Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Not a nine-to-five job, Alex, because he gets away in the middle of the day.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Someone with flexibility. Self-employed, an independent contractor. Or a work schedule with revolving shifts. Maybe a uniform. Some kind of repairman, or park maintenance worker. A security guard. One thing I'd do is cross-reference the personnel lists for the conservancy and the park where Raymond was killed. If you come across someone who switched jobs from East L.A. to the Palisades, ask him lots of questions.”

  He pulled out his pad and made a note. “And keep looking for other retarded victims. Other divisions . . .”

  Robin came in with three bowls and set them down. Milo folded the chart I'd made and slipped it in the pad.

  “Here you go, boys. Chocolate syrup for you, Milo, but the only flavor we had was vanilla.”

  “No prob,” said Milo. “The virtue of simplicity.”

  18

  At nine-thirty, I walked Milo down to his unmarked. He lagged behind me on the stairs and his footsteps were halting and deliberate.

  “Going home?” I said.

  “Nope, back to the office. Gonna call every goddamn night-shift detective in every goddamn division, look for any remotely possible matches. If I don't get any, that'll tell me something, too.”

  He opened the car door. “Thanks for the input. Now let me tell you about Sergeant Wes Baker. We were classmates in the academy. Two of the oldest guys in the class, he might have been the oldest. Maybe that's why he started off thinking we were kindred spirits. Or maybe it was because I had a master's degree and he fancied himself an intellectual.”

  “And you didn't want to be kindred with him.”

  “What are you, a shrink? I didn't want to be kindred with anyone at that place, still tucked deeply in the closet, waking up with my jaws clenched so tight I thought my face would break. Every day I memorized another section of the penal code, shot bull's-eyes on the range, did hand-to-hand, the whole macho bit. After Vietnam, no big challenge, but it was like someone else going through it— I felt like an impostor, was sure I'd be found out and lynched. So I kept to myself, avoided after-hours with the other recruits, didn't have to pretend to be a pussy hound and smile through the fag jokes. Why I didn't quit, I still don't know. Maybe after the war I couldn't find any alternatives that seemed better.”

  A sudden, frightening grin spread across his face. “And that's my confession, Father . . . back to Wes Baker. He was a relative loner, too, because he considered himself above it all, Mr. Experience. He saw me reading Vonnegut and got the idea we could relate because he was into books. Philosophy, Zen, yoga, politics. Psychology. Always eager for a meaning-of-life discussion. I pretended to go along, which was easy because he liked to talk and I know how to listen. He told me his life story in weekly installments. He'd knocked around a bit, traveled everywhere, Peace Corps, worked oil rigs and cruise ships, taught school in the inner city, been-there-done-it. He was always complaining he couldn't get a bridge foursome at the academy, that for the other guys poker was an intellectual challenge. He kept trying to buddy up, inviting me over. I kept declining politely. Finally, midway through the course, he asked me to his place to watch a Rams game and I agreed, wondering if he was gay, too. But his girlfriend was there— cute little grad student from the U. And her friend— a budding actress. My date.”

  He smiled again, this time with some pleasure. “Noreen. Great legs, flat voice, maybe the silent era would have treated her better. Wes cooked up this Indian banquet— chutneys and curries, whatever. Okra, which to me is snot from the ground— chicken in a clay pot. He served some esoteric beer from Bombay that tasted like horse piss. The game was on the tube but it never got watched because Wes nudged us into a debate on East versus West, who really enjoyed the greater quality of life. Then he got down on the floor and demonstrated yoga positions, trying to show how they could be used to subdue suspects without undue violence. Gave a whole lecture on the history of martial arts and how it related to Asian religion. His girlfriend thought it was fascinating. Noreen got sleepy.”

  “Sounds like a fun evening.”

  “Real chortle fest. After that night, I was friendly to him but really kept my distance. The guy was too intense for me and life was hard enough without having to deal with all his cosmic bullshit. He must have sensed it because he cooled off, too, and eventually we were just nodding hello in the hall, then avoiding each other completely. About a week before graduation, I happened to be having one of my few nights out. Dinner at a place in West Hollywood with a guy I'd met at a bar. Older guy, an accountant, also struggling. He ended up divorcing his wife, had a massive heart attack shortly after and died at forty-two. . . . Anyway, we'd been at this place on Santa Monica and when we came out some cars were stopped at a red light. The guy put his arm around my shoulder. I wasn't comfortable being public, and I moved away. He laughed it off and we walked to the curb to cross the street. Just then I got that back-of-the-neck feeling when someone's watching you, turned and saw Wes Baker in a little red sports car. Looking right through me, with this so-that-explains it expression. When my eye caught his, he pretended he didn't see me, and jackrabbited the moment the light turned green. A week later someone busted into my locker and filled it with a stack of gay porn. A huge stack, including some really nasty S and M stuff. I could never prove it was Baker, but who else? And a couple of times I caught him staring at me in a weird way. Studying me, like I was some kind of specimen.”

  “You wondered about his sexuality,” I said. “Maybe he was cruising West Hollywood for a reason, was worried that you'd seen him.”

  “And the locker was a best-defense-is-an-offense bit? Could be, but I think it was plain old homophobia.”

  “Not very tolerant for an intellectual.”

  “Since when do the two go hand in hand? And to me he's a pseudointellectual, Alex. Surfing the philosophical wave of the week. Maybe he is latent, I don't know. For obvious reasons I couldn't afford to make an issue of it, so I just stayed away. I didn't see him again for a long time. Then around five years ago he made sergeant and got transferred to West L.A. and I thought oh, shit, here come problems. But there weren't any. He made a point of coming up and saying hi, Milo, long time no see, how's everything? Mr. Jovial. I couldn't shake the feeling that he was putting me on. Patronizing me. But D's and uniforms don't have that much contact and his path never crossed mine. A few months ago, he got kicked upstairs to Parker Center. Some sort of administrative job.”

  “If he fancies himself an intellectual,” I said, “how come he stayed in uniform and didn't try for detective?”

  “Maybe he likes the streets— putting the cosmic yoga choke hold on bad guys. Maybe it's the image— tailored duds, gun, baton, stripes. Some blues think detectives are paper-pushing wusses. Or could be he likes training rookies, easing little bluebirds out of the nest.”

  “In some ways he sounds like Nolan. Self-styled scholar, trying on different philosophies. I don't imagine the department operates like a computer dating service, but two guys like that getting together seems awfully coincidental.”

  “I'm sure it's not. Baker would have been in a position to pick and choose.”

  “I've been wondering if the suicide had something to do with the job, but Baker told Helena he's baffled.”

  “The Baker I knew would have had an opinion. The Baker I knew had an opinion about everything.”

  Thinking about Lehmann's reticence and wondering who else shared it, I said, “Maybe I'll talk to him myself.”

  “Getting involved in this one, huh? When Rick sent the sister to you, he thought it would be a quickie.”

  “Why?”

  “He said she was a no-nonsense gal. All business. Move 'em up, get 'em out.”

  I'd had the same feeling about Helena, had been surprised when she'd called for a second appointment. She hadn't returned today's calls, though.

  “Suicide changes things,” I said.

  “Tru
e. I called the department's personnel office and Lehmann is on their shrink referral list, along with a bunch of others, but that's all I can get on him.”

  “Don't spend any more time on it. You've got your hands full.”

  “Big hands,” he growled, and held them out, palms up. “For big man. With big job. Me go back to cave now. Try not to fuck up big-time.”

  I laughed.

  He got in the car and started the engine. “Lest I blanket you in total pessimism, Zev Carmeli called me just before I left for Newton, said I could talk to his wife tomorrow, at the family home. I told him I might be bringing you along, wondered if he'd give me some grief over that— psychoanalyzing the wife. But he didn't. In general, he seemed more cooperative. As if he finally believed I was on his side. Have you the time and inclination?”

  “When?”

  “Five o'clock.”

  “Should I meet you there?”

  “Probably best 'cause I don't know where I'll be. They live on Bolton Drive.” He gave me the address, shifted the unmarked into drive, coasted ten feet, then stopped. “When you talk to Wes Baker, bear in mind that knowing me will not earn you gold stars.”

  “I can live with that risk.”

  “What a pal.”

  The next morning I reviewed Irit's file again, learning nothing. The theories I'd spun for Milo last night seemed nothing more than random shots.

  I wasn't any further along on Nolan's suicide, either. Some elements of the “typical” problem cop were there— alienation, isolation, family history of depression, possible job stress, the dark secrets Lehmann had intimated. But trying to explain self-destruction on the basis of a collection of symptoms is like saying people got poor by losing money.

  Lehmann's caginess had accomplished just the opposite of what he'd hoped, piquing my interest.

  What Milo'd told me about Baker was intriguing but before I talked with him I wanted Helena's go-ahead and she still hadn't returned my messages. I tried the hospital again and was told she'd called in sick last night. No one answered at her home.

  Huddled under the covers, sleeping off a nasty virus?

  Should I call Baker anyway? If I asked questions and told him nothing of substance, there'd be no breach of confidentiality.

  But grief was a psychic tide, ebbing and flowing in response to the magnet of memory, and Helena's “sickness” could be something of quite a different nature.

  Emotional withdrawal? Nothing healed but time, and sometimes that didn't work either.

  The last time I'd seen her she'd taken home the family snapshot albums.

  Memory overload?

  I decided to try Baker. He'd probably refuse to talk to me, anyway.

  A Parker Center desk officer told me Sergeant Baker had a day off and I left my name and number, expecting nothing. But barely an hour later, as I sat typing a child-custody report, my service called and said he was on the line.

  “Dr. Delaware? Wesley Baker, returning your call. What kind of doctor are you?” Clipped, businesslike. He was older than Milo but sounded in his thirties, an aggressive young lawyer.

  “Thanks for calling back, Sergeant. I'm a psychologist looking into the death of Nolan Dahl.”

  “Looking into it at whose request?”

  “Officer Dahl's sister.”

  “A psychological autopsy?”

  “Nothing that formal.”

  “Just trying to get some closure?” he said. “I'm not surprised. She called me a few weeks ago, trying to get some answers. Poor woman. I was extremely upset by Nolan's suicide, myself, disappointed that I couldn't tell her much. Because Nolan and I hadn't worked together for some time and I didn't want to give her information that might be irrelevant. She sounded depressed. It's good she got professional help.”

  “Irrelevant in what way?”

  Pause. “Not being a professional, I wasn't sure what would be therapeutic and what would be harmful.”

  “You're saying Nolan had some problems that could upset her.”

  “Nolan was . . . an interesting kid. Complex.”

  The same term Lehmann had used.

  “In what way?”

  “Hmm . . . listen, I don't feel right getting into this without thinking it through. I'm off today, planned to get a little sailing in, but if you'll give me a little time to collect my thoughts, you can come by my boat, we'll see what turns up.”

  “I appreciate that, Sergeant. When's a good time for you?”

  “How say noon? If we're both hungry, we can grab some lunch. You can even pay.”

  “Fair enough. Where's your boat?”

  “Marina del Rey. She's called Satori. I'm docked right near the Marina Shores Hotel.” He gave me the slip number. “If I'm not there, it means the winds died and I had to tie up and use the engine. One way or the other, I'll be there.”

  19

  The boat was thirty feet of sleek white fiberglass with gray trim. Tall masts, the sails tied. Satori painted on the hull in black script edged with gold.

  The sky over the marina was baby blue rubbed with chalk dust. Not much wind at all. The craft and its neighbors barely bobbed and I wondered if Baker had even gotten out of the harbor. Just a moment's walk away, the rear balcony of the Marina Shores Hotel extended over the footpath that ribboned the edge of the dock. Early lunchers sat nursing iced drinks and forking seafood.

  A wall of chain-link sectioned the hotel property from the rental slips but it was unlocked and I walked through.

  Satori. I knew it had something to do with Zen and had looked it up before leaving.

  A state of intuitive illumination.

  Maybe Sergeant Wesley Baker could illuminate Nolan's death.

  He came out from below before I reached the boat, drying his hands with a white towel. Five nine, stocky, but without visible body fat, he wore a white Lacoste polo shirt, pressed black jeans, and white deck shoes. Looking every year of his age— around fifty, but a well-put-together fifty— he had a durable tan, short dark brown hair silvering at the temples, square, broad shoulders, and well-muscled, hairless arms. His head was slightly small for the blocky torso, the face round, vaguely childlike, despite sun seams and assertive features. Large, gold-framed eyeglasses were turned to ray guns by the midday sun.

  A successful businessman on his day off.

  He waved, I climbed aboard, and we shook hands.

  “Doctor? Wes Baker. Up for lunch? How about the hotel?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me lock up and I'll be right up.”

  He was gone for a moment, came back carrying a large black calfskin billfold. More like a purse, really, and he carried it in one hand. We got off the boat and headed for the hotel.

  He walked very slowly— as if every movement counted. Like a dancer. Or a mime. Swinging his arms, looking from side to side, a faint smile on thin, wide lips.

  Behind the glasses, his eyes were brown and curious. If he was planning to hide facts, it wasn't making him tense.

  “Glorious day, isn't it?” he said.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Living up here, you give up space— I make do with four hundred square feet— and the marina's as congested as the city. But at night, when things quiet down and there's a clear view out to the ocean, the illusion of infinity more than makes up for all that.”

  “Satori?” I said.

  He chuckled. “Satori is an ideal, but you've got to keep trying. Do you sail?”

  “Infrequently.”

  “I'm comparatively new to it, myself. Did some work on boats when I was a kid but nothing that taught me how to operate a serious craft. I got into it a few years ago. Trial by ordeal. A few knocks on the noggin and you learn to watch out for the boom.”

  “Nolan did some work on boats, too.”

  He nodded. “Santa Barbara fishing boats. He did some abalone diving, too. Didn't care for any of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “He didn't have a taste for manual labor.”

&n
bsp; We climbed the stairs to the dining patio.

  A sign said PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED and the host's lectern was empty. Two dozen tables covered in navy blue linen dotted the brick-floored terrace. Three were occupied. Crystal and silver played with the sun. The east wall was glass that looked into an empty dining room.

  “Also, he said killing fish turned him off,” said Baker, looking around. “Killing, period. He was a nonviolent kid, had become a vegetarian the year before entering the academy. Probably the only vegetarian cop I ever met— hey, Max.”

  A Chinese maitre d' emerged from inside the hotel. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, and a wide, professional smile full of distress.