Self-Defense

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A best-seller who admired the Däusseldorf Monster.

  Steadily escalating violence. . . . The more I thought about it, the harder it was to ignore his presence that summer.

  Call his publisher . . . too late to phone New York.

  I let my own imagination run on: Trafficant seducing the long-haired girl. Things getting out of hand . . . or maybe she’d resisted and he’d raped, again, then killed her. And told Lowell. Lowell panicking, rushing to bury the evidence, unaware that a little girl was watching.

  A little girl who wet the bed—maybe dank sheets had aroused her.

  Waking and walking and witnessing.

  And paying for it now.

  The med school cafeteria was a mass of flatware clatter, white coats everywhere. Soon after I walked in, a pretty Asian woman in a plum-colored silk suit came up to me.

  “Dr. Delaware? Wendy Embrey.”

  She was young and petite with long, straight, blue-black hair and onyx eyes. A faculty picture badge clipped to her lapel showed her hair permed. W. TAKAHASHI-EMBREY, M.D., PSYCHIATRY.

  “I’ve got a table over there,” she said. “Would you like to get some lunch?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She smiled. “Have you eaten here before?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you on staff?” she said, as we walked to her table.

  “Crosstown.”

  “I interned crosstown. Are you in Psychiatry?”

  “Pediatrics. I’m a child psychologist.”

  She gave me a curious look and we sat down. On her tray were a tuna sandwich, coleslaw, red Jell-O, and milk. She unwrapped her utensils and spread her napkin on her lap. “But Lucretia was your patient?”

  “Yes. Once in a while I see adults—short-term consults, usually stress-related. She was referred by the police.”

  Another curious look. She couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of residency, but she’d learned her therapeutic nuances.

  “I consult to the police occasionally,” I said.

  “What kind of stress had she been through?”

  “She was a juror on the Bogeyman trial.”

  She picked up her fork. “Well, that could certainly be difficult. How long did you treat her?”

  “Only a few sessions. She came to me because of sleep problems. A recurrent nightmare and, later, some somnambulism.”

  “Walking in her sleep?”

  “At least once, before the suicide attempt. She woke up in her kitchen. I guess, looking back, it can be seen as a rehearsal for the attempt. She also had an episode of something that looked like narcolepsy—falling asleep at her desk at work and waking up on the floor.”

  “Yes, she told me about that. Said you’d sent her to a neurologist and he pronounced her healthy.”

  “Phil Austerlitz. He’s on staff here.”

  “Did he come up negative, the way she claims?”

  “Yes. He thought it was stress.”

  The fork dipped into the coleslaw. “That’s what the neurologist at Woodbridge said, too. Interesting, though, the somnambulism. Do you think the suicide attempt could have occurred during some sort of sleepwalking trance? I’ve read case histories of self-destruction during arousal from deep sleep. Have you ever seen anything that extreme?”

  “No suicide attempts, but I have treated children with night terrors who hurt themselves thrashing and walking around. I even had a family where the children and the father had terrors. The father used to try to strangle the mother in his sleep. And there are cases of people committing murder and claiming somnambulism.”

  “Claiming? You don’t believe it’s possible?”

  “It’s possible, but it’s rare.”

  She ate some slaw, looked at her sandwich, then at me.

  “It’s a strange case. Her denial’s so absolute. Usually, with attempters, you see just the opposite: guilt, confessions, promises never to do it again, because they feel physically lousy and want to get out of hold. The really severe ones—the ones who’re sorry they failed—either get really mad or go mute. But Lucretia’s cooperative and articulate; she understands why she has to be observed. Yet she remains adamant that she never tried to kill herself. Which would be a dumb approach to take if you were trying to convince your psychiatrist to let you go, right? In the wrong hands you could be tagged as delusional.”

  “You don’t see her as delusional?”

  “I’m not sure how I see her yet, but she sure doesn’t look crazy. Maybe I’m missing something, but I think she truly believes, on a conscious level, that she didn’t make an attempt.”

  “Did she give you an explanation for what happened?”

  “She says she fell asleep and woke up in the hospital and that her first thought when you told her why she was there was someone had tried to kill her. Now that she’s fully awake, she realizes it makes no sense. All in all, she’s pretty confused. I could be missing the boat completely, but I don’t see any schizophrenic output. Just depression—but not the crushing depression you’d associate with an attempt. I had our psychologist test her for a bipolar disorder. She seems to have such a big stake in keeping busy, I thought maybe there was some mania going on and the daytime sleep was crashing after an episode. He found her MMPI somewhat elevated on depression and anxiety but no hint of anything manic. And her Lie Scale was normal, so she seemed to be telling the truth. He said unless she’s been tested a lot and knows how to fool the instruments, there’s no serious personality disturbance.”

  “She’d have other reasons to be anxious,” I said. “Just before the attempt, we got into some areas that upset her. She had a very isolated childhood—a mother who died when she was an infant, a highly troubled relationship with an absentee father. But she was always coherent, and if she was really disturbed I doubt she could have lasted three months on that jury.”

  “What areas upset her?”

  I described the dream.

  “Interesting,” she said. “Any indication he molested her?”

  “She denies ever being with him, but her brother told me she spent a summer up at his place when she was four. So she’s either denying that or she’s repressed it completely. As to what happened up there, I don’t know.”

  I told her about Trafficant, emphasizing how speculative everything was.

  “Well,” she said, “at the very least it sounds like lots of garbage coming to the surface. Going to take a long time to sift through. This is one where we’ll have to tread carefully.”

  “Adding to the garbage, she had a brief episode of working as a prostitute when she was eighteen. She denies any guilt, but there’s probably lots. And she developed a crush on one of the detectives who worked on the Bogeyman case, the one who referred her to me. He’s gay.”

  She put the sandwich down. “Just a few sessions and all that came out?”

  “Most of it during the last one,” I said. “Too much, too soon, but I couldn’t stop her. That night she put her head in the oven.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Are you planning to let her go after the seventy-two’s up?”

  “She’s not psychotic or violent, I can’t see a judge giving me any more time. But she sure needs careful outpatient follow-up. . . . A prostitute—she seems so prim. How long is brief?”

  “Part of a summer. She claims she’s been celibate since. And Phil Austerlitz said she had a real aversion to being touched.”

  She put her hands together. “I can see what you mean about that summer with her father. . . . Despite all that, she relates well to a male therapist—talks very fondly about you. Are you planning to follow her?”

  “The last thing I want is for her to be abandoned again,” I said, “but I may not be right for her. The policeman she likes is a close friend.”

  I recounted Lucy’s request for permission to love Milo. My silence. The reaction.

  “So she doesn’t know he’s gay.”

  “Not yet.”

  She
opened the milk carton. “I don’t want to get personal, but is he your lover?”

  “No, just a friend,” I said. Adding, “I’m straight,” and wondering why it sounded so defensive.

  “I can see what you mean by complications.”

  “It might be in her best interests to transfer her care, if it can be done without traumatizing her. When I heard she was going to be seen by a woman, I was glad.”

  “We seem to have a good rapport,” she said. “She cooperates, appears to be relating. Then I review my notes and realize she hasn’t told me much.”

  “I felt the same way about her in the beginning,” I said. “Like I said, most of the substantive material came out in the last session.”

  “Maybe it’s her family style. I spoke to her brother, and he didn’t tell me much of anything either. Given the situation, you’d think he’d want me to know as much as possible.”

  “He doesn’t know much about her himself. He’s a half brother, hasn’t seen her in over twenty years.”

  “No, I’m not talking about the one who brought her in. This was the other one, Peter. He phoned me this morning from Taos. Said he’d heard about Lucretia from Ken. Very upset about not being able to be with her, but he couldn’t fly back. And when I tried to ask questions, he backed away, like he was in a big hurry to get off the phone.”

  “Why can’t he be with her?”

  “Business obligations. I called Ken—he’s gone back to Palo Alto. He knew nothing, like you said. Pretty nice of him to pay for her care.”

  “I got the sense he wants to make contact.”

  “Me, too. He offered to handle everything—he seems to have money. Lucretia has no insurance because she quit her job, so that’s lucky. The hospital looks askance at doctors who treat nonpaying patients. Nowadays, we have to be bookkeepers, too, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway,” she said, “sounds like a complicated family. Are there any other relatives in town for support?”

  “In town,” I said. “But not for support.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  I told her who Lucy’s father was, and she reached for her Jell-O without registering much reaction.

  “I was a math major, never much for fiction,” she said. “Then you get into med school and your whole world really narrows. . . . So the pain of abandonment would be that much worse. He’s available to the whole world but not to her . . . and now that dream, that’s pretty darn Freudian. This is starting to sound like old-fashioned psychiatry. I don’t get much of that.”

  “What do you do mostly? Medication?”

  “Almost totally. I attend at six different ER’s and I rarely get to do any follow-up. So yes, if Lucretia’s willing to see me, I’d be very interested. She’s an interesting woman.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  “Tarzana. I rent space from another psychiatrist.” She gave me her card. “Where are you?”

  “Malibu.”

  “Not too shabby. I would like you to stay closely in touch. We need to make sure she doesn’t see you as yet another man who’s walked out on her.”

  “I was planning to visit her while she’s in. When would you like me to start?”

  “Any time you’re ready. I’ll leave your name with the charge nurse.”

  She ate some more Jell-O and finished her milk, wiping away the white mustache. “While you’re there, though, I’d keep it casual. Especially in terms of your gay friend. I’d just as soon hold off on any more surprises until I have a better feel for what’s going on with her. Make sense?”

  “Yes, but once she’s out, she’s likely to seek him out. She views him as a protector.”

  I described how Lucy and Milo had connected at the trial.

  “Well,” she said, “for now I’d tell him to keep a low profile. What she needs is protection from her own impulses.”

  I drove home thinking Wendy Embrey might be very good for Lucy. But I wondered how Lucy would react to a change in therapists.

  I had conflicts of my own about the transition: relieved at the chance to get out of a mess, but more than a bit guilty at how good that freedom sounded. And I still wanted to know what had happened that summer. For her sake or mine? The answers weren’t comforting.

  I put on some music and drove like a robot. When I got home, surfers’ vans were parked all along the turnoff to the public beach.

  When I opened the door, the phone was ringing.

  My service with a long-distance call from Ken Lowell.

  “Hi, doctor. Anything new on Lucy?”

  “She seems to be holding her own.”

  “I spoke to Dr. Embrey and she sounded pretty sharp, but I’m a little confused. Who’s going to be Lucy’s doctor?”

  “As long as Lucy’s in the hospital, Dr. Embrey’s in charge.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to reach Dr. Embrey now. Are you going to be speaking to her? If you are, I’d like to pass something along. I think she should know.”

  “Sure.”

  “I got a call from my brother early this morning, explaining why he hadn’t shown up for dinner. Some sort of business emergency. In Taos, New Mexico, of all places. I told him what had happened to Lucy and he really went ballistic. But then he said he couldn’t come back because he was tied up.”

  “He said the same thing to Dr. Embrey. Must have called her right after he spoke to you.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. Because when we met last week he wasn’t involved in any business—told me he’d been unemployed for a long time. So what was so urgent?”

  “I really don’t know, Ken.”

  “No, no reason for you to. . . . I have to tell you, doctor, he sounded very edgy. I can’t help thinking he’s in some kind of trouble. I was just wondering if Lucy said anything to you that you could divulge without breaking confidentiality.”

  “She really didn’t, Ken.”

  “All right. Thanks. I’ll be back and forth to L.A. for the next few weeks. Would visiting Lucy be appropriate?”

  “I’d talk to Dr. Embrey about that.”

  “Yes, of course. I have to tell you, doctor, this is strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Instant family.”

  At 4:10 Robin called to let me know she’d been invited to attend a showcase that night at the Whiskey, a band of thrash-metal heroes brandishing guitars she’d built.

  “Would you mind if I passed?” I said.

  “If I had a good excuse, I’d pass too. Zero showed up at the site and invited me personally.”

  “What time do you think it’ll be over?”

  “Late.”

  “How about if I come by before and we grab some dinner.”

  “What about Spike?”

  “I can bring takeout.”

  “That would be great.”

  “When should I get there?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  I picked up earplugs at a pharmacy in Point Dume and sandwiches and drinks at a deli nearby. It took forty minutes to get to the jobsite. Several trucks were pulling away, and Robin was conferring with a bare-chested man with a tobacco-stained walrus mustache. Nearly bald except for some yellow back fringe and a ponytail, he was concentrating hard as she spoke.

  She saw me and waved and continued to talk to him, waving a roll of blueprints. Spike was on the rear bed of her truck, and he stuck his frog face above the tailgate and barked. I went over and lifted him out. He licked my face and waved his forelegs in the air, and when I put him down, he stood up, hugged my knees, and rubbed his head against my leg.

  “What a handsome guy you are,” I said. “Handsome” was his favorite word, after “meat loaf.” He started panting; then his nose went after the bag in my hand.

  Robin said, “Okay, Larry?” in a tone of voice that meant she was working at patience.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So let’s try for inspection by next Monday. If there are any other problems, l
et me know right away.” She shifted the blueprints to the other hand.

  “Yes, ma’am. For sure.” Larry looked at me.

  “This is Dr. Delaware. He pays the bills.”

  “Sir,” said Larry, “we’re fixing up a nice new place for you, you bet.”

  “Great,” I said.

  He scratched his head, walked up toward the house, and began talking to another worker. The pond was empty and half filled with dirt. What had once been a garden was a muddy pit. The new house’s roof points sliced the sky at sharp angles. The sun that showed through was platinum-white.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “Very nice.”

  “Soon.” She kissed my cheek.

  I kept looking at the construction. The framing was complete and the walls had been papered and partially mudded. The mud was ridged with trowel marks and still wet in spots. The original house had been redwood walls and a cedar roof. “Kindling on a foundation,” the fire marshal had called it. The new building would be stucco and tile. I’d get used to it.

  Robin put her arm around me and we walked to the truck. “Sorry about tonight.”

  “Hey, everyone has their emergencies. Here’s something for your sanity.”

  I gave her the earplugs and she laughed. Pulling down the tailgate, she spread an army blanket and we set out the food. We ate listening to the sounds of hammer guns and saws, feeding Spike bits of sandwich and watching birds circle overhead. Soon, I felt pretty good.

  I brought Spike home, fed him dinner, took him for a jog on the beach, and settled him in front of the tube. Then I showered, changed into fresh clothes, and headed for Woodbridge Hospital, making it to the parking lot by seven.

  The Psychiatric Unit was on the third floor, behind swinging doors labeled LOCKED. I pressed a buzzer, gave my name, and heard the tumblers click. Pushing, I entered a long well-lit hallway.

  The chocolate carpet was freshly vacuumed, the walls a pleasant brownish-white. Ten closed doors on each side, the nursing station at the end. One nurse sat there. Soft conversation came from somewhere, along with television dialogue, radio music, and an occasional ringing phone.