Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "When are they due to show up?"

  "Fifteen minutes ago. Stopping by on their way to work— both have jobs in Century City." He kicked dust. "Maybe they chickened out. Even if they do show, I'm not sure what I'm hoping to get out of them. But got to be thorough, right? So what's your take on Mate? Do-gooder or serial killer?"

  "Maybe both," I said. "He came across arrogant, with a low view of humanity, so it's hard to believe his altruism was pure. Nothing else in his life points to exceptional compassion. Just the opposite: instead of taking care of patients, he spent his medical career as a paper pusher. And he never amounted to much as a doctor until he started helping people die. If I had to bet on a primary motive, I'd say he craved attention. On the other hand, there's a reason the families you've talked to support him. He alleviated a lot of suffering. Most of the people who pulled the trigger of that machine were in torment."

  "So you condone what he did even if his reasons for doing it were less than pure."

  "I haven't decided how I feel about what he did," I said.

  "Ah." He fiddled with the turquoise clasp.

  There was plenty more I could've said and I felt low, evasive. Another burst of engine hum rescued me from self-examination. This time, the car approached from the east and Milo turned.

  Dark-blue BMW sedan, 300 model, a few years old. Two people inside. The car stopped, the driver's window lowered and a man with a huge, spreading mustache looked out at us. Next to him sat a young woman, gazing straight ahead.

  "The yuppies show up," said Milo. "Finally, someone respects the rule of law."

  3

  MILO WAVED THE BMW up, the mustachioed man turned the wheel and parked behind the Seville. "Here okay, Detective?"

  "Sure— anywhere," said Milo.

  The man smiled uncomfortably. "Didn't want to mess something up."

  "No problem, Mr. Ulrich. Thanks for coming."

  Paul Ulrich turned off the engine and he and the woman got out. He was medium-size, late thirties to forty, solidly built, with a well-cured beach tan and a nubby, sunburned nose. His crew cut was dun-colored, soft-looking to the point of fuzziness, with lots of pinkish scalp glowing through. As if all his hair-growing energy had been focused on the mustache, an extravagance as wide as his face, parted into two flaring red-brown wings, stiff with wax, luxuriant as an old-time grenadier's. His sole burst of flamboyance, and it clashed with haberdashery that seemed chosen for inconspicuousness on Century Park East: charcoal suit, white button-down shirt, navy and silver rep tie, black wing-tips.

  He held the woman's elbow as they made their way toward us. She was younger, late twenties, as tall as he, thin and narrow-shouldered, with a stiff, tentative walk that belied any hiking experience. Her skin tone said indoors, too. More than that: indoor pallor. Chalky-white edged with translucent blue, so pale she made Milo look ruddy. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, boy-short, wispy. She wore big, black-framed sunglasses, a mocha silk blazer over a long brown print dress, flat-soled, basket-weave sandals.

  Milo said, "Ms. Stratton," and she took his hand reluctantly. Up close, I saw rouge on her cheeks, clear gloss on chapped lips. She turned to me.

  "This is Dr. Delaware, Ms. Stratton. Our psychological consultant."

  "Uh-huh," she said. Unimpressed.

  "Doctor, these are our witnesses— Ms. Tanya Stratton and Mr. Paul Ulrich. Thanks again for showing up, folks. I really appreciate it."

  "Sure, no prob," said Ulrich, glancing at his girlfriend. "I don't know what else we can tell you."

  The shades blocked Stratton's eyes and her expression. Ulrich had started to smile, but he stopped mid- way. The mustache straightened.

  He, trying to fake calm after what they'd been through. She, not bothering. The typical male-female mambo. I tried to imagine what it had been like, peering into that van.

  She touched a sidepiece of her sunglasses. "Can we get this over quickly?"

  "Sure, ma'am," Milo said. "The first time we talked, you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, but sometimes people remember things afterward—"

  "Unfortunately, we don't," said Tanya Stratton. Her voice was soft, nasal, inflected with that syllable-stretching California female twang. "We went over it last night because we were coming here to meet you. But there's nothing."

  She hugged herself and looked to the right. Over at the spot. Ulrich put his arm around her. She didn't resist him, but she didn't give herself over to the embrace.

  Ulrich said, "So far our names haven't been in the paper. We're going to be able to keep it that way, aren't we, Detective Sturgis?"

  "Most likely," said Milo.

  "Likely but not definitely?"

  "I can't say for sure, sir. Frankly, with a case like this, you never know. And if we ever catch who did it, your testimony might be required. I certainly won't give your names out, if that's what you mean. As far as the department's concerned, the less we reveal the better."

  Ulrich touched the slit of flesh between his mustaches. "Why's that?"

  "Control of the data, sir."

  "I see . . . sure, makes sense." He looked at Tanya Stratton again. She licked her lips, said, "At least you're honest about not being able to protect us. Have you learned anything about who did it?"

  "Not yet, ma'am."

  "Not that you'd tell us, right?"

  Milo smiled.

  Paul Ulrich said, "Fifteen minutes of fame. Andy Warhol coined that phrase and look what happened to him."

  "What happened?" said Milo.

  "Checked into a hospital for routine surgery, went out in a bag."

  Stratton's black glasses flashed as she turned her head sharply.

  "All I meant, honey, is celebrity stinks. The sooner we're through with this the better. Look at Princess Di— look at Dr. Mate, for that matter."

  "We're not celebrities, Paul."

  "And that's good, hon."

  Milo said, "So you think Dr. Mate's notoriety had something to do with his death, Mr. Ulrich?"

  "I don't know— I mean, I'm no expert. But wouldn't you say so? It does seem logical, given who he was. Not that we recognized him when we saw him— not in the condition he was in." He shook his head. "Whatever. You didn't even tell us who he was when you were questioning us last week. We found out by watching the news—"

  Tanya Stratton's hand took hold of his biceps.

  He said, "That's about it. We need to get to work."

  "Speaking of which, do you always hike before work?" said Milo.

  "We walk four, five times a week," said Stratton.

  "Keeping healthy," said Ulrich.

  She dropped her hand and turned away from him.

  "We're both early risers," he said, as if pressed to explain. "We both have long workdays, so if we don't get our exercise in the morning, forget it." He flexed his fingers.

  Milo pointed up the dirt road. "Come here often?"

  "Not really," said Stratton. "It's just one of the places we go. In fact, we rarely come up here, except on Sundays. Because it's far and we need to drive back, shower off, change. Mostly we stick closer to home."

  "Encino," said Milo.

  "Right over the hill," said Ulrich. "That morning we were up early. I suggested Mulholland because it's so pretty." He edged closer to Stratton, put his hand back on her shoulder.

  Milo said, "You were here, when— six, six-fifteen?"

  "We usually start out by six," said Stratton. "I'd say we were here by six-twenty, maybe later by the time we parked. The sun was up already. You could see it over that peak." Pointing east, toward foothills beyond the gate.

  Ulrich said, "We like to catch at least part of the sunrise. Once you get past there"— hooking a thumb at the gate—"it's like being in another world. Birds, deer, chipmunks. Duchess goes crazy 'cause she gets to run around without a leash. Tanya's had her for ten years and she still runs like a puppy. Great nose, thinks she's a drug dog."

  "Too good," said Stratton, grimacing.


  "If Duchess hadn't run to the van," said Milo, "would you have approached it?"

  "What do you mean?" she said.

  "Was there anything different about it? Was it conspicuous in any way?"

  "No," she said. "Not really."

  "Duchess must've sensed something off," said Ulrich. "Her instincts are terrific."

  Stratton said, "She's always bringing me presents. Dead squirrels, birds. Now this. Every time I think about it I get sick to my stomach. I really need to go, have a pile of work to go through."

  "What kind of work do you do?" said Milo.

  "Executive secretary to a vice president at Unity Bank. Mr. Gerald Van Armstren."

  Milo checked his notes. "And you're a financial planner, Mr. Ulrich?"

  "Financial consultant. Mostly real-estate work."

  Stratton turned abruptly and walked back to the BMW.

  Ulrich called out "Honey?" but he didn't go after her. "Sorry, guys. She's been really traumatized, says she'll never get the image out of her head. I thought coming up here might actually help— not a good idea at all." He shook his head, gazed at Stratton. Her back was to him. "Really bad idea."

  Milo strode over to the car. Tanya Stratton stood with her hand on the handle of the passenger door, facing west. He said something to her. She shook her head, turned away, revealing a tight white profile.

  Ulrich rocked on his heels and exhaled. A strand of mustache hair that had eluded wax vibrated.

  I said, "Have you two been together long?"

  "A while. She's sensitive . . ."

  Over by the car, Stratton's face was a white mask as Milo talked. The two of them looked like Kabuki players.

  "How long have you been into hiking?" I said.

  "Years. I've always exercised. It took a while to get Tanya into it. She's not— let's just say this'll probably be the conclusion of that." He looked over at the BMW. "She's a great gal, just needs . . . special handling. Actually, there was one thing I remembered. Came to me last night, isn't that bizarre? Can I tell you or do I have to wait for him?"

  "It's fine to tell me."

  Ulrich smoothed his left mustache. "I didn't want to say this in front of Tanya. Not because it's anything significant, but she thinks anything we say will get us more deeply involved. But I don't see how this could. It was just another car. Parked on the side of the road. The south side. We passed it as we drove up. Not particularly close, maybe a quarter mile down that way." Indicating east. "Couldn't be relevant, right? Because by the time we arrived Mate had been dead for a while, right? So why would anyone stick around?"

  "What kind of car?" I said.

  "BMW. Like ours. That's why I noticed it. Darker than ours. Maybe black. Or dark gray."

  "Same model?"

  "Can't say, all I remember is the grille. No big deal, there've got to be lots of Beemers up here, right? I just thought I should mention it."

  "You didn't happen to notice the license plate?"

  He laughed. "Yeah, right. And the facial features of some psychotic killer drooling at the wheel. No, that's all I can tell you— a dark Beemer. The only reason I even remembered it was that when Detective Sturgis called last night, he asked us to search our minds for any other details, and I really gave it a go. I can't even swear it was that dark. Maybe it was medium-gray. Brown, whatever. Amazing I remembered it at all. After seeing what was inside that van, it's hard to think about anything else. Whoever did that to Mate must have really hated him."

  I said, "Rough. Which window did you look through?"

  "First the front windshield. Saw blood on the seats and I said, 'Oh shit.' Then Duchess ran around the back so we followed her. That's where we caught a full view."

  Milo backed away and Stratton got in the car.

  Ulrich said, "Better hustle. Nice to meet you, Dr. Delaware."

  He jogged toward the blue car, saluted Milo as he entered. Starting up, he shifted into gear, hooked a U-turn and sped down the rise.

  I told Milo about the dark BMW.

  "Well, it's something," he said. Then he laughed coldly. "No, it's not. He's right. Why would the killer stick around for three, four hours?" He stashed the notepad back in his pocket. "Okay, one reinterview heard from."

  "She's a tense one," I said.

  "Blame her? Why? She set off some buzzers?"

  "No. But I see what you meant about delicacy. What did she tell you when you spoke to her alone?"

  "It was Paul's idea to come up here. Paul's idea to hike. Paul's a superjock, would live in a tree if he could. They probably weren't in the throes of love when they found Mate. Guess it didn't spice up their relationship."

  "Murder as aphrodisiac."

  "For some folks it is. . . . Now that I know about the second BMW I'm gonna have to log and do some kind of follow-up . . . hopefully a basic DMV will sync with some neighbor's vehicle and that'll be it." He rubbed his ear, as if dreading phone work. "First things first. Follow up with my junior D's to see how the family list is going. If you're so inclined, you could do some research on Mate."

  "Any particular theories you want checked out?"

  "Just the basic one: someone hated him bad enough to slaughter him. Not necessarily a news item. Maybe someone popping off about Mate in cyberspace."

  "Our killer's a careful fellow. Why would he go public?"

  "It's beyond long shot, but you never know. Last year we had a case, father who molested and murdered his five-year-old daughter. We suspected him, couldn't get a damn bit of evidence. Then a half year later, the asshole goes and brags about it to another pedophile in a chat room. Even then it was only a lucky accident that we heard about it. One of our vice guys was monitoring the kiddie-rapers, thought the details sounded familiar."

  "You never told me about that one."

  "I'm not out to introduce pollution into your life, Alex. Unless I need help."

  "Sure," I said. "I'll do what I can."

  He slapped a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you, sir. The suits are right miffed about a high-profile case popping up right now, just when the crime rate was allegedly dropping. Just when they thought they'd get some good publicity before funding time. So if you produce, I might even be able to get you some money fairly soon."

  I panted like a dog. "Oh, Master, how wonderful."

  "Hey," he said, "hasn't the department always treated you well?"

  "Like royalty."

  "Royalty . . . you and old Duchess . . . Maybe it's her I should be interviewing. Maybe it'll come to that."

  4

  I DROVE DOWN Mulholland and eased into the traffic at Beverly Glen. The jazz station had gotten talky of late so the radio was tuned to KUSC. Something easy on the ears was playing. Debussy was my guess. Too pretty for this morning. I switched it off and used the time to think about the way Eldon Mate had died.

  The phone call I'd made when I'd first heard about it.

  No answer, and trying again was a much worse idea than it had been last week. But how long could I work with Milo without clearing things up?

  As I tossed it back and forth, the ethical ramifications spiraled. Some of the answers were covered in the rule books, but others weren't. Real life always transcends the rule books.

  I arrived home hyped by indecision.

  The house was quiet, cooled by the surrounding pines, oak floors gleaming, white walls bleached metallic by eastern light. Robin had left toast and coffee out. No sign of her, no panting canine welcome. The morning paper remained folded on the kitchen counter.

  She and Spike were out back in the studio. She had several big jobs backordered. With obligation on both our minds, we hadn't talked much since rising.

  I filled a cup and drank. The silence was annoying. Once, the house had been smaller, darker, far less comfortable, considerably less practical. A psychopath had burned it down a few years ago and we'd rebuilt. Everyone agreed it was an improvement. Sometimes, when I was alone, there seemed to be too much space.

  It's been a long
time since I've pretended to be emotionally independent. When you love someone for a long time, when that love is cemented in routine as well as thrill, her very presence fills too much space to be ignored. I knew Robin would interrupt her work if I dropped in, but I was in no mood to be sociable, so instead of continuing out the back door, I reached for the kitchen phone and checked with my service. And the problem of the unanswered call solved itself.