Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “So he took the truck,” I said. “To escape what she was doing to him.”

  “We took it. I knew how to drive because Evil had a farm in Connecti—a summer place, lots of trucks and tractors. One of the farmhands taught me. Planning the break was hard because Delmar had trouble remembering details. We had a bunch of false starts. Finally we made it out, late at night, everyone asleep. Delmar was scared. I had to drag him.”

  The gun barrel made tiny arcs.

  “I had no idea which way to go, so I just drove. The roads kept getting curvier. Delmar was scared out of his mind, crying for his mama. I'm telling him everything's okay—but some idiot left sawhorses in the middle of the road—a ditch, no warning lights. We skidded . . . off the road . . . I yelled for Delmar to jump free, tried to pull him out, but he was too heavy—then my door flipped open and I was thrown out. Delmar . . .”

  He licked his lips and breathed with forced deliberation. His finger tapped the trigger.

  “Boom. Kaboom,” he said. “Life is so tenuous, isn't it?”

  He looked winded, dripping perspiration. The big smile on his face was forced.

  “He . . . it took me two hours to walk back to hell. My clothes were torn and I'd twisted my ankle. It was a miracle—I was alive. Meant for something. I managed to crawl into bed . . . my teeth were chattering so loud I was sure everyone would wake up. It took a while till the commotion began. Talking, footsteps, lights going on. Then Hitler came stomping into my room, tore the covers off me, and stared at me—foaming at the mouth. I looked right back at him. This crazy look came into his eyes and he lifted his hands—like he was ready to claw me. I stared right back at him and pulled my pud. And he just let his arms drop. Walked out. Never spoke to me again. I was locked in my room for three days. On the fourth day, Mummy came and picked me up. Go east, young victor.”

  “So you won,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I was the conquering hero.” Jab. “My victory bought me more dungeons. More sadists, pills, and needles. That's what your places are about, whether you call them hospitals or jails or schools. Killing the spirit.”

  I remembered the flash of anger he'd shown in his office, when we'd talked about Dorsey Hewitt.

  He should have been taken care of . . .

  Institutionalized?

  Taken care of. Not jailed—oh, hell, even jail wouldn't have been bad if that would have meant treatment. But it never does.

  “But you got past that,” I said. “You made it through law school, you're helping other people.”

  He laughed and the gun retreated an inch or two.

  “Don't patronize me, you fuck. Yeah, let's hear it for higher education. You know where I learned my torts and jurisprudence? The library at Rahway State Prison. Filing appeals for myself and the other wretches. That's where I learned the law was written by the oppressors to benefit the oppressors. But like fire, you could learn to use it. Make it work for you.”

  He laughed again and wiped his forehead. “The only bars I ever passed, were the ones on my cell. For five years, I've been going up against yuppie careerist assholes from Harvard and Stanford and kicking their asses in court. I've had judges compliment my work.”

  “Five years,” I said. “Right after Myra.”

  “Right before.” He grinned. “The bitch was a gift to myself. I'd just gotten the gig at the center. Gave myself two gifts. The bitch and a new guitar—black Les Paul Special. You remember my guitar, don't you? All that rapport-building crap you slung at me in my office?”

  The guitar-pick tiepin . . .

  What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?

  Lately I've been getting into electric.

  Special effects, too. Phase shifters . . .

  He grinned and raised his free hand as if for a high-five. “Hey, bro, let's jam and cut a record.”

  “Is that the offer you gave Lyle Gritz?”

  The grin shrank.

  “A human decoy,” I said. “To throw me off the track?”

  He jabbed me hard with the gun and slapped my face with his free hand. “Shut up and stop controlling, or I'll do you right here and make your little friend in there clean it up. Keep those fucking hands up—up!”

  I felt spit hit my cheek again and roll over my lips. Silence from the bedroom. The dog's struggles had become background noise.

  “Say you're sorry,” he said, “for trying to control.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  He reached over and patted my cheek. Almost tenderly.

  “The bitch,” he said wistfully. “She was given to me. Served on a plate with parsley and new potatoes.”

  The gun wavered, then straightened. He crossed his legs. The soles of his shoes were unmarked except for a few bits of gravel stuck in the treads.

  “Karma,” he said. “I was living out in the valley, nice little bachelor pad in Van Nuys. Driving home on a Sunday. These flags out at the curb. Open house for sale. When I was a kid, I liked other people's houses—anything better than my own. I got good at getting into other people's houses. This one looked like it might have a few souvenirs, so I stopped to check it out. I ring the bell. The real estate agent comes to the door and right away she's giving me her pitch. Da da, da da, da da, da da.

  “But I'm not hearing a word she's saying. I'm looking at her face and it's the bitch. Some wrinkles, her boobs are sagging, but there's no doubt about it. She's shaking my hand, talking about pride of ownership, owner will carry. And it hits me: this is no accident. This is karma. All these years I'd been thinking about justice. All those nights I lay in bed thinking about getting Hitler, but the fuck beat me to it.”

  He grimaced, as if stung. “I thought I'd put that behind me, then I looked into the bitch's eyes and realized I hadn't. And she made it so easy—playing her part. Turning her back and walking right in front of me. Open invitation.”

  He coughed. Cleared his throat. The gun bumped against my sternum.

  “Everything was perfect—no one around. I locked all the doors without her noticing, she's too busy giving me her spiel. When we reached an inner bathroom with no windows, I hit her. And did her. She fell apart as if she was made of nothing. At first it was messy. Then it got easier. Like a good riff, the rhythm.”

  He talked on for a long while, slipping into a drone, like a surgeon dictating operating-room notes. Giving me details I didn't want to hear. I tuned out, listening to the dog thump and bark, listening for sounds from the bedrooms that never came.

  Silence. Sighing. He said, “I found my life's work.”

  “Rodney Shipler,” I said. “He didn't work at the school, did he? Was he a relative of Delmar's?”

  “Father. In name only.”

  “What was his crime?”

  “Complicity. Delmar's mom was dead, Shipler was the only member of Delmar's family I could find. Delmar told me his dad was named Rodney and he worked for the L.A. schools—I thought he was a teacher. Finally I located him over in South Central. A janitor. This tired old asshole, big and fat, living by himself, drinking whiskey out of a Dixie cup. I told him I was a lawyer and I knew what really happened to his son. Said we could sue, class action—even after the bitch, I was still trying to work within the system. He sat there drinking and listening, then asked me could I guarantee him a lot of money in his pocket. I told him no, money wasn't the issue. The publicity would expose Hitler for what he'd really been. Delmar would be a hero.”

  Jab. “Shipler poured himself another cup and told me he didn't give a shit about that. Said Delmar's mom had been some whore he'd met in Manila who wasn't worth the time of day. Said Delmar had been a fool and a troublemaker from day one. I tried to reason with him—show him the importance of exposing Hitler. He told me to get the hell out. Tried to push me out.”

  Coburg's eyes flared. The gun seemed fused to his hand.

  “Another good German. He tried to push me out—real bully, but I taught him about justice. After that, I knew the only way was swift puni
shment—the system wasn't set up to do the job.”

  I said, “One form of punishment for the underlings, another for the high command.”

  “Exactly. Fair is fair.” He smiled. “Finally someone catches on. Mrs. Lyndon was right, you are a clever piece of work. I told her I was a reporter, doing a story on you. She was so happy to help . . . her little A student.” The gun tickled my ribs. “You deserve something for paying attention—maybe I'll knock you unconscious before I roll you over the cliff outside. Such a perfect setup . . .” Head cock toward the front door. “Would you like that?”

  Before I could answer: “Just kidding! Your eyes will be taped open, you'll experience every second of hell, just like I did.”

  He laughed. Droned some more, describing how he'd beaten Rodney Shipler to death, blow by blow.

  When he was through, I said, “Katarina was high command also. Why'd you wait so long for her?”

  Trying to buy time with questions—but to what end? A longer ordeal for Robin—why was it so quiet in there?

  My eyes shifted downward. The damn gun arm wasn't moving.

  He said, “Why do you think, clever boy? Saving the best for last—and you messed me up royal. You were supposed to go before her, but then you started snooping around, sending your queer police buddy snooping, so I had to do her out of sequence. . . . I'm pissed at you for that. Maybe I'll put your girlfriend on the barbecue. Make you watch that with your eyelids taped open.”

  Smiling. Sighing. “Still, she-beast got done, and what's done is done . . . do you know how she handled her fate? Total passivity. Just like the rest of you.” Jab. “What kind of person would want to spend his life just sitting there listening—not doing anything?”

  He laughed.

  “She got down on her knees and begged. Her she-beast throat got all clogged up like a toilet full of shit. . . . She was eating breakfast, I just strolled in, put this gun to her head, said “bad love, she-beast.' And she just fell apart.”

  Shaking his head, as if still not believing. Slight shift of the gun.

  “Not an ounce of fight. No fun. I had to stand her up and order her to make a run for it. Kicked her butt to get her to move. Even with that, all she could do was stumble into the garage and get down on her knees again. Then she snapped out of her trance. Then she started begging. Crying, pointing to her stomach, telling me she's pregnant, please have pity on my baby. Like she had pity . . . then she pulled a card out of her pocket, trying to prove it to me. A sperm bank. Which makes sense, who would have done her?” Laughter. “Like that was a reason. Saving her beastly fetus. Au contraire, that was the best reason of all to do her. Kill Hitler's seed.”

  Another shake of the head. “Unbelievable. She bloodies Delmar's shorts and thinks that's a good reason. . . . She started to tell me she was on my side, she'd helped me, killing him.”

  “She killed her father?”

  “She claimed she OD'ed him on pills. Like she'd gotten some insight. But I knew she did it as a favor to him. Putting him out of his misery. Making sure I'd never get to him. Giving me another reason to do her hard and long, she's blabbing and just digging herself deeper.” Smile. “I made sure to do the baby first. Pulled it out, still attached to her, showed it to her and put it back in her.”

  The dog's struggles seemed to be weakening; I thought I heard him whimper.

  Coburg said, “You messed up my order, but that's okay, I'll get creative. You and your little friend will be an adequate final act.”

  “What about the others?” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. Fighting to focus my own rage. “Why'd you choose the order you did?”

  “I keep telling you, I didn't choose anything. The pattern constructed itself. I put your names into a hat and drew them out, eeny-meeny—all the meanies.”

  “The names of the people who spoke at the symposium.”

  Nod. “All you good Germans. I'd been thinking about all of you for years—even before doing the bitch.”

  “You were there,” I said. “Listening to us.”

  “Sitting in a back row, taking it all in.”

  “You were a kid. How'd you come to be there?”

  “More karma. I was nineteen, living in Hollywood and crashing at a halfway house on Serrano.”

  Just a few blocks from Western Peds.

  “. . . taking a walk on Sunset and I saw this program board out in front. Psychiatric symposium, tomorrow morning.”

  Tensing up, he waved the gun, arm dipping for just one second, then snapping back into place, the barrel touching my shirt.

  “His name . . . I went in and picked up a brochure at the information desk. Shaved and showered and put on my best clothes and just walked in. And watched all you hypocritical bastards get up there and say what a pioneer he'd been. Child advocate. Gifted teacher. The she-beast and her home movies. Everyone smiling and applauding—I could barely sit there without screaming—I should have screamed. Should have gotten up and told all of you what you really were. But I was young, no confidence. So instead, I went out that night and hurt myself. Which bought me another dungeon. Lots of time to think and get my focus. I'd cut out your pictures. Pasted them on a piece of paper. Kept the paper in a box. Along with other important things. I've lived with you assholes longer than most people stay married.”

  “Why was Dr. Harrison spared?”

  He stared at me, as if I'd said something stupid. “Because he listened. Right after the Hitler canonization, I called him and told him it had bothered me. And he listened. I could tell he was taking me seriously. He made an appointment to speak to me. I was going to show up, but something came up—another dungeon.”

  “Why'd you tell him your name was Merino? Why'd you tell me you were Mr. Silk?”

  Wrinkled forehead. “You spoke to Harrison? Maybe I'll visit him after all.”

  A sick feeling flooded me. “He doesn't know anyth—”

  “Don't fret, fool, I'm fair, always have been. I gave all of you the same chance I gave Harrison. But the rest of you flunked.”

  “You never called me,” I said.

  Smile. “November thirtieth, nineteen seventy-nine. Two p.m. I have a written record of it. Your snotty secretary insisted you only treated children and couldn't see me.”

  “She wasn't supposed to screen—I never knew.”

  “That's an excuse? When the troops fuck up, the general's culpable. And it was a chance you didn't even deserve—a lot more than I got, or Delmar, or any of the other loved ones. You muffed it, bro.”

  “But Rosenblatt,” I said. “He did see you.”

  “He was the biggest hypocrite. Pretending to understand—the soft voice, the phony empathy. Then he revealed his true colors. Quizzing me, trying to get into my head.” Coburg put on an unctuous look: “ 'I'm hearing a lot of pain . . . one thing you might consider is talking about this more.' ” Fury compressed the light brown eyes. “The phony bastard wanted to give me psychoanalysis to deal with my conflicts. Hundred-buck-an-hour couch work as a cure for political oppression because he couldn't accept the fact that he'd worshiped Hitler. He sat there and pretended to hear, but he didn't believe me. Just wanted to mess with my head—the worst one of all, bye-bye birdie.”

  He made a shoving motion with his free hand and smiled.

  I said, “How'd you get him to see you outside his office?”

  “I told him I was bedridden. Crippled by something Hitler had done. That piqued his interest, he came right over that evening, with his kind looks and his beard and his bad tweed suit—it was hot but he needed his little shrink costume. The whole time he was there, I stayed in bed. The second time, also. I had him bring me a drink . . . serving me. It was a really muggy day, the window was wide open for air. Tissue box on the ledge—karma. I pretended to sneeze and asked him to get me a tissue.” Shove. “Fly away, hypocrite bird.”

  Other people's houses. A financial man . . . A farm in Connecticut. Did that mean an apartment in New York City? And her such an educate
d woman.

  She a lawyer, he a banker.

  I said, “The apartment belonged to your mother and stepfather.”

  He shook his head joyfully. “Clever little Alex. Mrs. Lyndon would be so proud. . . . Mummy and Evil were in Europe, so I decided to crash at the old homestead. Rosenblatt's office two blocks away . . . karma. Eight floors up, have a nice flight.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad. Cold people, Shirley Rosenblatt had said. Unwilling to let a private investigator search their place. Guarding more than privacy? How much had they known?

  “You left burglar tools behind,” I said. “Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?”

  He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. “My, my, we have been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky . . .”

  “Stoumen and Lerner,” I said. “Did they meet with you?”

  “No,” he said, suddenly angry again. “Stoumen's excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call—you people really don't know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn't show up, the rude bastard.”

  The unreliability Harrison had spoken of: it had affected his work—missed appointments.

  “So you tracked them down at conferences—how'd you get hold of the membership lists?”

  “Some of us are thorough—Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too—what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is such fun, maybe I'll visit her in person someday.”

  “Did Meredith help you get the lists?” I said. “Was she doing publicity for the conventions?”

  Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. “Meredith . . . ah, yes, dear Meredith. She's been a great help—now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees—keep those hands up—keep them up!”

  Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.

  Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.

  “The dog's definitely chops and steaks,” he said.