The receptionist said, “Okay, she's all the way down at the end,” and pressed a button. The door buzzed—not quite as loudly as the one at the pawnshop, but just as obnoxiously—and I opened it and stepped into a very long, cream-colored hall marked by lots of doors. Thick, gray carpeting covered the floor. The light was very bright.
Most of the doors were blank, a few were labeled THERAPY, and even fewer bore slide-in signs with people's names on them. The cream paint smelled fresh; how many coats had it taken to cover up the blood?
The corridor was silent except for my footsteps—the kind of womblike damping that comes only from real soundproofing. As I made my way to the end, a door on the left opened, spilling out people but no noise.
Three people, two women and a man, poorly dressed and shuffling. Not a group; each walked alone. The man was lantern-jawed and stooped, the women heavy and red-faced, with cracked swollen legs and stringy hair. All of them looked down at the carpet as they passed me. They grasped small white pieces of paper, “Rx” stamped at the top.
The room they'd exited was classroom-sized and crowded with another thirty or so people queued up before a metal desk. A young man sat at the desk, talked briefly to each person who stood before him, then filled out a prescription blank and handed it over with a smile. The people in line scuffed forward as automatically as cans on a conveyor belt. Some of them held out their hands in anticipation before they got to the doctor. None of them left without paper, none seemed cheered.
I resumed walking. The door at the end had a slide-in that said JEAN JEFFERS, MSW, LCSW. DIRECTOR.
Inside was a five-by-five secretarial area occupied by a young, full-faced, Asian woman. Her desk was barely big enough to hold a PC and a blotter. The wall behind her was so narrow that a dark, mock wood door almost filled it. A radio on an end table played soft rock almost inaudibly. A nameplate in front of the computer said MARY CHIN.
She said, “Dr. Delaware? Go right in, Jean will see you.”
“Thank you.”
She began to open the door. A woman caught it from the other side and pulled it all the way back. Forty-five or so, tall and blond. She wore a crimson shirtdress gathered at the waist by a wide, white belt.
“Doctor? I'm Jean.” She held out her hand. Almost as big as mine, lanolin soft. The left one bore a ruby solitaire ring over a broad, gold wedding band.
More white in her teardrop earrings and a mock ivory bracelet around one wrist. A sensible-looking watch encircled the other.
She had a strong frame and carried no extra fat. The belt showed off a firm waist. Her face was long, lightly tanned, with soft, generous features. Only her upper lip had been skimped upon by nature—not much more than a pencil line. Its mate was full and glossed. Dark blue eyes studied me from under black lashes. Gold-framed half-glasses hung from a white cord around her neck. Her hair was frosted almost white at the tips, clipped short in back and layered back at the sides. Pure utility except for a thick, Veronica Lake flap in front. It swooped to the right, almost hiding her right eye. A handsome woman.
She flipped her hair and smiled.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Of course, doctor. Please have a seat.”
Her office was the standard twelve-by-twelve setup, with a real wood desk, two upholstered armchairs, a three-drawer double file, a nearly empty bookcase, and some paintings of seagulls. On the desk were a pen, a memo pad, and a short stack of file folders.
A photo in a standup frame was centered on one of the shelves—she and a nice-looking, heavyset man about her age, the two of them in Hawaiian shirts and bedecked with leis. Social work diplomas made out to Jean Marie LaPorte were propped on another shelf, all from California colleges. I scanned the dates. If she'd graduated college at twenty-two, she was exactly forty-five.
“You're a clinical psychologist, right?” she said, sitting behind the desk.
I took one of the chairs. “Yes.”
“You know, when Detective Sturgis mentioned your name I thought I recognized it, though I still can't figure out from where.”
She smiled again. I returned it.
She said, “How does a psychologist come to be a police consultant?”
“By accident, really. Several years ago I was treating some children who'd been abused at a day-care center. I ended up testifying in court and getting involved in the legal system. One thing led to another.”
“Day-care center—the man who took pictures? The one involved with that horrible molesters' club?”
I nodded.
“Well, that must be where I remember your name from. You were quite a hero, weren't you?”
“Not really. I did my job.”
“Well,” she said, sitting forward and pushing hair out of her eyes, “I'm sure you're being modest. Child abuse is so—to tell you the truth, I couldn't work with it myself. Which may sound funny considering what we deal with here. But children—” She shook her head. “It would be too hard for me to find any sympathy for the abusers even if they were once victims themselves.”
“I know what you mean.”
“To me that's the lowest—violating a child's trust. How do you manage to deal with it?”
“It wasn't easy,” I said. “I saw myself as the child's ally and tried to do whatever helped.”
“Tried? You don't do abuse work anymore?”
“Occasionally, when it comes up as part of a custody case. Mostly I consult the court on trauma and divorce issues.”
“Do you do any therapy at all?”
“Not much.”
“Me, neither.” She sat back. “My main goal in school was to become a therapist, but I can't remember the last time I actually did any real therapy.”
She smiled again and shook her head. The wave of hair covered her eyes and she flipped it back—a curiously adolescent mannerism.
“Anyway,” she said, “about what Detective Sturgis wants, I just don't know how I can really help. I really need to safeguard our people's confidentiality—despite what happened to Becky.” She folded her lips inward, lowered her eyes, and shook her head.
I said, “It must have been terrifying.”
“It happened too quickly to be terrifying—the terrifying part didn't hit me until after it was over—seeing her . . . what he . . . now I really know what they mean by posttraumatic stress. No substitute for direct experience, huh?”
She pressed the skinny upper lip with one finger, as if keeping it still.
“No one knew what he was doing to her. I was right here, going about my business the whole time he was—the treatment rooms are totally soundproofed. He—” She removed her finger. A white pressure circle dotted her lip, then slowly faded.
“Then I heard noise from the hall,” she said. “That horrible screaming—he just kept screaming.”
“ 'Bad love,' ” I said.
Her mouth remained open. The blue eyes dulled for a second. “Yes . . . he . . . I went out to Mary's office and she wasn't there, so I opened the door to the hall and saw him. Screaming, waving it—the knife—splashing blood, the wall—he saw me—I saw his eyes settle on me—focusing—and he kept screaming. I slammed the door, shoved Mary's desk up against it, and ran back into my office. Slammed that door and blocked it. I hid behind my chair the whole time it was . . . it wasn't till later that I found out he'd grabbed Adeline.” She wiped her eyes. “I'm sorry, you don't need to hear this.”
“No, no, please.”
She glanced at her message pad. Blank. Picking up the pen, she wrote something on it.
“No, that's it—I've told it so many times . . . no one knows how long he—if she suffered for a long time. That's the one thing I can hope. That she didn't. The thought of her trapped in there with him . . .” She shook her head and touched her temples. “They soundproofed the rooms back in the sixties, when this place was a Vietnam veterans' counseling center. We sure don't need it.”
“Why's that?”
“Because n
o one does much therapy around here.”
She took a deep breath and slapped her hands lightly on the desk. “Life goes on, right? Would you like something to drink? We've got a coffee machine in the other wing. I can have Mary go get some.”
“No, thanks.”
“Lucky choice.” Smile. “It's actually pretty vile.”
“How come no one does much therapy?” I said. “Too disturbed a population?”
“Too disturbed, too poor, too many of them. They need food and shelter and to stop hearing voices. The preferred treatment is Thorazine. And Haldol and lithium and Tegretol and whatever else chases the demons away. Counseling would be a nice luxury, but with our caseload it ends up being a very low priority. Not to mention funding. That's why we don't have any psychologists on our staff, just caseworkers, and most of them are SWAs—assistants. Like Becky.”
“On the way in I saw a doctor giving out prescriptions.”
“That's right,” she said. “It's Friday, isn't it? That's Dr. Wintell, our once-a-week psychiatrist. He's just out of his residency, a real nice kid. But when his practice builds up, he'll be out of here like all the others.”
“If no one does therapy, what was Becky doing with Hewitt in the therapy room?”
“I didn't say we never talk to our people, just that we don't do much insight work. Sometimes we get cramped for space and the workers use the treatment rooms to do their paperwork. Basically, all of us use what's on hand. As to what Becky was doing with him, it could have been anything. Giving him a voucher for an SRO hotel, telling him where to get deloused. Then again, maybe she was trying to get into his head—she was that kind of person.”
“What kind is that?”
“An optimist. Idealistic. Most of us start out that way, don't we?”
I nodded. “Did Hewitt have a history of violence?”
“None that was listed in our files. He'd been arrested just a few weeks before for theft and was due to stand trial—maybe she was counseling him about that. There was nothing on paper that would have warned us. And even if he was violent, there's a good chance the information would never have gotten to us, with all the red tape.”
She put down her pen and looked at me. Flipped her hair. “The truth is, he was exactly like so many others who come in and out of here—there's still no way to know.”
She picked up one of the folders.
“This is his file. The police confiscated it and returned it, so I guess it's not confidential anymore.”
Inside were only two sheets, one clipped to each of the covers. The first was an intake form listing Dorsey Hewitt's age as thirty-one and his address as “none.” Under REASON FOR REFERRAL someone had written “multiple social problems.” Under DIAGNOSIS: “prob. chron. schiz.” The rest of the categories—PROGNOSIS, FAMILY SUPPORT, MEDICAL HISTORY, OTHER PSYCH. TREATMENT—had been left blank. Nothing about “bad love.”
At the bottom of the form were notations of referral for food stamps. The signature read, “R. Basille, SWA.”
The facing page was white and smooth, marked only with the notation, “Will follow as needed, R.B., SWA.” The date was eight weeks prior to the murder. I handed the folder back.
“Not much,” I said.
She gave a sad smile. “Paperwork wasn't Becky's forte.”
“So you have no idea how many times she actually saw him?”
“Guess that doesn't say much for my administrative skills, does it? But I'm not one of those people who believes in riding the staff, checking out every little picayune detail. I try to find the best people I can, motivate them, and give them room to move. Generally it works out. With Becky . . .”
She threw up her hands. “She was a doll, a really sweet person. Not much for rules and regulations, but so what?”
She shook her head. “We'd talked about it—helping her get her paperwork in on time. She promised to try, but to tell the truth, I didn't harbor much hope. And I didn't care. Because she was productive where it counted—getting on the phone all day with agencies and arguing for every last penny for her cases. She stayed late, did whatever it took to help them. Who knows? Maybe she was going that extra mile for Hewitt.”
She picked up the phone. “Mary? Coffee, please. . . . No, just one.”
Putting it down, she said, “The real horror is that it could happen again. We have a steel corral now, to direct them out onto the street after they get their meds. The county finally sent us a guard and the detector, but you tell me how to predict which of them is going to blow.”
“We're not very good prophets under the best of circumstances.”
“No, we're not. Hundreds of people file in here each week, for meds and vouchers. We've got to let them in. We're the court of last resort. Any of them could be another Hewitt. Even if we wanted to lock them up, we couldn't. The state hospitals that haven't been shut down are filled to capacity—I don't know what your theory is about psychosis, but mine is that most psychotics are born with it—it's biological, like any other illness. But instead of treating them, we demonize them or idealize them, and they get caught in the squeeze between the do-gooders who think they should be allowed to run free and the skinflints who think all they need is to pull themselves up by the bootstraps.”
“I know,” I said. “When I was in grad school the whole community psych thing was in full bloom—schizophrenia as an alternative lifestyle, liberating patients from the back wards and empowering them to take over their own treatment.”
“Empowering.” She laughed without opening her mouth.
“I had a professor who was a fanatic on the subject,” I said. “Studied the mental health system in Belgium or somewhere and wrote a book on it. He had us do a paper on deinstitutionalization. The more I researched it, the less feasible it seemed. I started to wonder what would happen to psychotics who needed medication and couldn't be counted upon to take it. He handed the paper back with one comment, “Medication is mind control,' and gave me a C-minus.”
“Well, I give you an A. Some of our patients can't be counted upon to feed themselves, let alone calibrate dosage. In my opinion, deinstitutionalization's the major culprit in the homeless problem. Sure, some street people are working folks who hit the skids, but at least thirty or forty percent are severely mentally debilitated. They belong in hospitals, not under some freeway. And now with all the weird street drugs out there, the old cliché that the mentally ill aren't violent just isn't true anymore. Each year it gets uglier and uglier, Dr. Delaware. I pray there won't be another Hewitt, but I don't count on it.”
“Do you try at all to identify which patients are violent?”
“If we have police records, we take them seriously, but like I said, that's rare. We've got to be our own police here. If someone goes around making threats, we call security. But most of them are quiet. Hewitt was. Didn't really relate to anyone else that I'm aware of—that's why we're probably not going to be much help to Detective Sturgis. What exactly is he after, anyway?”
“Apparently, he suspects Hewitt had a friend who may be harassing some people, and he's trying to find out if the friend was a patient here.”
“Well, after Sturgis called me I asked some of the other workers if they'd seen Hewitt with anyone, and none of them had. The only one who might have known was Becky.”
“Is she the only one who worked with him?”
She nodded.
“How long had she been working here?”
“A little over a year. She got her assistantship from junior college last summer and applied right afterward. One of those second careers—she'd worked as a secretary for a while, decided to go back to school in order to do something socially important—her words.”
Her eyes flickered and her mouth set—the lower lip compressing and making her look older.
“Such a sweet girl,” she said. She shook her head, then looked at me. “You know—I just thought of something. Hewitt's attorney—the one defending him on that theft thing? He might kn
ow if Hewitt had any friends. I think I've got his name tucked away somewhere—hold on.”
She went to the file, opened the middle drawer, and began flipping. “Just one second, so much junk in here. . . . He called me—the attorney—after Becky's murder. Wanting to know if there was anything he could do. I think he wanted to talk—to get his own guilt off his chest. I didn't have time for . . . ah, here we go.”
She pulled out a piece of cardboard stapled with business cards. Working a staple free with her fingernails, she removed a card and gave it to me.
Cheap white paper, green letters.
Andrew Coburg
Attorney-at-Law
The Human Interest Law Center
1912 Lincoln Avenue
Venice, California
“Human interest law,” I said.
“I think it's one of those storefront things.”
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the card. “I'll pass it along to Detective Sturgis.”
The door opened and Mary came in with the coffee.
Jean Jeffers thanked her and told her to tell someone named Amy that she'd be ready to see her in a minute.
When the door closed, she began stirring her coffee.
“Well,” she said, “it was nice talking to you. Sorry I couldn't do more.”
“Thanks for your time,” I said. “Is there anyone else I could talk to who might be able to help?”
“No one I can think of.”
“What about the woman he took hostage?”
“Adeline? Now there's a really sad story. She'd transferred over here a month before from a center in South Central because she had high blood pressure and wanted a safer environment.”
She threw up her hands again and gave a sour laugh.
“Any particular reason Hewitt grabbed her?” I said.
“You mean did she know him?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. The hair flap obscured her eye and she left it there. “Just pure bad luck. She happened to be sitting at a desk in the hall, working, just as he was running out, and he grabbed her.”
She walked me to the door. People kept coming out of the psychiatrist's office. She looked at them.
Bad Love Page 14
