Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “But you declined,” I said. “Entrenched personality disorders.”

  “Yes.”

  “Also, the reimbursement rates couldn’t match your private fees.”

  “I work for a living,” said Gull. “I don’t see why I should apologize for that.”

  “What’s your hourly fee?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I use a sliding scale. From one-twenty to two hundred per session.”

  “Medi-Cal pays twenty and restricts the number of sessions.”

  “Medi-Cal’s a joke,” said Gull. “Mary said the bill doubled the rates— some sort of political give-and-take. But forty’s still a joke. I opted out.”

  “How’d Mary and Albin react to that?”

  “Albin didn’t say much. He rarely does. Mary was upset with me, but that didn’t last.”

  Milo said, “Your being intimate friends and all that.”

  Gull sniffed.

  I said, “You declined to participate but obtained a Medi-Cal provider number.”

  “At Albin’s and Mary’s behest. They said the state preferred settings with multiple providers, it would look better if all of us were listed. Mary filled out the paperwork and I signed and that was it.”

  He was sweating heavily now, searched again for his linen hankie. I pulled a tissue out of a box on Wimmer’s desk and handed it to him. He wiped his face hastily, and the tissue turned into a little gray sphere.

  “You’re saying you never actually saw any patients on the program?”

  “Basically,” he said.

  “Basically?”

  “I saw a few— very few. At the beginning, just to get the ball rolling.”

  “How many is a few?”

  He removed a pair of tiny-lensed reading glasses from his pocket and began playing with the sidepieces.

  “Franco?”

  “Three. That’s it. And no one with any of the names you mentioned.”

  “How was it, treating ex-cons?”

  “It wasn’t a good experience.”

  “Why not?”

  “Two of them were chronically late and when they did show up, they were high on something. It was obvious they were just passing the time.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Any indication they were getting paid to show up?”

  Gull’s brows arched. “No one ever mentioned that. Whatever the reason, they weren’t motivated. No insight, no desire to acquire any.”

  “What about the third patient?” I said.

  “That one,” said Gull, frowning. “That one upset me. He wasn’t drunk or stoned, and he talked. Talked plenty. But not about himself. About his girlfriend. What she needed, how he figured to give it to her.”

  “What did she need?” I said.

  Gull folded and unfolded the glasses. “Orgasms. Apparently, she was anorgasmic, and he was determined to fix the problem.”

  “Did he ask your help with that?”

  “No,” said Gull, “that’s the point, he didn’t want anything from me, he thought he knew everything. Very aggressive, very . . . not a pleasant man. Even though he tried to be charming. Attempted to speak intelligently.”

  “He couldn’t pull it off.”

  “Not hardly. Faking it— the typical antisocial charm. If you’ve had any experience with sociopaths, you’d know what I mean.”

  “Pretentious,” I said.

  “Exactly, prototypical antisocial pretentiousness.” His body loosened. Pretending we were colleagues having a clinical chat. “Flowery use of language, overly solicitous. Playing at being civilized and thinking he was putting one over on me. But his fantasies.” He exhaled.

  “Sadistic?”

  “Dominance, bondage and, yes, I’d say a touch of sadism. He talked incessantly about tying this woman up and making love to her aggressively for as long as it took to force orgasms out of her body. He didn’t use the term ‘making love.’ ”

  “Sexual tough guy,” I said.

  “His fantasies involved multiple penetration, bondage, foreign objects. I tried to get him to address this woman’s needs, suggested that perhaps she needed some tenderness, some intimacy, but he laughed that off. His plan was to quote-unquote ‘stick her every which way until she screamed for mercy.’ ”

  He smiled with practiced weariness. Any reticence about discussing patients had vanished. “I, for one, couldn’t see what any of that had to do with reducing recidivism, and when he stopped showing up, I told Mary I’d had enough of the program and the people it brought in.”

  He placed the eyeglasses back in his pocket, laced his hands, and sat forward. “You need to understand: I’d never do anything to hurt Mary. Never.”

  I said, “So you saw only three Sentries for Justice patients. For how many sessions, total?”

  “I believe twelve— certainly not much more than that. I remember thinking that apart from being unpleasant and unproductive, the project was a financial loser. I think the total billable charges didn’t even amount to five hundred dollars. That’s why your three hundred thousand figure is absurd. And the money didn’t come to Marina del Rey, it came to Mary at the office, she cashed the state check and distributed the money to me. You really do need to check your facts, gentlemen.”

  “Mary was the bursar.”

  “So to speak. Yes.”

  Milo removed several sheets of paper from his attache case and passed them to me. I showed Franco Gull a mug shot of Raymond Degussa.

  He said, “Yes, that’s him. Ray.”

  “Mr. Dominance.”

  He nodded. “Did he murder Mary?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he impressed me as someone clearly capable of violence. The way he carried himself, the way he sat, walked— like a barely tethered animal.” He studied the picture. “Look at those eyes. He made me uncomfortable. I told Mary that. She laughed it off, said there was nothing to worry about.”

  “The girlfriend he talked about,” I said. “Did he mention her name?”

  “No, but I saw her. At least I assume it was her.”

  “You assume?”

  “Shortly after Ray had stopped coming to see me, I spotted him with a woman. His arm was around her. He seemed . . . proprietary.”

  “Where’d you see them?” I said.

  “I happened to step out into the waiting room to get my patient, and the two of them were also sitting there. At first I thought there’d been some kind of scheduling problem, that Ray expected a session. But before I could say anything, Mary came out and the woman went back with her.”

  “The girlfriend was a patient of Mary’s.”

  “Apparently.”

  I showed him a shot of Flora Newsome, alive and smiling.

  “Yes,” he said. “Good Lord, what’s this all about?”

  “Did you see this woman with Ray Degussa any other times?”

  “Once more,” said Gull, “as I arrived at the building and they were walking out to the parking lot. It surprised me— the way she looked. Putting a face to the person he’d talked about. A man like that, I’d have expected someone a bit more . . . obvious.”

  “A bimbo,” said Milo.

  “This woman was . . . she looked like a bank clerk.”

  “She was a teacher,” I said.

  “Was,” said Gull. “You’re saying . . . God, how far does this go?”

  “Knowing Degussa was a thug, did you tell Mary his fantasies about her patient?”

  “No, I couldn’t. Confidentiality. That was one thing we were adamant about. All three of us. Once our doors closed, that was it. No cross-office chitchat about patients.”

  “You didn’t see Degussa as a threat to Flora Newsome?”

  “Flora,” said Gull. “So that’s her name . . . good God.” He bounded up, snatched another tissue. “There was nothing to warn anyone about. Nothing that even approached a Tarasoff level. He
never said he wanted to hurt her, just that he wanted to make her come.”

  “Make her scream for mercy,” I said.

  “I took that as a metaphor.”

  Milo said, “Him being a poetic type.”

  “He killed her?” said Gull. “You’re saying he actually killed her?”

  “Someone did.”

  “Oh God. This is my worst nightmare.”

  Milo said, “Hers was worse.”

  No one spoke for a while, then Gull said, “Did he assault her sexually?”

  Milo said, “We’ll ask the questions.”

  “Fine, fine— God, this is draining me, I’m drying up.” Gull stood again, poured two glasses of water, and finished both. His face was glossy. Fluid in, fluid out. A man of little substance.

  I said, “Who else was involved in Sentries for Justice?”

  “Just Mary and Albin.”

  “What about Ray Degussa?”

  “Him? You’re saying he was— you know, now that you mention it, he did seem to be near the office a lot. After he stopped coming for therapy.”

  “Where’d he hang out?”

  “I’d see him walking up the block, and he’d nod and smile and give a thumbs-up. As if we were friends. I assumed he worked nearby.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Just hi and good-bye.”

  “A thug nearby, that didn’t bother you?”

  “Mary and Albin were treating criminals.”

  “But you assumed Degussa worked nearby.”

  Gull shrugged. “I really didn’t pay much attention to any of it.”

  “When did the Sentries sessions take place?”

  “I assume after hours.”

  “So as not to upset the regular clientele.”

  Gull nodded.

  “You and Mary and Albin Larsen never discussed specifics?”

  “Frankly,” said Gull, “I didn’t want to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Criminals. I find them unsavory. I wanted to keep my distance from any . . .”

  “Any what?” said Milo.

  “Any unpleasantness.”

  “So you suspected there might be something illegal going on.”

  Myrna Wimmer said, “Don’t answer that. It could be self-incriminating.”

  Gull said, “But I didn’t do anything criminal.”

  Wimmer glared at him, and he shut his mouth.

  Milo said, “Counselor, your client’s got an interesting way of blocking out things he doesn’t want to deal with. Isn’t the point of therapy breaking through all that denial?”

  “Lieutenant, from where I’m sitting, my client has proved most cooperative. Do you have any other questions I’d deem acceptable?”

  Milo nodded at me, and I showed Gull Bennett Hacker’s DMV photo. “What about this man? Ever seen him?”

  “I’ve seen him with Albin a couple of times.”

  “Where?”

  “Over at Roxbury Park, having lunch with Albin. The same spot where you found us. Albin goes there frequently, said it reminds him of parks in Sweden.”

  “Albin ever introduce you to this man?”

  “No. I assumed he was a therapist, as well.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know, really . . . perhaps his demeanor.”

  “Which was?”

  “Quiet, pleasant.”

  “What about Sonny Koppel?” I said. “What was his role in Sentries for Justice?”

  “Sonny? None that I know of.”

  “Mary never mentioned his being involved?” said Milo.

  “The only thing Mary told me was that Sonny owned some properties that she’d convinced him to use as halfway houses, and that’s where she and Albin were going to get their patients. She said it made everything easy.”

  “Ready supply of patients.”

  “I don’t believe her intentions were anything but noble. She felt she could do some good and make money.”

  “Even at low reimbursement rates.”

  Gull was silent. Then he said, “Whatever took place, I chose not to participate. I think I deserve some credit for that.”

  “We’ll put a gold star on your chart, Doctor.”

  I said, “You’re saying Sonny wasn’t involved.”

  “I doubt Mary would have included Sonny in anything substantive. He repulsed her. Frankly, Mary was aware of how Sonny felt about her, and she turned it to her advantage. To get a great lease on our suite, to finance her own real estate investments.”

  “She borrowed money from Sonny?”

  “Not loans, gifts. She’d ask for money, and he’d say yes. She joked about it. Said, ‘I use every part of the pig except the squeal.’ ”

  Myrna Wimmer’s nails clacked against the edge of her desk.

  Gull said, “I don’t want to paint a negative portrait of Mary. Being married to a man like Sonny couldn’t have been easy. Have you met him?”

  “We have,” I said.

  “Can you imagine Mary with someone like that?”

  “Why? Was Sonny rough on her?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just the opposite.” Gull fidgeted.

  “What?” I said.

  “To be frank, Mary liked things a little . . . she enjoyed being dominated. In a loving way. Once she arrived at a point of trust and intimacy.”

  “Bondage?”

  “No, there were never ropes involved, just physical pressure.”

  “Holding her down.”

  “At her request,” said Gull.

  “Sonny wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sonny couldn’t do that. She said back when they’d been married, any demand she placed on him to exhibit dominance turned him instantly impotent. Because he needed to be dominated. She saw that as part of his general problem—’flabby psyche, flabby body’ was the way she termed it.”

  Gull patted his own midriff. “In my opinion, that’s really why she left him. He wouldn’t assert himself with her.”

  “So she used him.”

  “She said, ‘Sonny wants to be controlled, I’m doing him a favor by pulling his strings.’ ”

  “But she never mentioned Sonny being involved in Sentries?”

  “All she mentioned was his owning the buildings.”

  “What about Albin Larsen?” I said. “He and Mary ever develop anything physical?”

  Gull looked offended. “I’m certain they didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Albin’s not Mary’s type.”

  “Also not dominant?”

  “As far as I can tell, Albin’s asexual.”

  Milo said, “Got a monk thing going on?”

  “In all the time I’ve known Albin, he’s never expressed any interest in sex or sexual matters. And we’ve worked together for years.”

  “Too busy doing good works,” I said.

  “People channel their drives in various ways,” said Gull. “I don’t judge. I always have seen Albin as someone who might’ve been comfortable in a monastic setting. He lives very simply.”

  “Admirable,” said Milo.

  Gull said, “About all those names. Are you saying someone actually claims I treated those men and billed Medi-Cal?”

  “The state of California claims.”

  “Ridiculous. It never happened.”

  “The paperwork says it did, Doctor.”

  “Then someone screwed up, or someone’s lying. Check my bank accounts— check the money trail or whatever you call it. You won’t find any three hundred thousand unaccounted for.”

  “There are plenty of ways to hide money, Doctor.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know what they are.”

  “The paperwork, Doctor—”

  “Someone’s lying!” Gull shouted.

  Milo smiled. “Now who could that be?”