have given me an official ‘no,’ I can’t just go off and hot-dog. But maybe in a few days, if we still can’t ID her.” He peered at the Timex, muttered, “How’s your time and your intestinal fortitude?”

  “A visit to the Quicks?” I said. “Sure.”

  “You do tarot readings too?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “That girl,” said Sheila Quick. “She was hired to help Gavin, so instead she goes and gets him into trouble.”

  Her living room looked the same, but drawn drapes turned it funereal, and the space had gone stale. The cigarette box from which Jerome Quick had lifted his smokes was empty. Sheila Quick wore a black cotton robe with a zipper up the front. Her ash hair was turbaned by a black silk scarf. Her face was tight and white and old, and she wore pink mules. Above the slippers, her feet were knobby and blue-veined.

  She said, “Unbelievable.”

  Milo said, “What is, ma’am?”

  “What she did to him.”

  “You see Gavin’s arrest as Beth Gallegos’s fault.”

  “Of course I do! Do you know how Gav met her? She was a therapist at Saint John’s, was supposed to be helping Gav get back his dexterity. She knew what he’d been through! She should’ve been more understanding!”

  Milo and I said nothing.

  “Listen,” said Sheila Quick, “if she was so concerned about her safety, why’d she take so long to complain? And then what does she do? Goes straight for the police, dials 911 like it’s some big-deal emergency when all Gav did was knock on her door— I know she said he pounded but no one else heard any pounding and Gav told me he just knocked and I believe my son!”

  “You don’t think she should’ve called 911.”

  “I think if she was so convinced there was a problem, she had ample opportunity to come to us. Why didn’t she? All she had to do was call and let us know she thought Gavin was a little . . . eager. We’d have talked to him. Why’d she let this alleged problem linger if it was so bad? You’re professionals. Does that make sense to you?”

  Milo said, “She never got in touch with you beforehand.”

  “Never, not once. See what I mean?”

  Milo nodded.

  “And then all of a sudden Gav’s arrested and we have to hire a lawyer and go through all that rigamarole.” Her smile was sickly. “Of course, in the end they dismissed it. Obviously, it was nothing.”

  Gavin had pled to a misdemeanor and been sentenced to therapy.

  Sheila Quick said, “Lieutenant, I certainly hope you don’t think what happened to my Gav was related to anything he did. Or anyone he knew.”

  “It couldn’t be anyone he knew?”

  “Of course not, we know only nice people. And Gavin . . .” She began to cry. “Gavin, after the accident, he didn’t have anyone in his life except his father and me and his sister.”

  “No friends,” I said.

  “That’s the point!” she said, pleased, as if she’d solved a difficult puzzle. “It was no one he knew because he really didn’t know anyone. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Lieutenant, and I’m certain my baby just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “A stranger,” said Milo.

  “Look at September 11. Did any of those people know the pigs who killed them? It’s exactly like that— evil’s out there and sometimes it bites you and now the Quick family’s been bitten.”

  She sprang up, raced to the kitchen, came back with a plate of Oreos.

  “Eat,” she ordered.

  Milo took a cookie and finished it in two bites, passed the plate to me. I placed it on a side table.

  “So tell me,” said Sheila Quick. “What progress have you made?”

  Milo brushed crumbs from his trousers to his hand, searched for somewhere to put them.

  “Just drop it all on the rug, Lieutenant. I clean every day. Sometimes twice a day. What else is there to do around here? Jerry’s already back at work, doing his businessman thing. I envy that about him.”

  “Being able to concentrate?” I said.

  “Being able to cut himself off. It’s a male thing, right? You men cut yourselves off and go out and hunt and prowl and make deals and do whatever it is you think you’re supposed to do, and we women are stuck waiting for you as if you’re some kind of conquering heroes.”

  “Mrs. Quick,” said Milo, “you’re not going to like this question, but I have to ask it anyway. Did Gavin ever run into any problems with women other than Beth Gallegos?”

  Sheila Quick’s hands closed into fists. “No, and the very fact you’re suggesting it— I tell you that’s just so . . . distorted— shortsighted.” She ripped the scarf-turban from her head and began kneading the fabric. Her hair was elaborately pinned, compressed tightly to her skull. White roots showed through the blond.

  Milo said, “I’m sorry, but I need to—”

  “You need to, you need to— what you need to do is find the madman who killed my son.”

  “The young lady he was with, ma’am. We still haven’t been able to identify her.”

  Sheila got up and snatched the plate of cookies from where I’d placed them. She returned to the kitchen, swung the door closed, stayed in there.

  “As predicted,” said Milo, “a pretty scene. I know she’s gone through hell but ten to one she was a harpy before.”

  Minutes passed.

  He said, “I’d better go in there and finish up with her. Be kind to yourself and stay here.”

  Just as h
e rose, the kitchen door swung open, and Sheila Quick stomped through. She’d unpinned and brushed her hair but applied no makeup. Milo sat back down. She stopped directly in front of us, placed her hands on her hips.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “The girl Gavin was wi—”