Alex 18 - Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Nosy,” I said.

  “You need to understand: This wasn’t some exploitative thing. It was loving. Mutual and loving. This woman had experienced some severe losses in her life, and she needed comfort.”

  “Deep comfort,” said Milo.

  “What I did was wrong. In a formal sense—a normative sense. But the specifics of the situation dictated a certain degree of intimacy.”

  I said, “Therapeutic kindness.”

  “If you must know.”

  Myrna Wimmer picked up a legal pad and pretended to read. She looked as if she’d swallowed a cup of sewage.

  Gull turned to me, flushed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  I said, “So you did it in the office. On a couch? On the desk?”

  “That is vulgar—”

  “Your conduct was vulgar.”

  “I’ve told you. She was lonely—”

  “And had experienced severe losses.”

  Myrna Wimmer shook her head.

  “All right,” said Gull. “I’m a bastard. Is that what you want to hear?”

  I said, “Back to the beginning: You don’t like adolescent males, but you agreed to treat Gavin Quick.”

  “As a favor to Mary. The referral came to her but she was booked and I’d just discharged a patient—a very successful case, I might add. So I happened to have an open slot. Which is extremely rare.”

  “Why’d Mary ask you to see Gavin and not Albin Larsen?”

  “Albin only works part-time.”

  “Too busy with good works,” I said.

  Gull shrugged.

  “Did Mary tell you how the referral came to her?”

  “Through her ex-husband. He’s our landlord, in fact—and Gavin’s father was a tenant of his, had mentioned Gavin’s legal problems. The actual referral came through a neurologist I’d never heard of. Gavin was claiming brain damage had caused the stalking.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Gull shrugged off the question.

  I said, “It doesn’t take brain damage to get a guy sexually aggressive.”

  Gull exhaled. “This is wearying me.”

  “So sorry.”

  Wimmer said, “Is there anything more?”

  I said, “Did you have much contact with Gavin’s parents?”

  “The father only,” said Gull, “and just once. I thought it was unusual, generally it’s the mother. I asked the father about it, he said his wife wasn’t feeling well.”

  “What did you learn from Mr. Quick?”

  “Not much, I took a quick family intake. He seemed very concerned about his son.”

  I said, “Initially, Mary had no time for Gavin, but once Gavin fired you, she took over.”

  “I suppose she made time,” said Gull. “As a favor to me.”

  “So Gavin wouldn’t make waves.”

  Silence.

  I said, “What did you give her in return?”

  “I agreed to take night call for two months.”

  Milo said, “Did that include calling on her at night?”

  Gull glared at him.

  “The questions stands, Doctor.”

  “Mary was a highly sexual person. She had strong needs, and I was able to fill them. We enjoyed each other. I don’t see that as sinful. But in answer to your question: No. Mary and I were perfectly competent at separating our professional and personal lives.”

  I said, “Who murdered her?”

  “I have no idea. From these questions, you obviously think it had something to do with Gavin Quick.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  “A therapist and her patient murdered within days of each other. You’ve never wondered about it?”

  “I wonder,” said Gull. “I just don’t have answers.”

  “Any guesses?”

  He shook his head.

  “The girl murdered alongside Gavin,” I said. “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “I told you the first time you showed me that picture. No.”

  “The picture was in yesterday’s paper. Bring back any memories?”

  “I didn’t read yesterday’s paper.”

  “No interest in world affairs.”

  “Not much,” said Gull. “I’m not a political person.”

  “Unlike Albin Larsen.”

  “You keep bringing him up.”

  “So I do.” I looked over at Milo. He appeared serene.

  Myrna Wimmer moved forward, perching on the edge of her desk chair. Her mouth was set, and her shoulders were tight.

  Gull said, “Gavin Quick, now Albin. You’re losing me.”

  I said, “Why did Albin just inform Sonny Koppel that your group had no further interest in leasing the ground floor?”

  “No further interest? Why would we need the bottom floor? It’s already leased, isn’t it? Some sort of charitable foundation.”

  “Charitable Planning.”

  He nodded.

  “What are they about?” I said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You’ve been neighbors for a while.”

  “I never see anyone go in there except Sonny Koppel. And that’s not very often.”

  “How often?”

  “Once, twice a month. Maybe it’s one of his businesses. He owns several.”

  “Tycoon?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “From Mary. She got us the suite through him. Handled all the paperwork on our lease.”

  “Take-charge gal,” I said.

  “Mary was a mover. Albin and I are more . . . cerebral. She got us a great deal on the lease because Sonny was still fond of her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She told me and laughed about it,” said Gull.

  “Making fun of Sonny.”

  “To be frank, she didn’t think much of him. Mary could be . . . cutting. It wasn’t typical of her, but she could get that way.”

  “And Sonny brought out Mary’s cutting side.”

  “You know exes.”

  “What exactly did Mary tell you about Sonny?”

  “That soon after she’d married him he’d turned into a fat slob. That she’d never found him attractive in the first place but had deluded herself he might be workable. She liked the fact that he was a law student. Then he flunked his bar exam, and she started viewing him as the quintessential loser. Her phrase.”

  “A loser who became a tycoon.”

  “That surprised her. She said being rich was wasted on Sonny, he didn’t know how to spend money, didn’t know how to enjoy life.”

  “Sounds like the fondness ran one way,” I said.

  “You think he killed her?”

  “Why would we think that?”

  “Ex-husband,” he said. “Unrequited love. Maybe he found out how Mary really felt about him. Maybe it came to a head.”

  “Did Mary ever give you any indication that things got hostile between her and Sonny?”

  “No, but she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me.”

  “Despite you being friends—despite all that intimacy.”

  Gull said, “All I can tell you is what happened.”

  “Do you like Sonny Koppel as a suspect?”

  “I’m saying given the situation, I’d look into it.”

  “Instead of looking into you,” said Milo.

  Gull ground his teeth. “I haven’t killed anyone.”

  I said, “How many patients are you carrying, currently?”

  The change of subject threw Gull. He sat up, ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head. “I told you, I can’t talk about patients.”

  “I’m not asking for names, just your approximate patient load.”

  Gull glanced over at Myrna Wimmer. She ignored him.

  Milo said, “You fuck them but won’t talk about them. Spare me.”

  “Now wait one—”

  “No, you wait, Doct
or.” Milo’s voice had taken on that bear growl. “Forthcoming means no more bullshit. The question was how many patients are you seeing, not their quirks or their bra sizes.”

  Gull’s face lost color. “Okay, okay, let me see . . . I work . . . thirty-eight hours a week with regular patients, have another . . . maybe twenty-five who pop in for occasional sessions.”

  “Tune-ups,” said Milo.

  “I don’t run a garage.”

  “Sixty-five total,” I said.

  “That’s an estimate.”

  “Those sixty-five. You’d remember their names.”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled a page of computer printout from my jacket and unfolded it on my lap.

  “Does the name ‘Gayford Woodrow’ mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “What about ‘James Leroy Craig’?”

  “Same answer,” said Gull.

  “Carl Philip Russo,” I said. “Ludovico Montez, Daniel Lee Barendo, Schendley Paul, Orlando Jones.”

  Headshake.

  “Roland Kristof, Lamar Royster Collins, Antonio Ortega.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Patients for whom you’ve billed Medi-Cal a considerable amount over the last sixteen months.”

  Gull looked stunned. “That’s ridiculous. First of all, I don’t accept Medi-Cal patients. Second, those are all men, and my patients are almost exclusively women. Third, I’d know if I treated someone.”

  “And got paid for it.”

  “This is absolutely psychotic.”

  I picked up the list and read some more. “Akuno Williams, Salvador Paz, Mattias Soldovar, Juan Jorge Montoya, Juan Eduardo Lunares, Baylor Hawkins, Paul Andrew McCloskey—”

  “No, none of them,” said Gull. “This is a mistake.”

  “Never treated any of them? Not once?”

  “Not once.”

  “Don’t see any Medi-Cal patients at all.”

  “Why would I? Reimbursement’s pathetic, and I’m booked with solid-paying patients.”

  “Then why’d you bother to obtain a Medi-Cal billing number?”

  “Who says I did?”

  I walked over to him and held the printout in front of his eyes. “Is this your signature on an application to be a provider?”

  He said, “It looks like—I may have obtained a number, but I never really used it.”

  “Over the last sixteen months you’ve received over three hundred thousand dollars in Medi-Cal reiumbursement. Three forty-three and fifty-two cents, to be precise.”

  He grabbed for the sheet. I whipped it away.

  “Let me see that!”

  “You received a provider number but didn’t really use it.”

  Silence.

  I said, “Here’s where ‘forthcoming’ enters the picture.”

  Gull said, “Fine, fine, I applied to get a number, just . . . to keep all my options open. In case there was a lull, I could fill in the time. But three hundred thou? You’re out of your mind!”

  “The state payments went to a billing address in Marina Del Rey.”

  “There you go,” he said. “I don’t have an address in the Marina. Can’t remember the last time I went to the Marina. Someone obviously screwed up—your so-called investigation is screwed up.” A smile spread slowly across his lips. “I suggest you do your homework. Both of you.”

  I said, “No Marina for you? No harbor-front dinners for you and the missus?”

  Gull turned to Wimmer. “Do you believe this, Myrna? I’ve just showed them they’re totally off base, and they can’t admit it. Are you thinking what I am—a harassment suit.”

  Wimmer didn’t answer.

  I rattled the printout. “None of those names mean anything to you?”

  “Not a one. Not a single one.”

  “What about this name, then: Sentries for Justice.”

  Gull stopped smiling. One hand shot up spasmodically and grabbed his upper lip. Twisting. Like a kid playing with a rubber mask.

  Sad mask.

  “You know that name,” I said.

  “That,” he said. “Oh, boy.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  Gull pointed to the water pitcher on Myrna Wimmer’s desk. “I think I will have some of that.”

  Wimmer aimed a cold smile his way. Gull got up and poured himself a glass. Drained it standing near the desk and refilled.

  “I need,” he said, “to put everything in context.”

  I said, “Go for it. If Ms. Wimmer’s schedule allows.”

  Wimmer said, “Oh, sure, this is the fun part of my day.”

  Gull said, “Yes, I did apply for a provider number but only at Mary’s and Albin’s urging. The two of them were socially aware. One of the issues they got involved in was penal rehabilitation.”

  “Who got into it first?”

  “I think it was Albin’s idea, but Mary began carrying the ball.”

  “She was the mover.”

  “Mary,” he said, “wasn’t the most creative person in the world, but once she put her mind to something, she went full bore. The two of them got the idea of setting up treatment for paroled criminals, in order to fight recidivism. I admired what they were doing but chose to stay out of it.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “As I told you, I was busy enough. And I was skeptical. These people—criminals. They’ve got entrenched personality disorders. Psychotherapy has never been very effective for that kind of thing.”

  “Mary and Albin disagreed.”

  “Especially Mary. She was passionate about it. State money was going to be freed up, it was more than just theory.”

  “How’d she find that out?”

  “One of Albin’s political connections—he’s involved in a lot of progressive causes—is the wife of a politician from up north. She’s a psychologist, too, and she got her husband to pass a bill that authorized psychotherapy on demand for paroled felons. Albin helped her with the wording. He told Mary, she told me.”

  “But you declined,” I said. “Entrenched personality disorders.”

  “Yes.”

  “Also, the reimbursement rates couldn’t match your private fees.”

  “I work for a living,” said Gull. “I don’t see why I should apologize for that.”

  “What’s your hourly fee?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I use a sliding scale. From one-twenty to two hundred per session.”

  “Medi-Cal pays twenty and restricts the number of sessions.”

  “Medi-Cal’s a joke,” said Gull. “Mary said the bill doubled the rates—some sort of political give-and-take. But forty’s still a joke. I opted out.”

  “How’d Mary and Albin react to that?”

  “Albin didn’t say much. He rarely does. Mary was upset with me, but that didn’t last.”

  Milo said, “Your being intimate friends and all that.”

  Gull sniffed.

  I said, “You declined to participate but obtained a Medi-Cal provider number.”

  “At Albin’s and Mary’s behest. They said the state preferred settings with multiple providers, it would look better if all of us were listed. Mary filled out the paperwork and I signed and that was it.”

  He was sweating heavily now, searched again for his linen hankie. I pulled a tissue out of a box on Wimmer’s desk and handed it to him. He wiped his face hastily, and the tissue turned into a little gray sphere.

  “You’re saying you never actually saw any patients on the program?”

  “Basically,” he said.

  “Basically?”

  “I saw a few—very few. At the beginning, just to get the ball rolling.”

  “How many is a few?”

  He removed a pair of tiny-lensed reading glasses from his pocket and began playing with the sidepieces.

  “Franco?”

  “Three. That’s it. And no one with any of the names you mentioned.”

&
nbsp; “How was it, treating ex-cons?”

  “It wasn’t a good experience.”

  “Why not?”

  “Two of them were chronically late and when they did show up, they were high on something. It was obvious they were just passing the time.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Any indication they were getting paid to show up?”

  Gull’s brows arched. “No one ever mentioned that. Whatever the reason, they weren’t motivated. No insight, no desire to acquire any.”

  “What about the third patient?” I said.

  “That one,” said Gull, frowning. “That one upset me. He wasn’t drunk or stoned, and he talked. Talked plenty. But not about himself. About his girlfriend. What she needed, how he figured to give it to her.”

  “What did she need?” I said.

  Gull folded and unfolded the glasses. “Orgasms. Apparently, she was anorgasmic, and he was determined to fix the problem.”

  “Did he ask your help with that?”

  “No,” said Gull, “that’s the point, he didn’t want anything from me, he thought he knew everything. Very aggressive, very . . . not a pleasant man. Even though he tried to be charming. Attempted to speak intelligently.”

  “He couldn’t pull it off.”

  “Not hardly. Faking it—the typical antisocial charm. If you’ve had any experience with sociopaths, you’d know what I mean.”

  “Pretentious,” I said.

  “Exactly, prototypical antisocial pretentiousness.” His body loosened. Pretending we were colleagues having a clinical chat. “Flowery use of language, overly solicitous. Playing at being civilized and thinking he was putting one over on me. But his fantasies.” He exhaled.

  “Sadistic?”

  “Dominance, bondage and, yes, I’d say a touch of sadism. He talked incessantly about tying this woman up and making love to her aggressively for as long as it took to force orgasms out of her body. He didn’t use the term ‘making love.’ ”

  “Sexual tough guy,” I said.

  “His fantasies involved multiple penetration, bondage, foreign objects. I tried to get him to address this woman’s needs, suggested that perhaps she needed some tenderness, some intimacy, but he laughed that off. His plan was to quote-unquote ‘stick her every which way until she screamed for mercy.’ ”

  He smiled with practiced weariness. Any reticence about discussing patients had vanished. “I, for one, couldn’t see what any of that had to do with reducing recidivism, and when he stopped showing up, I told Mary I’d had enough of the program and the people it brought in.”