The Clinic

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Good. Maybe we're getting under his skin. Maybe I should work him a little more. . . . Wouldn't that be something, he roughs her up for years and she writes the book telling women how to defend themselves.”

  “Wouldn't be the first time,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.”

  I told him about the Mulholland house and he copied down the address.

  “Shit,” he said. “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland— okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.”

  We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.

  The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.

  Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a Masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.

  They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond-oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self-validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.

  Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.

  “Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced—”

  “Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.

  “I'm Mr. Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”

  “So you regard this as a business affair?”

  Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”

  “Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”

  “That's hardly relevant.”

  “It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.”

  Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. “Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?”

  Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “All right, then,” said Bateman, “with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from . . .”

  Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.

  “I have a problem with that,” said Bateman.

  “With what?”

  “Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client's not under any formal suspicion—”

  “So why are you acting like he is?”

  “Detective,” said Bateman. “I insist that you stop interrupting—”

  Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. “Mr. Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client's father to be present as a courtesy, even though he's reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.”

  Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.

  “Detective,” said Bateman. “Surely—”

  “Counselor,” said Milo, taking a few steps closer. “He's not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that's your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it's gonna be taped and I'm gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we'll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.”

  Junior mumbled again.

  “Ken,” warned Senior.

  Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.

  Milo said, “Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you've got a bit of time on your hands, don't you. Being out of school and all that.”

  Junior's neck stretched as he jutted his lower jaw. His father tapped his cuff again.

  “Detective,” said Bateman, “that was a wonderful speech. Now, if you'll allow me to continue my stipulations.”

  Milo picked up the recorder and headed for the door. “Sayonara, gentlemen.”

  We were halfway across the reception area when Bateman called out, “Detective?”

  We kept walking and the lawyer hurried to catch up. The reception area had gone quiet, the two secretaries staring. The talk jock was pontificating about athletes' salaries. The place smelled of mouthwash.

  “That was intemperate, Detective,” Bateman stage-whispered. “This is a kid.”

  “He's nineteen and more than big enough to do damage, Mr. Bateman. Expect a call.”

  He pushed the door open and Bateman followed us out to the parking lot.

  “Mr. Storm's well-regarded in his community, Detective, and Kenny's a solid boy.”

  “Good for them.”

  “With all the gangs and the serious crime, one would think the police have better things to do—”

  “Than harass law-abiding citizens?” said Milo. “What can I say, we're stupid.” We reached the unmarked.

  “Just wait one minute.” Bateman's voice had tightened, but with anxiety, not indignation.

  Milo took out his keys.

  “Look, Detective, I'm here so they'll feel protected. Kenny really is a good kid, I've known him for years.”

  “Protected against what?”

  “Things have been rough, lately. They're both under considerable stress.”

  Milo opened the car door and put his gear in.

  Bateman edged closer and spoke in a lower voice. “I don't expect you to care, but Ken— Ken Sr.'s having some financial difficulties. Serious ones. The real-estate market.”

  Milo straightened but didn't answer.

  “It's a hard time for both of them,” said Bateman. “First Ken's wife died, very sudden, an aneurysm. And now this. Ken built his business from nothing. Built this building twenty years ago and now it's on the verge of foreclosure. And losing it won't solve all his problems, there are plenty of other creditors. So you can see why he'd be nervous about the legal process. I'm his friend as well as his lawyer. I feel obligated to protect him as much as I can.”

  “We're not talking real estate, here, Mr. Bateman.”

  The attorney nodded. “Truth is, I don't know shit from shinola about criminal law and told Ken so. But he and I go back to grade school. He insisted on having me present.”

  “So he thinks the boy needs legal help.”

  “No, no, only in general terms— not getting shafted by the system. To be frank, Kenny's no genius and he has a bad temper. So does Ken. So did his dad, for that matter. The whole damn bunch of them have short fuses, for all I know that's how they got the family name.”

  He smiled but Milo did
n't return it.

  “Is Kenny an only child?”

  “No, there's a daughter up at Stanford Med.”

  “The bright one.”

  “Cheryl's a whiz.”

  “How do she and Kenny get along?”

  “Fine, but Kenny's never been at her level and everyone knows it. My point is, Detective, take those tempers and add all the stress, and without some sort of structure, there's a good chance both of them would eventually get hot under the collar and pop off. Give the wrong impression.”

  “Which is?”

  “That Kenny's capable of violence. He isn't, believe me. He played football with my kid in high school, had the speed and the muscle but got dropped from the team because he wasn't aggressive enough.”

  “No killer instinct, huh?”

  Bateman gave a pained look. “Furthermore, he assures me that on the night of the murder he was in San Diego.”

  “Does he have someone to back that up?”

  “No, but like I said, he's no Einstein.”

  “So?”

  “What I read about the murder sounded thought-out: stalking the woman, leaving no physical evidence. That just isn't Kenny. He might lose his cool and run his mouth, maybe even punch someone, but he calms down fast.”

  “He's smart enough to get into the U,” I said.

  “A miracle,” said Bateman. “Believe me. Ken pulled in some alumnus chits, had him tutored, the boy took the SAT four times. Then he worked his butt off, but still couldn't cut it. Couldn't hack College of the Palms either. Now this. It couldn't come at a worse time, in terms of his self-esteem. That's why that cra— your remark about his having free time was hurtful. Being interrogated by the police isn't pleasant. To be honest, Detective, he's pretty scared about today.”

  “He didn't seem scared.”

  “He puts on a show. Believe me, he's scared.”

  Milo finally smiled. “You like him, huh?”

  “Yes, I do, Detective.”

  The smile widened. “Well, I don't, Mr. Bateman. 'Cause he hasn't done anything to earn my liking him.”

  “Det—”

  “I've got a brutal, unsolved murder with a lot of angry overtones to it on my hands and what I see in your client is a big, strong, aggressive kid with a very nasty temper who's been playing hard-to-get and finally shows up with Daddy acting antsy and a lawyer trying to block every syllable that comes out of my mouth. What do you want me to do, serve up my questions on a doily with parsley on the side? If I wanted to cater, I'd learn how to cook.”

  Bateman bared his teeth again. The affect behind the mannerism was hard to gauge but his body language said submission.

  “Of course not, Detective. Of course not, I'm just trying to— all right, let's give it another try. Ask what you want, tape everything, but I'll be taking detailed notes. And do try to remember this is a good kid.”

  When we returned to the office, both Storms were smoking cigars and an ashtray had appeared on the desk.

  “Panamanian?” said Milo.

  Senior nodded and blew enough smoke to hide his facial features. Junior smirked.

  Milo set up the tape recorder, recited the date and place, his badge number, and Junior's name as the subject of an “in-person interview with regard to one-eight-seven PC, Coroner's Case Number nine-four dash seven-seven-six-five, Professor Hope Devane.”

  Hearing her name wiped the smirk off Junior's face. He smoked and fought back a cough.

  Bateman and I sat down but Milo remained on his feet.

  “Afternoon, Kenny.”

  Grunt.

  “Do you know why we're here?”

  Grunt.

  “How many times did you meet Professor Devane?”

  Grunt.

  “You're going to have to speak up.”

  “Once.”

  “When was that?”

  “The committee.”

  “The hearing of the Interpersonal Conduct Committee chaired by Professor Devane?”

  Grunt.

  “What's that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I've read transcripts of that hearing, son. Sounds like things got pretty heated.”

  Grunt.

  “What's that?”

  “She was a bitch.”

  Senior took his cigar out. “Ken.”

  “Hey, tell it like it is,” said his son.

  “So you didn't like her,” said Milo.

  “Don't put words into his mouth,” ordered Senior.

  Milo looked down at him. “Okay, we'll stick to quotes: You think she was a bitch.”

  Senior's mouth got piggish and Bateman made a go-easy gesture with his hand.

  Milo repeated the question.

  Junior shrugged. “She was what she was.”

  “Which was?”

  “A fucking bitch.”

  “Ken!”

  “Mr. Storm,” said Milo. “Please stop interrupting.”

  “He's my son, dammit, and it's my right to—”

  “Ken,” said Bateman. “It's okay.”

  “Right,” said Senior. “Everything's okay, everything's just great.”

  “Counselor,” said Milo.

  Bateman got up and put a hand on Senior's shoulder. Senior shook him off and smoked furiously.

  “What,” said Milo, “made you think she was a bitch, Kenny?”

  “The way she acted.”

  “More specific.”

  “The way she set me up.”

  “Set you up how?”

  “That letter telling me we were just going to discuss things.”

  “At the hearing.”

  “Yeah. When I got there, the way she tried to get Cindy to say I was some kind of rapist, which is total bullshit.” Sidelong glance at his father. “It was just a dumb hassle between Cindy and me. Later, she called me.”

  “Professor Devane did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Afterward.”

  “After the hearing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long after?”

  “The next day. At night. I was at the Omega house.”

  “Why'd she call?”

  “To try to freak me out.”

  “In what way, son?”

  “She was pissed because her little game was a loser.”

  “How'd she try to freak you out?”

  “She said even if Cindy didn't want to press charges, I had problems— impulse-control problems, some bullshit like that. She said she could make things rough for me if I didn't behave.”

  “She threatened you?”

  The boy shifted in his seat, looked at his cigar, and put it in the ashtray. His father stared at him.

  “She didn't exactly come out and say it, more like hinting.”

  “Hinting how?”

  “I don't remember the exact words. Like I'll be watching, I'm in control, you know?”

  “Did she use the word “control'?” I said.

  “No— I don't know. Maybe— it was more like how she said it, you know? Watch your step. Or something like that. She was a radical.”

  “Radical?” said Milo.

  “Left-wing.”

  “She discussed her political views with you?”

  The boy smiled. “No, but it was obvious. Radical feminism, trying to establish a new order, know what I mean?”

  “Not really, son.”

  “Socialism. Central control.” Glance at his father. “Communism died in Russia but they're still trying to centralize America.”

  “Ah,” said Milo. “So you see Professor Devane as part of some kind of left-wing conspiracy.”

  Kenny laughed. “No, I'm no militia freak, I'm just saying there's a certain type of person likes to control things, make rules for everyone— like Playboy is evil and should be banned, affirmative action for everyone.”

  “And Professor Devane was that type of person.”