I scanned the screen. “Folder. Looks like only one’s West L.A.”
“Wouldn’t that be easy.”
It was.
*
Flora Elizabeth Newsome, thirty-one years old, brown and brown, five-five, 130. A third-grade teacher at Canfield Street School, found in her Palms apartment on a Sunday morning, stabbed and shot. She’d been dead for at least twelve hours.
Dr. Mary Lou Koppel had been interviewed by Detective II Alphonse McKinley and Detective II Lorraine Ogden on April 30. Dr. Koppel had nothing to offer other than the fact that she’d been treating Flora Newsome for “anxiety.”
No Solve.
I read the autopsy report. “Stabbed and shot with a .22. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the ballistics matched. And stabbing isn’t that far from impaling.”
Milo sat back in his desk chair. “I can always count on you to spark up my woefully dreary life.”
“Think of it as therapy,” I said.
Detective Alphonse McKinley had transferred to the Metro Squad at Parker Center. Detective Lorraine Ogden was down the hall, trying to make sense of the gibberish her computer was dishing out.
She was thirty-five or so, a big, square-shouldered woman with short, dark, gray-flecked hair and a determined jaw. She wore an orange-and-cream paisley blouse, brown slacks, cream-colored flats. Wedding band and half-carat diamond on one hand. High school ring on the other.
“Milo,” she said, barely glancing up. Her screen filled with rows of numbers. “This thing hates me.”
“I think you just broke into a Swiss bank.”
“Don’t think so, no swastikas. What’s up?”
Milo introduced me. Lorraine Ogden said, “I’ve seen you around. Something psychologically amiss?”
“Always,” said Milo, “but this is about business.” He told her about the Mulholland murders and the similarities to Flora Newsome.
“Same shrink,” she said. “I guess that’s a connection.”
“A .22 was used on all of them. Our vic was impaled, and yours was stabbed.”
“Impaled how?”
“Iron rod through the sternum.”
“Flora was cut up pretty badly. Knife jammed through the chest, too.” Ogden bit down on her lower teeth, and her jaw got wider. “I never made any headway on her, wouldn’t it be nice.”
“I pulled the chart, but if you’ve got time, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it, Lorraine.”
Ogden glared at the computer, clicked it off. Her touch was hard, and the machine quivered. “My son tells me not to do that without going through the proper steps. Says it puts garbage into the system. But all I’ve been getting is garbage.”
She got up. Six feet tall in flats. The three of us left the detectives’ room and moved into the hallway.
“How old’s your son?” I said.
“Ten. Going on thirty. Loves math and all that techie stuff. He’d know what to do with that abysmal piece of crap.” To Milo: “I think Conference A’s vacant. Let’s play déjà vu.”
CHAPTER
9
Conference A was a ten-by-twelve, low-ceilinged space set up with a folding table and chairs, so brightly lit it made me want to confess to something. Wal-Mart sales labels on the backs of the chairs. The table was cluttered with empty pizza boxes. Milo shoved them to the far end and sat at the head. Lorraine Ogden and I flanked him.
She took the Newsome file, paged through, paused at the autopsy photos, spent a lot of time on a five-by-seven glossy photo.
“Poor Flora,” she said. “This was her graduation picture. Cal State L.A., she got her teaching credential there.”
“She was thirty-one when she died,” said Milo. “Old picture?”
“Recent picture. She took time off, worked as a secretary between college and teaching school, had just graduated a year before. She was finishing her probationary year at the school. The principal liked her, the kids liked her, she was going to be asked to stay on.”
Her fingernail flicked the edge of the photo. “Her mother gave this to us, made a big point of telling us we could keep it—she kind of bonded with me and Al. Nice lady, she had faith in us, never bugged us, just called once in a while to thank us, let us know she was sure we’d solve it.” Her nostrils flared. “Haven’t heard from her in must be half a year. Poor Mrs. Newsome. Evelyn Newsome.”
I said, “May I?” and she slid the folder across the table.
In life, Flora Newsome had been attractive in a scrubbed, unremarkable way. Broad face, clear complexion, dark hair worn to her shoulders and flipped, bright pale eyes. For her grad shot, she’d put on a fuzzy white sweater and thin gold chain with a crucifix. An inscription on the back of the picture said, “To Mom and Dad. I finally made it!” Blue ink, beautiful penmanship.
“Mom and Dad,” I said.
“Dad died two months after Flora graduated. Mom wasn’t doing too great either—serious arthritis. Sixty years old, but she looked seventy-five. After Flora got killed, she moved out of her house and checked herself into one of those board-and-care places. If that doesn’t turn you old at warp speed . . .” She frowned. “So what can I tell you guys about it . . . Flora’s boyfriend found her around 11:30 A.M., Sunday morning. The two of them had a date for brunch, were gonna head over to Bobby J’s in the Marina.” She snorted. “Funny I should remember that. We checked, the restaurant confirmed the reservation. The boyfriend shows up, knocks, no one answers. He keeps trying, finally uses his cell phone to call Flora, still nothing. He bangs on her window, tries to look through, but the drapes are blocking. So he goes and gets the manager. Who didn’t want to let him in—he’s seen the boyfriend around but doesn’t really know him. The boyfriend makes noise about calling the cops, and the manager agrees to have a quick look. Minute later, the manager’s puking in the bushes and the boyfriend’s calling 911, shouting for an ambulance. Not that there was a chance. Coroner said she’d gotten killed around midnight.”
She motioned for the file. I slid it back and she skimmed it again. “Shot and stabbed. We counted thirty-four wounds—serious overkill. And yeah, here’s one, right under the sternum. Coroner said the bad guy made the most of it by churning the knife. Lots of blood. Big blade, single-edged, like a butcher knife. Flora had a set of cutlery in her kitchen, one of those wood-block things with slots for each knife and the largest was missing. We figured the bad guy took it for a souvenir or just to hide the evidence.”
“Our guy left the rail in the girl,” said Milo.
“Charming. So what, you’re thinking the shrink might be a link?”
Milo shrugged. “Two people in one practice murdered, some similarities in technique.”
Lorraine Ogden said, “What, they each encountered the same nutcase in the waiting room?”
“It’s not a bad screenplay, Lorraine.”
Ogden played with her wedding band. “I wish I could give you something more on Flora, but that baby was cold the day it got delivered. A victim with no kinks, everyone liked her, no known enemies. It smelled to me right away like a psycho killing. The problem was, a careful psycho. There were prints in the living room. Flora’s, the boyfriend, her parents, the manager—he’s an eighty-year-old geezer with cataracts, so don’t go thinking in that direction. And a few of Flora’s in the bedroom, in and around the closet area mostly. But nothing on or near the bed. Same for the kitchen and the bathroom. As in wiped. The bathroom, in particular. Not a smudge on the sink, no hair in the tub or on the soap. We had the techies check the pipes and the traps and sure enough, Flora’s blood showed up, plus Luminol made the place look like a slaughterhouse, all sorts of wipe marks in the blood, coroner said a right-handed person. There was also a row of drinking glasses in the kitchen and one, in particular, had that squeaky-clean feel like it had been put through the dishwasher. Techie confirmed dishwasher crystals at the bottom.”
“Bad guy does his thing, washes up, has a drink.”
“Meticulous,” said Ogden. “Not tha
t there was any finesse to how he did her. He shot her after she died, but she was alive for at least some of the knife work. Lots of arterial spurt on the sheets, you saw the pictures. He left her lying on her back with her legs spread. Our theory was that she was surprised while sleeping. At least I hope so. Imagine waking up to that? Being fully aware?” She slapped the file shut.
“All that blood,” said Milo, “and no footprints.”
“Not a single one. Where’s O.J. when we need him? This bastard was careful, guys. So much for the old transfer theory. We did find a shred of neoprene—black plastic—stuck on a corner of Flora’s nightstand. Looked like a corner that got torn off a bigger piece. Al and I wondered if he’d brought garbage bags along, or some sort of tarp. Lab said it was consistent with industrial sheeting, the kind they use in construction. So maybe we’re dealing with someone in the building trades. We were hoping for a print on that shred, at least a partial.” She grinned. “Just like on TV.”
“Zip,” said Milo.
“Zip squared. I was so frustrated I even filled out one of those FBI profiling forms and sent it to Quantico. Four months later, I get an official Feebie letter. White male, organized psychopath, probably between twenty-five and forty and yeah, the building trades thing made sense, but they couldn’t be sure, don’t hold ’em to any of it.”
“Our tax dollars working for us.”
“Every day.”
I said, “A wrought-iron fence rail might narrow down the building trades.”
Ogden said, “Murderous ironworker. Sure, why not? Or he just picked it up at a construction site and sharpened it. In terms of the shrink”—she glanced at me—“pardon, the therapist, the only reason we found out Flora was seeing one was biweekly checks drawn on her account. A hundred bucks, which seemed steep for someone taking home four hundred. When we asked the mother about it, she was surprised. Flora had never told her she was being treated for anything. Al and I called Dr.—what was her name—”
“Koppel.”
“Right, Dr. Koppel. We conferenced with her by phone, she said she’d only seen Flora a few times, which synched with the checkbook. Six payments over three months. She didn’t want to get into details—patient confidentiality. We told her dead people lose the privilege, and she said she knew that, but there was nothing to tell. She sounded pretty shook-up, said she’d flown in from a conference. Is there something hinky about her?”
“Not that I know,” said Milo. “Like you said, the bad guy could be another one of her patients. No idea why Newsome was in therapy?”
“I think Koppel said ‘adjustment issues.’ Something along those lines. I know she denied there was anything weird about Flora’s personality. We asked her about relationships with weirdos or bad guys, and she said Flora had never talked about that. She gave us a diagnosis—adjustment problem . . .”
“Adjustment disorder, anxious type?” I said.
“That sounds right. What it boiled down to was that Flora had been under stress—the pressure of her probationary year at the school, realizing she was going to be a teacher and all the responsibility that entailed. She was also having some financial difficulties because of the years she’d taken off from work to go back to school.”
“Financial difficulties,” said Milo, “but she shells out a hundred bucks every two weeks to Koppel.”
“Koppel said that was a discount rate. She’d cut her fee in half and agreed to see Flora every other week instead of weekly.”
“Doing Flora a favor.”
“Basically, yes,” said Ogden. “Koppel said once a week was usually the minimum in order to gain the benefits of therapy, but she made an exception for Flora. That true, Doctor? Is there a minimum?”
“No.”
“Well,” she said, “that was Koppel’s way of looking at it.” One of her hands rested atop the other. A big woman, but delicate, pianist’s hands. “She made a big deal about that—how she’d accommodated Flora. I remember thinking she was talking mostly about herself, not Flora.”
“Bit of an ego,” said Milo. “She does the radio talk-show circuit.”
“Does she?” said Ogden. “All I listen to is The Wave, nice smooth jazz after a day of blood and evil. You talk to her yet?”
“Dr. Delaware has.” He looked at me.
I summarized the conversation.
Ogden said, “Sounds like you got lots of nothing, too.”
“Maybe all she’s got is nothing,” said Milo. “Dr. D. wonders if maybe Koppel went a little lax on our vic—therapy-lite. In any event, we’re gonna have another go at her. The coincidence is too damn cute. Anything else we should know about Flora?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“The boyfriend was never an issue?”
“Brian Van Dyne,” said Ogden. “Teacher at the same school, couple of years older than Flora. The night of the murder he went to a Lakers game with two friends, then out to dinner, then they hit a couple of bars. Confirmation on all accounts. The friends dropped him off at his apartment in Santa Monica after 2 A.M. I never saw him as our guy, but we polygraphed him anyway and gave him a paraffin test, just to be safe. No gunshot residue on his hands, but it was invalid because too much time had passed. He passed the poly with flying colors.”
“Why didn’t you see him as the guy?” I said.
“He seemed devastated by Flora’s death, really crushed. His friends said he’d been in a great mood at the game and later. Everyone we talked to said he and Flora got along fine. All that still wouldn’t have swayed me, but with the poly? No way. Not him.”
“Did he know anything about Flora’s therapy?”
“Nope. Like Flora’s mother, he hadn’t been aware she’d been going.”
“Biweekly appointments,” I said. “Easy enough to conceal.”
“And Flora was definitely concealing. She accounted for the appointments by telling Brian Van Dyne she was going to the gym. Which was logical. She’d joined the Sports Depot on Sepulveda. Step aerobics and whatnot. Al and I interviewed the people who worked there, wondering if she’d hooked up with some gym rat—maybe a muscle-bound bad boy to counterbalance wholesome Brian. But no, she kept to herself, just went there to sweat.”
“Keeping her therapy secret,” I said.
“That doesn’t really surprise me, Doctor. When one of our colleagues here gets a recommendation to see a shrink, they either ignore it, or, if they go, they keep it tightly buttoned.”
“The stigma.”
“It’s still there. Flora was serious about Brian Van Dyne. I can understand her not wanting him—or her boss at the school—to know she was having problems.”
“How long was she dating him?”
“Half a year.”
“Not exactly open communication,” I said, “but you could be right. It does make me wonder, though, if the reason she went into treatment was more stigmatizing than work stress.”
“Some deep, dark kink in her character? Who knows? Maybe Dr. Koppel will give it up.”
Milo said, “If our case is related to yours, you coulda nailed it, Lorraine. Some lunatic seeing Koppel spotted Flora—and our boy Gavin—in the waiting room and smelled Victim.”
“Male and female vics?” said Ogden. “What about the girl who died with yours?”
“No ID yet.”
Ogden frowned. “Not a head patient?”
“Dr. Koppel denied knowing the girl,” I said.
“For what that’s worth,” said Ogden.
Milo said, “You picked up a liar-vibe?”
“Nothing that strong, but it sounds like she was evasive with both of us, and the coincidence is giving off a definite scent. Let me know after you talk to her. Anything else?”
Milo said, “Lorraine, I was figuring to reinterview some of your principals, if that’s okay with you. The mom, the boyfriend, the people Flora worked with.”
“Talk to whoever you want, the main thing is closing Flora. You know Al McKinley.”
; “Good man,” said Milo.
“Smart man,” she said. “Real bulldog.” She took a deep breath. “He and I really worked this one. Combed sex-offender records, did some cross-referencing with felons who work construction. It’s scary how many bad guys are doing roofing or day labor. But it all came to nothing. I was so frustrated I found myself hoping some other DB with the same signature would show up, maybe this time there’d be some forensics to work with. Nice, huh? Wanting someone else to die. The neoprene . . . he uses her knife but comes prepared with plastic. We’re talking a predator. And those guys don’t just stop. Right, Doctor?”
I nodded.
Milo said, “Maybe this one didn’t.”
CHAPTER
10
Canfield School occupied a block of Airdrome Avenue, three blocks south of Pico and east of Doheny. Through the chain-link fence, kids played against a backdrop of mural. Peace, love, harmony. Little kids, their faces shone with possibility.
The neighborhood was Baja Beverly Hills, a five-minute ride from Mary Lou Koppel’s office on Olympic. If Flora Newsome had driven to therapy from her apartment in Palms, the trip would have stretched longer, but not much. Twenty minutes in bad traffic.
The vice principal was a black woman named Lavinia Robson with an Ed.D. and a pleasant demeanor.
She checked our credentials, asked the right questions, got on her intercom and summoned Brian Van Dyne.
“Coffee?” she said.
“No, thanks.”
“Flora was a sweetie, we were all saddened. Is there new evidence?”
“Sorry, no, Dr. Robson. Sometimes it helps to take a fresh look.”
“That’s true in education, as well—ah, here’s Brian.
*
Flora Newsome’s former boyfriend was a tall, narrow-shouldered man in his midthirties with thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache the color of gruel. His complexion implied an aversion to sunshine. He wore a green shirt, khakis, a brown wool necktie, and rubber-soled walking shoes. Thick-lensed eyeglasses gave his eyes a stunned glaze. Add to that his genuine shock at our presence, and he looked like a man who’d landed on a foreign planet.
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 7
