Gull looked away and I went on: “I did a little research on you, but that only put more pieces in the puzzle.” I edged even closer. Gull tried to wheel backwards, but the casters caught in the carpet.
“Franco—may I call you Franco? Franco, the gap between the person I learned about and what’s happening to you now is rather wide.”
Gull licked his lips.
Myrna Wimmer laughed. “Oh boy, Psych 101.”
I turned to her. “Is that okay with you?”
The question surprised her. “You’re asking my opinion?”
“What I mean,” I said, “is that if I’m taking the wrong approach—if you’ve got a better approach to communicating with Dr. Gull, please let me know.” Speaking softly, so that she had to cant her head to hear.
She said, “I—just get on with it. I’ve got another appointment in forty-five minutes.”
I turned back to Gull: “You graduated summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa from the U. of Kansas in Lawrence. You managed that while playing four years of varsity baseball. Not just run-of-the-mill baseball. In your senior year, you came close to breaking the university’s RBI record. I find that more than impressive, Franco. Talk about your well-rounded scholar. Kind of a Grecian ideal, no? You’d know about that, you switched from classics to psychology in your sophomore year.”
Myrna Wimmer circled behind her desk and sat down. She looked angry and fascinated.
Franco Gull didn’t move or speak.
I said, “Two years in the Minor Leagues and no one there has anything but good things to say about you. Too bad about that hamstring shred.”
Gull said, “Things happen.” And started to sweat.
I said, “Same goes for Berkeley. We both know how tough it is to get into a place like that, but you were tops on their list. As a grad student, you kept up the good work. Your dissertation supervisor, Professor Albright, is getting on in years, but his memory is pretty sharp. He told me you were a hard worker, your research was substantive, you really knew how to focus on problem-solving. He hoped you’d go into academia—but that’s another story.”
Gull mopped his neck.
I said, “Then there are all your good works. In addition to all the required clinical hours for your doctorate, you volunteered your services at a home for abused kids. The same year you were writing your dissertation. That’s impressive. How’d you find the time?”
Gull said, “You do the job.”
“You did more than the job, Franco. Lots more. And your research—’Reactions of Latency-aged Girls from Divorced Homes to a Personal Space Challenge.’ Good stuff, you got it published in Clinical and Consulting Psych, no mean feat for a student. After you graduated, you didn’t pursue it. Pity. Your findings were provocative.”
Gull said, “Ancient history.” He crossed his legs, forced a smile at Wimmer. “Is there a point to this, Myrna?”
Wimmer touched her platinum watch and shrugged.
I said, “Your postdoc supervisor, Dr. Ryan, also remembers you as bright and industrious. That entire year, you never came close to any ethical breach. The odd thing is that she remembers you as exceptionally respectful of women.”
Gull’s lips clamped shut.
I kept silent.
He said, “I still am.”
I said, “The year you graduated, academic jobs were tight, and the offers you received were all in the Midwest. Is that why you opted for private practice? How can you keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen Beverly Hills?”
Gull said, “Ever been to Kansas?” He shifted the hankie to his other hand. “I graduated with serious debt. No one gave me a damn thing for free.”
“No need to apologize for going into practice,” I said. “Who says academics accomplish that much for society?”
“True.”
“Take Albin Larsen, for example. Academic appointments on two continents, travels all over the world, touting ideals. But we both know where most of his money comes from.”
Gull said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I said, “Okay, then, back to this thing with you and women. The promiscuity—the compulsive skirt-chasing. When exactly did it start, Franco? Were you able to fool Dr. Ryan, or was it something that you latched onto when you realized how much power you had as a therapist?”
Gull reddened. “Screw you,” he said, wrapping big fingers around the hankie. “Myrna, let’s end this.”
“Absolutely,” said Wimmer. “Gentlemen, we’re through.”
“No prob,” said Milo, genially.
“That was beyond rude,” said Gull, getting to his feet.
“It certainly was,” said Wimmer.
We remained seated.
She said, “Gentlemen, I’ve got a busy calendar.”
“I understand, ma’am,” said Milo. He stood, removed some folded white papers from his pocket. “I’ll be as quick as possible enforcing this arrest warrant on Dr. Gull.”
Gull had been fooling with the neck of his sweater. His hand dropped as if scalded, and his head snapped back. “What!”
Milo stepped closer to him. “Doctor, this is an arrest war—”
Wimmer said, “What’s the charge, Lieutenant?”
“Char-ges,” said Milo. “Multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud. A few other things. Your client should be—”
Gull’s eyes were wild. “What the hell are you talking—”
Wimmer said, “Let me handle this, Franco.” To Milo: “Give me that.”
Milo handed her the warrant. He’d trolled the D.A.’s Office for an Assistant D.A. willing to issue the paper. Gull’s fingerprints all over Mary Lou Koppel’s house had helped, as had a call from State Fraud Investigator Dwight Zevonsky. The finishing touch had been a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet pressed into the palm of a sixty-year-old hardnose ADA, Eben Marovitch, two months from retirement, whose wife had left him for a psychiatrist.
“Proud of me?” Milo had asked, as we ascended the elevator to Wimmer’s office. “Applied psychology and all that.”
*
As Wimmer read the particulars of the warrant, Franco Gull retreated from Milo, keeping his back to the glass. Behind him were gorgeous blue sky and the coppery contours of a sunlit downtown. He stood as still as a piece of sculpture. Life-size sculpture. California Terror with Panoramic View.
Wimmer finished reading, returned to the first page, reviewed. Her mouth tightened.
“What, what?” said Franco Gull.
No answer.
“Myrna—”
“Shh, let me finish.”
“Finish what? It’s ridiculous, it’s—”
Wimmer silenced him with an air-chop, completed her perusal, refolded the warrant. “It’s patently ridiculous, Franco, but apparently valid.”
“What does that mean, Myrna? What the fuck does that mean?” The handkerchief was wadded tightly in his hand, and his knuckles were ivory knobs. Sweat trickled from his hairline, but he made no attempt to swab. “Myrna?”
Milo took out his cuffs. The metallic sound made Gull jump.
Myrna Wimmer said, “Oh, please.”
Milo said, “You read the charges.”
Gull said, “Myrna—”
Wimmer said, “What it means, Franco, is that you’ll have to go with them.” Disapproval in her voice. As if Gull had disappointed her. “Where will you be booking him, Lieutenant?”
“Charges like these?” said Milo. “Gotta be the main jail.”
Gull said, “Jail? Oh, God, no.”
Wimmer smiled at Milo. “Could you do me a favor and book him at West L.A.? Save me the drive?”
“Book him?” said Gull. “Myrna, how can you just—”
Milo said, “No can do, Counselor, sorry.”
Wimmer looked ready to spit.
Gull’s eyes had filled with tears. “Myrna, I can’t do this.”
She said, “Does your wife have access to your finances?
If so, I’ll call her and we’ll get to work on bail. If not—”
“Bail? Myrna, this is insane—”
“Is that an official diagnosis, Doctor?” said Milo.
“Please,” said Gull, backing off some more and pressing against the glass. “You don’t know what you’re doing, I’ve never done any of what you say I’ve done. Please.” Sucking in breath. “Please.”
Milo said, “Turn and place your hands on Ms. Wimmer’s desk, Doctor. If you’re carrying any weapons or illicit substances, now would be the time to tell me.”
“Murder?” Gull was shouting. “What the hell are you talking about? Murder? Are you insane?” He opened his hand and the hankie fluttered to the carpet. As he watched it fall, his knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright.
Myrna Wimmer said, “Calm down, Franc—”
“Calm down? Easy for you to say, you’re not the one—”
“As your advocate, Franco, I advise you not to say anything—”
“All I’m saying is I never did anything, what’s wrong with saying I never did anything?”
Milo said, “Hands on the desk, please.” He began walking toward Gull. “Franco Gull, you have the right to remain silent—”
Gull’s powerful physique tensed. He doubled over, began to weep. “Oh, God, how can this be happening!”
Myrna Wimmer shot me a hope-you’re-happy glare.
Milo jangled the cuffs. Gull stepped forward, placed his hands on the desk. Wept some more.
Milo bent one of Gull’s arms behind his back and cuffed it. Gull cried out.
“Are you hurting my client?” demanded Wimmer.
“Maybe psychologically,” said Milo. “Not too tight, is it, Doctor?”
“God, God,” said Gull. “What can I do to fix this?”
Milo didn’t answer.
“Why are you saying I killed someone? Who? Mary? That’s crazy, Mary was my friend, we were—I never would’ve—”
Milo drew back Gull’s other arm.
Gull shouted, “What is it you want?!”
I said, “For you to be forthcoming.”
“Forthcoming about what?”
Myrna said, “Be quiet, Franco.”
“What? And let them put these on me and take me to jail?”
“Franco, I’m sure this will—”
“What I’m sure of is I never killed anyone or conspired or did any of those things!” Gull twisted to make eye contact with me. “What you’re doing is unethical. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I said, “Feel free to file a complaint. Though I don’t imagine you’ll want to.”
He said, “What gives you the right to judge me?”
“Forthcoming,” I said, “doesn’t mean gamesmanship.” To Milo: “My opinion is we should wrap up.”
Milo placed his hand on Gull’s scruff and turned him around and placed a palm in the small of Gull’s back. “Time to go to jail, Doctor.”
Gull shouted, “Stop! Please! I’ll be forthcoming. Okay, yes, I chased a few skirts. You want to talk about that? Fine, I’m ready to talk about it. I’ve got a little problem, is that what you wanted to hear? I pleasured women, received pleasure in return, it has nothing to do with jail or murder or any other fucking bullshit that would send me to jail! And yes, that is an official diagnosis, I’m qualified to diagnose, I am a good psychologist, fucking great psychologist, all my patients get better!”
I said, “Like Gavin Quick?”
Gull said, “He—that—he wasn’t really my patient.”
“No?”
“I saw him for four, five sessions. It ended.”
“Why?”
“Take these things off, and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell us, now.”
Wimmer said, “Franco, my advice to you is to not tell them any—”
Gull said, “The stupid kid didn’t want to see me because he found out I was sleeping with a patient. Okay? Happy? I’m humiliated, I am now officially, publicly shit-faced humiliated. But I never killed anyone! Take these things off.”
Myrna Wimmer said, “I need an Advil.”
*
Milo removed the cuffs and sat Gull in the same armchair.
Gull said, “Can we all calm down and get rational, here?” His face was sodden.
Milo said, “If you continue to show some honesty, we might be able to work something out.”
Wimmer said, “I want that on the record.”
Milo said, “Sorry, no.”
“Then I refuse to have my client—”
“Myrna, stop complicating things, stop being a goddamn lawyer!” said Gull. “It’s not your life!”
Wimmer frowned at him, dry-swallowed the two Advil tablets in her palm. “You’ve been warned, Franco.”
Gull turned to me. “Honesty about what? I told you, I slept with a patient.”
“Only one?” I said.
His eyes searched mine. Trying to figure out how much I knew.
“More than one,” he said. “But not that many more, and it was always consensual. The stupid kid found out and threw a fit and said he could no longer trust me, he wanted to fire me. Then he threatened to report me. He, of all people.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“The whole reason he was there was to deal with his own sexual issues. He was a stalker. So who was he to get self-righteous?”
“You don’t understand why he’d think you weren’t the ideal therapist, Franco?”
“I understand, I understand,” said Gull. “It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. But he was snooping, it’s not as if I flaunted it or anything like that. The point is, the kid was brain-damaged, his mentation was distorted.”
“Not thinking straight,” I translated for Milo.
“In addition,” said Gull, “he was pathologically compulsive—extremely perseverative. Cognitively and behaviorally.”
I said, “Once he got hold of something he wouldn’t let go.”
“Precisely,” said Gull. As if that settled it.
“How’d he find out?” I said.
“I told you, by snooping.” Gull let out a harsh laugh. “Stalking me.”
“Where?”
“He hung around the building after his session was over, came back after hours, and waited in his car, out on the street.”
“Where on the street?”
“Palm Drive. Out back, behind the parking lot. It didn’t register at the time, but later, when he confronted me, I realized he’d been sitting there.”
“What kind of car?”
“Mustang.”
“Color?”
“Red. Red convertible. But he always kept the top up, and the windows were tinted, so I never saw if anyone was inside.”
I said, “That’s the car he was killed in.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, that’s unfortunate,” said Gull. “But I had nothing to do with it.”
“He confronted you and threatened to report you.”
“You don’t kill someone for that.”
“What do you kill them for?”
“Nothing. Violence is always wrong.” Gull searched for his hankie. I spotted it, on the floor behind him, but didn’t let on.
He said, “You don’t kill anyone for any reason. I’m a firm believer in nonviolence.”
“Make love, not war.”
“You’re making me sound glib and lecherous. It wasn’t like that. Some women need tenderness.”
Wimmer’s hands clawed.
I said, “So Gavin hung around the building.”
“He damn well did.”
“How often?”
“Don’t know,” said Gull. “I caught him once.”
“When he caught you.”
Silence.
“How did it happen?”
“Are you going to use it against me?”
“Ethical violations are the least of your problems.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything
you know about everything I ask.”
“The Grand Inquisitor,” he said. “How can you justify this, professionally?”
“We all make adjustments,” I said.
Milo jangled the handcuffs.
Gull said, “Sure. Fine. Let’s do it.”
“That okay with you?” I asked Wimmer. “Busy schedule and all.”
Wimmer hesitated. Gull whined, “Myr-na?” She looked at her watch, sighed, sat back in her chair. “Sure, make yourselves comfortable. Boys.”
CHAPTER
39
Franco Gull said, “I should’ve followed my instincts, never wanted to treat him.”
“Not your type of patient,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
A few minutes ago, he’d cleared his throat several times, and Milo had suggested to Myrna Wimmer that someone get water for her client. Looking vexed, she phoned for a pitcher and glasses, but when they arrived Gull refused to drink.
Clutching at the smallest choice.
I said, “Why didn’t you want to treat Gavin Quick?”
“I don’t like adolescents,” said Gull. “Too much crisis, too much in flux.”
“Add brain damage to that.”
“That, too. I hate neuropsych. Boring. Uncreative.”
“Brain-damaged adolescent,” I said. “Also, he was male.”
“I see males.”
“Not many.”
“How would you know?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I’m not divulging personal information about my patients,” said Gull. “No matter what pressure you put on me.”
I said, “Ethics and all that.”
Gull was silent.
“Gavin watched the building,” I said. “How did he find out you were sleeping with a patient?”
Gull winced. “Is this necessary?”
“Very.”
“Fine, fine. He was there in the parking lot when we came out.”
“You and the patient.”
“Yes. A lovely person. I walked her out. It was late, dark, she was my last patient, and I was leaving, too.”
“Chivalrous,” I said. “What did Gavin see?”
Gull hesitated.
Milo stretched his legs. Myrna Wimmer polished the dial of her watch with her sleeve.
Gull said, “We kissed. Yes, it was stupid to be that open. But who knew anyone was watching? The kid was parked at the curb, for God’s sake.”
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