Blood Test

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “How’d you get him?”

  “I wish I could say it was brilliant police work. He attacked another woman and she had mace in her purse. Sprayed the fucker until he shrieked, knee-dropped him, and called us. Little wisp of a thing, too,” he added, with admiration. “We found articles belonging to the other victims in his apartment. The guy shits his pants when he gets excited. It’s been a giggle interrogating him. Only cheerful note is that his asshole lawyer has to sit there and smell it, too.”

  “Sounds like fun. Listen, if you can’t talk now—”

  “It’s okay. I took a break. Gotta come up for air. Del told me about the Cuban. I called Houten and he told me what happened. Seems your friend is a hothead. Drove into town this morning like Gary Cooper before the big showdown. Barged in on Houten, demanded he arrest the Touch people for the murder of the Swopes, and claimed the boy and Nona were being held captive at their place. Houten told him they’d already been questioned by him, that I was planning to come down and do it again, and that the premises had been thoroughly searched. Melendez-Lynch wouldn’t listen, got really abusive and eventually Houten had to basically kick him out. He got in his car and drove straight to the Retreat.”

  I groaned.

  “Wait, it gets better. Apparently they have big iron gates at the front entrance that they keep locked. Melendez-Lynch drove up and started screaming for them to let him in. A couple of them came out to calm him down and it got physical. He absorbed most of the damage. They went back in, he started up his car and rammed the gate. At that point they called Houten and he busted Melendez-Lynch for disturbing the peace, malicious mischief, and who knows what else. Houten said the guy seemed like a lunatic and he got to wondering if we’d be interested in interviewing him. So he locked him up, offered him an attorney, which he refused, and gave him the proverbial one phone call.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Milo laughed.

  “Isn’t it? Between him and Valcroix and the stories Rick tells me, I’m losing what little faith I had in modern medicine. I mean, these guys are not confidence inspiring.”

  “Maybe the Swopes didn’t think so either.”

  “That’s right. If they saw the kind of flakiness we’ve been uncovering I can understand them wanting out.”

  “Not as far out as they got.”

  “Yeah. Once we’re sure the Saudi’s off the streets their case will be my number one problem. But it’s going to have to wait awhile because if we don’t play close attention to Shitpants, he’ll weasel out and be back in Riyadh before we know it.”

  His words chilled me. Human life meant a lot to Milo, and if he thought Woody and Nona were alive he’d find a way, Saudi or not, to pursue their case aggressively.

  I fought back my anger.

  “When did you decide they were dead?”

  “What?—Jesus, Alex, stop analyzing! I haven’t decided a goddamn thing. I’ve got platoons going through the canyons, I check the APB’s at least two, three times a day. So, it’s not like I’m sitting on my ass. But the fact is I’ve got a suspect in custody in one case and zilch on the other. Where would you put your priorities?”

  “Sorry. I was way out of line. It’s just that it’s hard to think of that little boy as beyond hope.”

  “I know, pal.” His tone softened. “I’m on the rag, too. Too much time spent with blood and crud. Just be careful you’re not getting overinvolved. Again.”

  Unconsciously, I fingered my jaw.

  “Okay. Now what’s the story with Raoul? I need to tell his girlfriend something.”

  “No story. I told Houten we didn’t care if he let him go. The guy may be whacko but right now he’s not a suspect. Houten says he wants him escorted out of there. Melendez-Lynch hasn’t stopped ranting since they locked him up, and they don’t want him causing trouble the minute they let him out. If you think you can keep him calm, I’ll tell Houten to release him to your custody. Your being a shrink would make it look better, too.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve seen Raoul pull tantrums but never like this.”

  “Up to you. Unless the guy calms down and agrees to talk to a lawyer or someone comes to get him, he could be there for a while.”

  If word got out about Melendez-Lynch’s incarceration, his professional reputation would be compromised. I knew of no one close to him except Helen Holroyd and she was definitely not up to the task of dragging him away from La Vista.

  “They’re calling me back, Alex,” Milo was saying, “gotta hold my nose and jump into it.”

  “All right. Call the sheriff. Tell him I’ll get down there as soon as I can.”

  “What a nice guy. Bye.”

  I called Helen again and told her I’d secured the release of the esteemed Dr. Melendez-Lynch. She thanked me effusively and was starting to lapse into tears before I cut her off. For her own good.

  15

  THE S EVILLE glided onto the interstate shortly past noon. The first half of the two-hour journey to La Vista was a southward slice through the industrial underbelly of California. I sped past stockyards and freight docks, mammoth auto dealerships, grimy warehouses, and factories belching effluvia into a sky obscured by billboards. I kept the windows closed, the air conditioning on, and Flora Purim on the tape deck.

  At Irvine the terrain shifted suddenly to endless expanses of green—fields of rich, dark soil stitched precisely with emerald rows of tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, and corn, spasmodically bathed by whirligig sprinklers. I opened the window and let in the good stench of manure. A while later the highway edged closer to the ocean and the fields gave way to the affluent suburbs of Orange County, then thinned to miles of empty scrub enclosed by barbed chain-link fence—government land, rumored to harbor secret nuclear testing plants.

  Just past Oceanside, traffic going the other way slowed to a crawl: the Border patrol had set up a spot check for illegal aliens. Gray-uniformed officers in Smoky the Bear hats peered into each vehicle, waving on the majority, pulling a few over for closer scrutiny. The process had a ceremonial look to it, which was appropriate, for stemming the tide of those yearning for the good life was as feasible as capturing the rain in a thimble.

  I exited a few miles later, heading east on a state highway that slogged through blocks of fast-food joints and self-serve gas stations before turning into two-lane blacktop.

  The road rose, climbing toward mountains veiled by lavender mist. Twenty minutes out of the junction and there wasn’t another vehicle in sight. I passed a granite quarry where mantislike machines dipped into the earth and brought up piles of rocks and dirt, a horse ranch, a field of grazing Holsteins, then nothing. Dusty signs heralded the construction of “luxury planned communities” and “townhomes,” but apart from one abandoned project—the roofless remains of a warren of small houses crammed into a sun-baked gully—it was empty, silent land.

  As the altitude increased the scenery grew lush. Acres of eucalyptus-shaded citrus groves and a mile of avocado preceded the appearance of La Vista. The town sat in a valley at the foot of the mountains, surrounded by forest, vaguely alpine. A wayward glance and I would have missed it.

  The main drag was Orange Avenue and a good part of it was given over to a sprawling gravel yard filled with somnolent threshers, tillers, bulldozers, and tractors. A long, low, glass-fronted structure occupied one end of the yard and a worn wooden sign above the entrance announced sales, rental, and repair of farm equipment and power tools.

  The street was quiet and ribbed with diagonal parking lines. Few of the spaces were occupied, those that were housed half-ton pickups and old sedans. The posted speed limit was 15 m.p.h. I decelerated and coasted past a dry-goods store, a market, an eight-dollar-a-visit chiropractor (“no appointment necessary”), a barbershop complete with spinning pole, and a windowless tavern named Erna’s.

  City Hall was a two-story square of pink cinder block midway through the town. A concrete walkway ran down the center of a well-tended lawn, flanked
by towering date palms, and leading to brass double doors, propped open. Weathered brass rods bearing Old Glory and the flag of California jutted out above the entrance.

  I parked in front of the building, stepped out into the dry heat, and walked to the door. A plaque commemorating La Vista’s World War II dead and dated 1947 was inlaid in the block at eye level, just left of the doorpost. I stepped into an entry hall containing a pair of slat-backed oak benches and nothing else. I looked for a directory, saw none, heard the sound of typing and walked toward it, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

  There was a woman pecking at a Royal manual in a stuffy room full of oak file cabinets. Both she and her machine were of antique vintage. An electric fan perched atop one of the files spun and blew, causing the ends of the woman’s hair to dance.

  I cleared my throat. She looked up with alarm, then smiled, and I asked her where the sheriff’s office could be found. She directed me to a rear stairwell leading to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs was a tiny courtroom that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. The word SHERIFF had been painted in glossy black on lime green plaster. Underneath it, was an arrow pointing to the right.

  La Vista law enforcement was headquartered in a small dark room containing two wooden desks, an unmanned switchboard, and a silent teletype machine. A map of the county covered one wall. Wanted posters and a well-stocked gun rack rounded out the decor. At the center of the rear wall was a metal door with a four inch wire-glass window.

  The beige-uniformed man at one of the desks looked too young to be a peace officer—pink chipmunk cheeks and guileless hazel eyes under brown bangs. But he was the only one there and the nametag over his breast pocket said Deputy W. Bragdon. He was reading a farm journal and when I entered, looked up and gave me a cop’s stare: wary, analytic, and inherently distrustful.

  “I’m Dr. Delaware, come to pick up Dr. Melendez-Lynch.”

  W. Bragdon stood, hitched up his holster, and disappeared through the metal door. He returned with a man in his fifties who could have stepped off a Remington canvas.

  He was short and bow-legged, but broad shouldered and rock-solid, and he walked with a hint of a bantam swagger. His razor-creased trousers were of the same tan material as the deputy’s uniform, his shirt green plaid and pearl buttoned. A crisp, wide-brimmed Stetson rested squarely atop his long head. The suggestion of vanity was confirmed by his tailoring: the shirt and slacks had been tapered to hug a trim physique.

  The hair under the hat was dun and cropped close to narrow temples. His facial features were prominent and somewhat avian. A thick gray handlebar mustache flared under a strong beakish nose.

  I was drawn to his hands, which were unusually thick and large. One rested on the butt of a long-barreled Colt .45 nestling in a hand-tooled holster, the other extended in a handshake.

  “Doctor,” said a deep mellow voice, “Sheriff Raymond Houten.” His grip was solid but he didn’t exert pressure—a man well aware of his own strength.

  He turned to Bragdon. “Walt.” The baby-faced deputy looked me over once more and returned to his desk.

  “Come on in, Doctor.”

  On the other side of the tiny mesh window were ten feet of corridor. To the left was a bolted metal door, to the right his office, high-ceilinged, sunlit, and redolent of tobacco.

  He sat behind an old desk and motioned me to a scarred leather armchair. Removing his hat, he tossed it on a rack fashioned from elk antlers.

  Pulling out a pack of Chesterfields, he offered me one and when I declined, lit up, leaned back, and looked out the window. A large bay window afforded a view of Orange Avenue and his eyes followed the path of a semi hauling a load of produce. He waited until the big truck had rumbled out of sight before speaking.

  “You’re a psychiatrist?”

  “Psychologist.”

  He held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and inhaled.

  “And you’re here as Dr. Lynch’s friend, not in a professional capacity.”

  His tone implied the latter would have been more than appropriate.

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’ll take you to see him in just a minute. But I want to prepare you. He looks like he fell into a combine. We didn’t do it.”

  “I understand. Detective Sturgis said he started a fight with members of the Touch and came out the worse for it.”

  Houten’s mouth twisted under his mustache.

  “That about sums it up. From what I understand Dr. Lynch is a prominent man,” he said skeptically.

  “He’s an internationally renowned expert on children’s cancer.”

  Another look out the window. I noticed a diploma hanging on the wall behind the desk. He’d earned a bachelor’s degree in criminology from one of the state colleges.

  “Cancer.” He mouthed the word softly. “My wife had it. Ten years ago. It ate her up like some wild animal before it killed her. The doctors wouldn’t tell us anything. Hid behind their jargon till the end.”

  His smile was frightful.

  “Still,” he said, “I don’t recall any of them quite like Dr. Lynch.”

  “He’s one of a kind, Sheriff.”

  “Seems to have a temper problem. What is he, Guatemalan?”

  “Cuban.”

  “Same thing. The latino temperament.”

  “What he did here wasn’t typical. To my knowledge he’s never been in trouble with the law.”

  “I know that, Doctor. We ran him through the computer. That’s one reason I’m willing to be lenient and let him go with just a fine. I’ve got enough to hold him over for quite a while—trespassing, assault, malicious mischief, interfering with an officer. Not to mention the damage he did to their gate with his car. But the circuit judge doesn’t get up this way until winter and we’d have to ship him to San Diego. It would be complicated.”

  “I appreciate your leniency and I’ll write a check for any damages.”

  He nodded, put out his cigarette, and got on the phone.

  “Walt, write up Dr. Lynch’s fines and include the estimate on the gate...No need, Dr. Delaware will come by and pay for it.” A glance in my direction. “Take his check, he looks like an honest man.”

  When he hung up he said, “It’s going to be a sizable sum. The man created lots of problems.”

  “He must have been traumatized hearing about the Swope murders.”

  “We were all traumatized, Doctor. Nineteen hundred and seven people live in this town, not counting migrants. Everyone knows everyone. Yesterday we flew the flag at half mast. When little Woody got sick it was a kick in the gut for all of us. Now this...”

  The sun had changed position and it flooded the office. Houten squinted. His eyes disappeared in a thatch of crow’s feet.

  “Dr. Lynch seems to have gotten it into his head that the children are here, over in the Retreat,” he said expectantly. I got the feeling I was being tested, and turned it back on him.

  “And you feel that’s out of the question.”

  “You bet. Those Touch people are—unusual—but they’re not criminals. When folks found out who bought the old monastery, there was one hell of an uproar. I was supposed to play Wyatt Earp and run ’em out of town.” He smiled sleepily. “Farmers don’t always grasp the finer points of due process, so I had to do a bit of educating. The day they drove into town and actually moved in, it was a circus, everyone gawking and pointing.

  “That very day I went over and had a chat with Mr. Matthias, gave him a sociology lesson. Told him they’d do best to keep a low profile, patronize local businesses, make timely contributions to the church auxiliary.”

  It was precisely the strategy Seth Fiacre had described.

  “They’ve been here three years, without a traffic ticket. Folks have grown used to them. I drop in on them when I please, so that everyone knows there’s no witchcraft brewing behind those gates. They’re just as strange as the day they moved in. But that’s all. Str
ange, not criminal. If felonies were being committed, I’d know about it.”

  “Any chance Woody and Nona could be somewhere else around here?”

  He lit up again and regarded me coldly.

  “Those children were raised here. They played in the fields and explored the dirt roads and never fell into harm’s way. One trip to your big city and all that’s changed. A small town is like a family, doctor. We don’t murder each other, or kidnap each other’s young.”

  His experience and training should have taught him that families are the cauldrons in which violence is brewed. But I said nothing.

  “There’s one more thing I want you to hear so that you can pass it along to Dr. Lynch.” He got up and stood in front of the window. “This is one giant TV screen. The show is called La Vista. Some days it’s a soap opera, other times a comedy. Once in a while there’s action and adventure. No matter what’s on, I watch it every day.”