Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Accident doesn't begin to describe what Darren Burkhalter experienced. Disaster would be more accurate. The boy was napping in his car up until the moment of impact. The first thing he saw when he woke up was his father's decapitated head flying over the front seat and landing next to him, the features still twitching.”

  Several of the lawyers winced.

  “It missed falling right in his lap by inches,” I said. “Darren must have thought it was some kind of doll because he tried to pick it up. When he pulled away his hand and saw it covered with blood—saw what it really was—he went hysterical. And stayed hysterical for five full days, Mr. Moretti, screaming ‘Dada!' totally out of control.”

  I paused to let the image sink in. “He knew what was happening, Mr. Moretti—he's played it out in my office every time he's been there. He's clearly old enough to form a durable memory. I'll quote you statistics on that, if you'd like. And that memory won't disappear simply because you want it to.”

  “A memory that you're keeping alive by making him go through it over and over again,” said Moretti.

  “So what you're asserting,” I said, “is that psychotherapy is making him worse. That we should simply forget about it or pretend it didn't happen.”

  “Double touché,” whispered Mal.

  Moretti was bug-eyed. “It's your position that's under scrutiny, Doctor. I want to see you back up all this early trauma talk with data.”

  “I'd be happy to.”

  I had my own stack of articles, pulled them out, cited references, tossed out numbers, and gave a somewhat manic lecture on the development of memory in children and their reactions to disaster and trauma. I used the blackboard to summarize my findings.

  “Generalizations,” said Moretti. “Clinical impressions.”

  “You'd prefer something more objective?”

  He smiled. “It would be nice.”

  “Terrific.”

  A secretary rolled in the video monitor, slipped the tape into the VCR, dimmed the lights, and pushed the PLAY button.

  When it was over, dead silence. Finally, Moretti smirked and said, “Planning a second career in the film business, Doctor?”

  “I've seen and heard enough,” said one of the other attorneys. He closed his briefcase and pushed his chair from the table. Several others did the same.

  “Any more questions?” asked Mal.

  “Nope,” said Moretti. But he looked buoyant and I experienced a pang of self-doubt. He winked and saluted me. “See you in court, Doctor.”

  When they were all gone, Mal slapped his knee and did a little dance.

  “Right in the cojones, absolutely beautiful. I should be getting their offers this afternoon.”

  “I made a stronger case than I'd intended,” I said. “Bastard got to me.”

  “I know, you were beautiful.” He began collecting his papers.

  “What about Moretti's parting shot?” I asked. “He looked happy about going to court.”

  “Pure crapola. Saving face in front of his partners. He may be the last to settle, but believe me, he'll settle. Some asshole, eh? Has a rep as a real black-hearted litigator, but you slammed him good—your little jibe about the subconscious was right on the mark, Alex.”

  He shook his head with glee. “God knows how tight he had to hold his sphincter not to shit right then and there. ‘And a big part of what motivated you to become a lawyer.' I didn't tell you this, but Moretti's dad was a big-shot psychiatrist in Milwaukee, did a lot of forensics work. Moretti must have hated him because he really has a thing for shrinks—that's why they assigned him this one.”

  “Stanford psych major,” I said. “Blah blah blah blah blah.”

  Mal raised his arm in mock terror. “Boy, you've really become a nasty bastard, haven't you.”

  “Just tired of the bullshit.” I walked to the door. “Don't call me for a while, okay?”

  “Hey, don't get me wrong, Alex. I'm not putting you down. I like it, I mean I really like it.”

  “Flattered,” I said. And I left him to his triumphs and his calculations.

  When I got back home the phone was ringing. I picked it up at the same time the service operator did, heard Del Hardy's voice asking for Dr. Delaware. I broke in and told the operator I'd take it.

  “I found out a little,” he said. “Couldn't get much help at Hollywood but spoke to one of the coroners. You in any mood to hear that kind of thing?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay, first off is time of death—between eight P.M. and three A.M. Sunday. Second is cause of death. Twenty-two caliber bullet to the brain. It passed right into the cerebral cortex and bounced around in there, the way a small-caliber bullet will, doing lots of damage. Third, there were heavy amounts of alcohol and barbiturates in her system—borderline lethal dosage. Coroner also found some old scars between her toes that looked like tracks. You ever know this lady to be into heavy drugs?”

  “No,” I said. “But it was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah. People change. It's what keeps us busy.”

  “OD and a bullet,” I said.

  “Seriousness of intent,” said Del. “Especially for a female, though if she really wanted to be sure, eating the gun would have been the thing to do, straight into the medulla, wipes out the autonomic system and cuts off respiration. But most folks don't know that, they watch TV, think the temple shot . . .” He stopped. “Sorry.”

  “It's okay,” I said. “With that much downer in her system, wouldn't she be too drowsy to shoot?”

  “Not right away,” said Del. “Now here's the interesting part: Coroner told me their office processed the case quickly, orders of the boss—their usual average is six to eight weeks this time of year. They got orders, also, not to discuss it with anyone.”

  “Why all the secrecy?”

  “Pathologist got the clear impression it was a rich-folks case, grease the skids to the max, keep it hushed.”

  “The department released information to the press.”

  “Controlled info,” said Del. “Strategic thinking. If you say nothing about something, and someone finds out you were holding back, they immediately start thinking conspiracy. Telling them what you want is safer, makes you look open and sincere. Not that there's much to tell on this one—straight suicide, no evidence of foul play. As far as the drug-gun combo, the pathologist had two scenarios: A, she cocktailed booze and dope to do herself in, then changed her mind and wanted to get it over faster or maybe more dramatically and went for the gun. Makes sense to me—suicide's a message, right? You guys taught us that—final statement to the world. People can get really choosy about how they phrase it, right?”

  “Right. What's B?”

  “She used the dope and the booze to lower her inhibitions, build up enough courage to shoot herself. When she was feeling sufficiently mellow, she pulled the trigger. Either way you look at it, the end result's the same.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “No. Lots of people don't. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Like that Canadian guy, McWhatsisname said, the medium can be the message all by itself.”

  “Who's the detective in charge of the case?” I asked.

  “Guy named Pinckley, just left yesterday for vacation in Hawaii.”

  “Convenient.”

  “I wouldn't get in an uproar over that,” said Del. “Vacations are scheduled way in advance. Pinckley's a serious surfer—he used to compete nationally. He goes every year around this time, in order to catch the big ones at Wiamea. I called Hollywood and confirmed it—the duty roster'd been set months ago.”

  “Who took over from Pinckley?”

  “Nothing to take over, Doc. The case is closed.”

  “What about Trapp being up at her house?”

  He lowered his voice. “I said I found out a little, remember? That didn't include walking into my captain's office and giving him the third degree.”

  “Okay, sorry.”


  “No apology necessary. Just gotta be careful.”

  “Anything else, Del?”

  Pause. “How well did you say you knew her?”

  “It had been six years since I'd seen her.”

  “Well enough to know that she wasn't any nun?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Okay. If you were next of kin or a husband, I wouldn't be telling you this. It's strictly off the record. My source at Hollywood says there's a rumor drifting around the station that when they went up to her place, one of the techs found a porn flick hidden under the mattress—nothing sophisticated, just a loop. But a loop with her in it. She might have been a doctor but she had other talents.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  “Doc?”

  “Is the loop still in the evidence room, Del?”

  “Not everything makes it to the evidence room.”

  “I see.”

  “Case like this, it works out better for the lady. What's better, having the damned thing stored in some cop's underwear drawer, pulled out once in a blue moon for private screenings, or letting the papers get hold of it—‘Doctor Had Secret Life'? You know what they'd do with that. I mean this loop wasn't Disney stuff.”

  “What was on it?”

  “What you'd imagine.”

  “Could you be more specific, Del?”

  “You really want to hear this?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He sighed. “Okay. What I was told was that it was one of those doctor-patient things. You know, checkup turns to sex? She was the patient; some guy was the doc.” Pause. “That's all I know. I did not see it.”

  “Did she leave anything else behind, like patient files?”

  “I didn't ask.”

  “What about the quick sale on her house?”

  “With the case closed there'd be no reason not to sell.”

  “Did she own the house?”

  “I didn't check that.”

  “What about the twin sister? Has anyone located her?”

  “No Shirlee Ransom on any of our files, which means nothing—she wasn't a criminal. But DMV didn't have her either.”

  “They wouldn't. She couldn't have driven a car.”

  “Whatever. Searching for heirs isn't our business, Doc. Whichever lawyer's probating the will would have to hire someone private. And to answer your next question, no, I don't know who that is.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem. Glad to give it. When I have it.”

  Which was a polite way of saying Don't bother me anymore.

  Chapter

  13

  A porn loop.

  Kruse's “research.”

  Exploring the boundaries of human sexuality.

  Larry had laughed about it, but self-consciously. Working for Kruse was a phase of his career he clearly wanted to forget. Now he was going to be reminded, again. I called his office in Brentwood, using the private line that bypassed his answering service.

  “I'm with a patient,” he said, sotto voce. “Call you back at a quarter to the hour?”

  He did, at precisely 2:45, munching on something and talking between bites.

  “Missed me already, D.? What's on your mind?”

  “Sharon Ransom.”

  “Yeah, I read about it. Oh, God, I forgot—the two of you were an item way back when, weren't you?”

  “She was at the party, Larry. I ran into her when you went to make your call. I talked to her the day before she died.”

  “Jesus. Did she look depressed?”

  “A little down. She said things weren't going well. But nothing profound, nothing to set off any alarms. You and I both know how much that's worth, though.”

  “Yeah, ye olde professional intuition. Might as well use a ouija board.”

  Silence.

  “Sharon Ransom,” he said. “Unreal. She used to be gorgeous.”

  “Still was.”

  “Unreal,” he repeated. “I haven't seen her since school, never ran into her at any meetings or conventions.”

  “She was living in L.A.”

  “Mystery lady. She always projected a bit of that.”

  “Did she work on the porn project, Larry?”

  “Not when I was there. Why?”

  I told him about her being Kruse's assistant. About the loop.

  “Welcome to Hollyweird,” he said. But he didn't sound surprised and I commented on it.

  “That's 'cause I'm not surprised, D. Someone else, maybe, but not her.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Truth be told, I always thought she was strange.”

  “In what way?”

  “Nothing blatant, but something about her just wasn't set right—like a beautiful painting hung off kilter.”

  “You never said anything to me.”

  “If I'd told you I thought your girlfriend was iffy in the personality department, would you have listened to me calmly and said, ‘Gee, thanks, Lar'?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope is right. Au contraire, you would have been highly pissed off, probably never spoken to me again. No, no, kiddies, Uncle Larry keeps his mouth shut. First rule of therapy: When you're not sure, say nothing. And I wasn't sure. It's not as if I was formally diagnosing her—this was just an impression. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying yourself with her, and I didn't see you marrying her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She just didn't seem the marrying kind.”

  “What kind did she seem?”

  “The kind you keep on the side and destroy your life over, D. I figured you were too smart for that. And I was right, wasn't I?”

  Pause. He said, “Let me ask you a question and don't take offense: Was she any good in bed?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Went through the moves but didn't really dig it?”

  I was startled. “What makes you say that?”

  “Talking about the loop made me realize who she reminded me of: the porn actresses Kruse used to have in his movies. I met them when I worked for him. Those girls all oozed sex appeal, came on as if they could suck blood out of a rock. But you got the feeling it was just a veneer, something that came off with their makeup. Sensuality wasn't integrated in their personalities—they knew how to split their feelings from their behavior.”

  “Split,” I said. “As in borderline?”

  “Exactly. But don't get me wrong. I'm not saying Sharon was a borderline, or even that all the actresses were. But she and they all had some of that borderline quality to them. Am I on target at all?”

  “Bull's-eye,” I said. “She had typical borderline qualities. All these years I never put it together.”

  “Don't shit on yourself, D. You were sleeping with her—afflicted with severe pussy-blindness. I especially wouldn't expect you to be diagnosing her. But I'm not surprised she made a fuck film.”

  Borderline personality disorder. If Sharon had deserved that diagnosis, I'd flirted with disaster.

  The borderline patient is a therapist's nightmare. During my training years, before I decided to specialize in children, I treated more than my share of them and learned that the hard way.

  Or, rather, I tried to treat them. Because borderlines never really get better. The best you can do is help them coast, without getting sucked into their pathology. At first glance they look normal, sometimes even supernormal, holding down high-pressure jobs and excelling. But they walk a constant tightrope between madness and sanity, unable to form relationships, incapable of achieving insight, never free from a deep, corroding sense of worthlessness and rage that spills over, inevitably, into self-destruction.

  They're the chronically depressed, the determinedly addictive, the compulsively divorced, living from one emotional disaster to the next. Bed hoppers, stomach pumpers, freeway jumpers, and sad-eyed bench sitters with arms stitched up like footballs and psychic wounds that can never be sutured. Their egos are as fragile as spun sugar, their psych
es irretrievably fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with crucial pieces missing. They play roles with alacrity, excel at being anyone but themselves, crave intimacy but repel it when they find it. Some of them gravitate toward stage or screen; others do their acting in more subtle ways.

  No one knows how or why a borderline becomes a borderline. The Freudians claim it's due to emotional deprivation during the first two years of life; the biochemical engineers blame faulty wiring. Neither school claims to be able to help them much.

  Borderlines go from therapist to therapist, hoping to find a magic bullet for the crushing feelings of emptiness. They turn to chemical bullets, gobble tranquilizers and antidepressants, alcohol and cocaine. Embrace gurus and heaven-hucksters, any charismatic creep promising a quick fix of the pain. And they end up taking temporary vacations in psychiatric wards and prison cells, emerge looking good, raising everyone's hopes. Until the next letdown, real or imagined, the next excursion into self-damage.

  What they don't do is change.

  Ada Small had once talked to me about it—the only time I can remember hearing anger in her voice:

  Stay away from them, Alex, if you want to feel competent. They'll make you look stupid every time. You'll work on getting rapport for months, even years, finally think you've got it and are ready to do some insight work, maybe get some real change going, and they'll walk out on you in a minute. You'll find yourself wondering what you did wrong, questioning if you went into the right profession. It won't be you—it's them. They can look terrific one moment, be out on the ledge the next.

  Out on the ledge.

  More than any other psychiatric patient, borderlines could be counted on to attempt suicide. And to succeed.

  “I used to sit around bullshitting with the actresses,” Larry was saying. “Got to know some of them a little and began to understand them—their promiscuity, how they did what they did. From a borderline's point of view, promiscuity can be a halfway decent adaptation, the perfect split—one man for friendship, another for intellectual stimulation, another for sex. Split, split, split, neat and clean. If you can't achieve intimacy, it sure beats being lonely. Splitting's also a great way to cut yourself off from fucking on film and letting guys come all over your face. Just another job. I mean, how else could you do it, then go home and make macaroni and cheese and do the crossword puzzle? The girls admitted it, said when they were on camera it was like watching someone else.”