Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  One plaid leg angled forward through the opening. A sneaker hit the pavement, then the other.

  A man emerged into the streetlight, wincing.

  He had the blanket wrapped around him to the knees, covering his head like a monk's cowl and shrouding most of his face.

  What showed of the skin was black and grainy. The man took an awkward step, as if testing the integrity of the sidewalk, and the blanket dropped a bit. His skull was big and half bald, above a long, bony face that looked caved in. His beard was a kinky gray rash, his skin cracked and caked. Fifty or sixty or seventy. A battered nose so flat it almost merged with his crushed cheeks, spreading like melted tar. His eyes squinted and watered and didn't stop moving.

  He had the white bread in his hand and was looking at the soup.

  Milo tried to give it to him.

  The man hesitated, working his jaws. His eyes were quieter now.

  “Know what a gift horse is?” said Milo.

  The man swallowed. Drawing his blanket around himself, he squeezed the bread so hard the loaf turned into a figure eight.

  I went over to him and said, “We just want to talk, that's it.”

  He looked into my eyes. His were jaundiced and clogged with blood vessels, but something shone through—maybe intelligence, maybe just suspicion. He smelled of vomit and alcohol belch and breath mints, and his lips were as loose as a mastiff's. I worked hard at standing my ground.

  Milo came up behind me and covered some of the stench with cigar smoke. He put the soup up against the man's chest. The man looked at it and finally took it, but continued to stare at me.

  “You are not police.” His voice was surprisingly clear. “You are definitely not police.”

  “True,” I said. “But he is.”

  The man glanced at Milo and smiled. Rubbing the part of the blanket that covered his abdomen, he shoved both hands under it, secreting the bread and the soup.

  “A few questions, friend,” said Milo. “Simple stuff.”

  “Nothing in life is simple,” said the man.

  Milo hooked a thumb at the bags on the sidewalk. “A philosopher. There's enough there to feed you and your friends—have a nice little party.”

  The man shook his head. “It could be poison.”

  “Why the hell would it be poison?”

  Smile. “Why not? The world's poison. A while back someone gave someone a present and it was full of poison and someone died.”

  “Where'd this happen?”

  “Mars.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Venus.”

  “Okay,” said Milo, blowing smoke. “Suit yourself, we'll ask our questions elsewhere.”

  The man licked his lips. “Go ahead. I've got the virus, makes no difference to me.”

  “The virus, huh?” said Milo.

  “Don't believe me, you can kiss me.”

  The man flicked his tongue. The blanket fell to his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a greasy Bush-Quayle T-shirt. His neck and shoulders were emaciated.

  “I'll pass,” said Milo.

  The man laughed. “Bet you will—now what? Gonna beat it out of me?”

  “Beat what out of you?”

  “Whatever you want. You've got the power.”

  “Nah,” said Milo. “This is the new LAPD. We're New Age sensitive guys.”

  The man laughed. His breath was hot and emetic. “Bearshit. You'll always be savages—got to be to keep order.”

  Milo said, “Have a nice day,” and began to turn.

  “What do you want to know, anyway?”

  “Anything about a citizen named Lyle Edward Gritz,” said Milo. “You know him?”

  “Like a brother.”

  “That so?”

  “Yup,” said the man. “Unfortunately, this day and age, families deteriorating and all, that means not well at all.”

  Milo looked over at the hatch. “He in there now?”

  “Nope.”

  “See him recently?”

  “Nope.”

  “But he did hang out here.”

  “From time to time.”

  “When was the last time?”

  The man ignored the question and began staring at me again.

  “What are you?” he said. “Some kind of journalist riding along?”

  “He's a doctor,” said Milo.

  “Oh yeah?” Smile. “Got any penicillin? Things get pretty infectious down here. Amoxicillin, erythromycin, tetracycline—anything to zap those little cocci boogers?”

  I said, “I'm a psychologist.”

  “Ooh,” said the man, as if wounded. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them they were dry and focused. “Then you're not worth a damn to me—pardon my linguistics.”

  “Gritz,” said Milo. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  The man appeared to be contemplating. “White trash, juicehead, low IQ. But able-bodied. He had no excuse ending up down here. Not that I do—you probably think I was some kind of white collar overachiever, don't you? 'Cause I'm black and I know grammar.”

  Smiling.

  I smiled back.

  “Wrong,” he said. “I collected garbage. Professionally. City of Compton. Good pay, you wear your gloves, it's fine, terrific benefits. My mistake was leaving and starting my own business. Vinyl flooring. I did good work, had six people working for me. Did fine until business slumped and I let the dope comfort me.”

  He produced one arm from under the blanket. Raised it and let the sleeve fall back from a bony forearm. The underside of the limb was knotted with scars and abscesses, keloidal and bunched, raw in spots.

  “This is a fresh one,” he said, eyeing a scab near his wrist. “Got off just before sundown. I waive my rights, why don't you take me in, give me a bunk for the night?”

  “Not my thing,” said Milo.

  “Not your thing?” The man laughed. “What are you, some kind of liberal?”

  Milo looked at him and smoked.

  The man put his arm back. “Well, at least get me a real doctor, so I can get hold of some methadone.”

  “What about the county?”

  “County ran out. Can't even get antibiotics from the county.”

  “Well,” said Milo, “I can give you a lift to an emergency room if you want.”

  The man laughed again, scornfully. “For what? Wait around all night with gunshots and heart attacks? I've got no active diagnosis—just the virus, no symptoms yet. So all they'll do is keep me waiting. Jail's better—they process you faster.”

  “Here,” said Milo, dipping into his pocket for his wallet. He took out some bills and handed them to the man. “Find a room, keep the change.”

  The man gave a warm, broad smile and tucked the money under his blanket. “That's real nice, Mr. Policeman. You made this po', unfortunate, homeless individual's evening.”

  Milo said, “Was Gritz into dope, too?”

  “Just juice. Like I said, white trash. Him and his hillbilly singing.”

  “He liked to sing?”

  “All the time, this yodely white-trash voice. Wanted to be Elvis.”

  “Any talent?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Did he ever get violent with anyone?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much. Sticks to himself—we all do. This is Little Calcutta, not some hippie commune.”

  “He ever hang out with anyone?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “How about Dorsey Hewitt?”

  The man's lips pursed. “Hewitt, Hewitt . . . the one that did that caseworker?”

  “You knew him?”

  “No, I read the paper—when that fool did that, I was worried. Backlash. Citizens coming down here and taking it out on all us po' unfortunates.”

  “You never met Hewitt?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don't know if he and Gritz were buddies?”

  “How
would I know that if I never met him?”

  “Someone told us Gritz talked about getting rich.”

  “Sure, he always did, the fool. Gonna cut a record. Gonna be the next Elvis. Pour a bottle down his gullet and he was number one on the charts.”

  The man turned to me. “What do you think my diagnosis is?”

  “Don't know you well enough,” I said.

  “They—the interns over at County—said I had an affective disease—severe mood swings. Then they cut off my methadone.”

  He clicked his teeth together and waited for me to comment. When I didn't, he said, “Supposedly I was using stuff to self-medicate—being my own psychiatrist.” He laughed. “Bearshit. I used it to be happy.”

  Milo said, “Back on track: what else do you know about Gritz?”

  “That's it.” Smile. “Do I still get to keep the money?”

  “Is Terminator Three still here?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “A kid from Arizona. Missing pinkie, bad cough. He has a girlfriend and a baby.”

  “Oh yeah, Wayne. He's calling himself that, now?” Laughter. “Nah, they all packed up this afternoon. Like I said, people come and go—speaking of which . . .”

  He hooded himself with the blanket and, keeping his eyes on us, began edging toward the fence.

  “What about your room for the night?” said Milo.

  The man stopped and looked back. “Nah, I'll camp out tonight. Fresh air.” Grin.

  Milo laughed a little bit with him, then eyed the food. “What about all this?”

  The man scrutinized the groceries. “Yeah, I'll take some of that Gatorade. The Pepsi, too.”

  He picked up the beverages and stashed them under the blanket.

  “That's it?” said Milo.

  “On a diet,” said the man. “You want, you can bring the rest of it inside. I'm sure someone'll take it off your hands.”

  The hooded man led us through the darkness, walking unsteadily but without hesitation, like a well-practiced blind man.

  Milo and I stumbled and fought to keep our balance, hauling boxes with only the skimpy guidance of the penlight beam.

  As we progressed, I sensed human presence—the heat of fear. Then the petrol sweetness of Sterno.

  Urine. Shit. Tobacco. Mildew.

  The ammonia of fresh semen.

  The hooded man stopped and pointed to the ground.

  We put the boxes down and a blue flame ignited. Then another.

  The concrete wall came into focus, in front of it bedrolls, piles of newspaper. Bodies and faces blue-lit by the flames.

  “Suppertime, chillun',” shouted the man, over the noise of the freeway. Then he was gone.

  More lights.

  Ten or so people appeared, faceless, sexless, huddled like storm victims.

  Milo took something out of the box and held it out. A hand reached out and snatched it. More people collected around us, blue tinted, rabbity, openmouthed with expectation.

  Milo leaned forward, moving his mouth around his cigar. What he said made some of the people bolt. Others stayed to listen, and a few talked back.

  He distributed more food. I joined in, feeling hands brush against mine. Finally our boxes were empty and we stood, alone.

  Milo swung the penlight around the lot, exposing cloth heaps, lean-tos, people eating.

  The hooded black man, sitting with his back up against the freeway wall, plaid legs splayed. One naked arm stretched out over a skinny thigh, bound at the biceps by a coil of something elastic.

  A beautiful smile on his face, a needle buried deep in his flesh.

  Milo snapped his head away and lowered the beam.

  “C'mon,” he said, loud enough for me to hear.

  He headed west rather than back toward Beverly Hills, saying, “Well, that was a big goddamn zero.”

  “None of them had anything to say?”

  “The consensus, for what it's worth, is that Lyle Gritz hasn't been seen for a week or two and that it's no big deal, he drifts in and out. He did, indeed, mouth off a bit about getting rich before he split, but they've all heard that before.”

  “The next Elvis.”

  He nodded. “Music fantasies, not fish murder. I pressed for details and one of them claimed to have seen him get into someone's car a week or so ago—across the street, over at the cement yard. But that same person seemed rather addled and had absolutely no clue as to make, model, color, or any other distinguishing details. And I'm not sure he didn't just say it because I was pushing. I'll see if Gritz's name shows up on any recent arrest files. You can ask Jeffers if he was ever a patient at the center. If he was, maybe you can get her to point you in any direction he may have gone. But even if we do find him, I'm not convinced it means a damn thing. Now you up for a little rest-stop? I'm still smelling that hellhole.”

  He drove to a cocktail lounge on Wilshire, in the drab part of Santa Monica. Neon highball glass above a quilted door. I'd never been there, but the way he pulled into the parking lot told me he knew it well.

  Inside, the place wasn't much brighter than the overpass. We washed our hands in the men's room and took stools at the bar. The decor was red vinyl and nicotine. The resident rummies seemed to be elderly and listless. A few looked dead asleep. The jukebox helped things along with low-volume Vic Damone.

  Milo scooped up a handful of bar nuts and fed his face. Ordered a double Chivas and didn't comment when I asked for a Coke.

  “Where's the phone?” I said.

  He pointed to a corner.

  I called Robin. “How's it going?”

  “Not bad,” she said. “The other man in my life and I are cuddled up watching a sitcom.”

  “Funny?”

  “I don't think so, and he's not laughing—just drooling. Any progress?”

  “Not really, but we did give away lots of food.”

  “Well,” she said, “good deeds don't hurt. Coming home?”

  “Milo wanted to stop for a drink. Depending on his mood, I may need to drive him home. Go ahead and eat without us.”

  “Okay. . . . I'll leave a light in the window and a bone in your dish.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Though Milo seemed coherent by the time we reached Benedict Canyon, I suggested he sack out in one of the bedrooms, and he agreed without protest. When I awoke Saturday morning at seven, he was gone and the bed he'd slept in was in perfect order.

  At nine, my pond maintenance people called to confirm they'd be moving the fish at two p.m.

  Robin and I had breakfast, then I drove to the biomed library.

  I looked up Wilbert Harrison in the psychiatric section of the Directory of Medical Specialists. His most recent listing was ten years old—an address on Signal Street in Ojai, no phone number. I copied it down and read his bio.

  Medical education at Columbia University and the Menninger Clinic, a fellowship in social anthropology at UC Santa Barbara and a clinical appointment at the de Bosch Institute and Corrective School.

  The anthro training was interesting, suggesting interests that stretched beyond private practice. But he'd had no academic appointments and his fields of specialty were psychoanalysis and the treatment of impaired physicians and health professionals. His birthdate made him sixty-five. Old enough to have retired—the move to Ojai from Beverly Hills and the lack of a phone listing implied a yearning for the quiet life.

  I flipped forward to the R's and found Harvey Rosenblatt's citation, complete with the NYU affiliation and an office on East Sixty-fifth Street in Manhattan. Same address as the Shirley I'd been trying to reach. Had she ignored my call because they were no longer together—divorced? Or something worse?

  I read on. Rosenblatt had graduated from NYU, done his clinical training at Bellevue, the Robert Evanston Hale Psychoanalytic Institute in Manhattan, and Southwick Hospital in England. Fields of specialty, psychoanalysis and psychoanalytic psychotherapy. Fifty-eight years old.

  He was listed in t
he next volume of the directory, too. I worked my way forward in time, until his name no longer appeared.

  Four years ago.

  Right between the Paprock and Shipler murders.

  You're wondering if they've been visited, too.

  One way to check: like most house organs, the Journal of the American Medical Association ran obituaries each month. I went up to the stacks and retrieved bound copies, four and five years old for Rosenblatt, ten and eleven for Harrison.

  There were no notices on either psychiatrist. But maybe they hadn't bothered to join the AMA.

  I consulted the American Journal of Psychiatry. Nothing there, either. Perhaps neither man had been a member of the specialty guild.

  Bound copies of the American Psychological Association Directory were just a few aisles over. The five-year-old listing on Katarina de Bosch that I'd found in my volume at home was indeed her last.

  No death notice on her, either.

  So maybe I was working myself up for nothing.

  I thought of another possible way to locate addresses—bylines in scientific publications. The Index Medicus and Psychological Abstracts revealed that Katarina had coauthored a couple of articles with her father, but nothing since his death. One of them had to do with child rearing and contained a reference to “bad love”:

  The process of mother-child bonding forms the foundation for all intimate relationships, and disruptions in this process plant the seed of psychopathology in later life. Good love—the nurturant, altruistic, psychosocial “suckling” by the mother/parenting figure, contributes to the child's sense of security and, hence, molds his ability to form stable attachments. Bad love—the abuse of parental authority—creates cynicism, alienation, hostility, and, in the worst cases, violent acting-out that is the child's attempt to seek retribution from the breast that has failed him.

  Retribution. The abuse of parental authority. Someone had been failed. Someone was seeking revenge.

  I checked for articles by Harrison and Rosenblatt. Neither had published a word.

  No great surprise, most practitioners never get into print. But it still seemed odd that I couldn't locate any of them.

  One therapist to go: the social worker, Mitchell Lerner.

  He'd been last counted a member in good standing of the national social work organization six years ago. I made a note of his office address on Laurel Canyon and the accompanying phone number. BA from Cal State Northridge, MSW from Berkeley, clinical training at San Francisco General Hospital, followed by two years as a staff social worker at the Corrective School.