"Which is?"
"Total freeze-out— what you guys call elective mutism."
"At least it's 'elective.' "
He stared at me. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you're in control," I said.
"Am I? Is there really any such thing as volition?"
"Without volition, why the need for guilt, Eric?"
He frowned for less than a second. Wiped away consternation with a smile. "Aha!" Fingering a button of his wrinkled shirt. "A philosopher. Probably an Ivy League guy— let's take a look at those diplomas. . . . Oh. Sorry, the U. Native son?"
"Midwesterner."
"Corn and cows and yet you're philosophical— this could start sounding like My Dinner with Andre."
"Favorite movie of yours?" I said.
"I liked it, considering the chattiness level. Lethal Weapon's more to my taste."
"Oh?"
"The comfort of simplicity."
"Because life's complicated."
He began to reply, checked himself, scanned my diplomas again, resumed studying the carpet. Neither of us spoke for a minute or so, then he looked up. "Waiting me out? Technique Number Thirty-six B?"
"It's your time," I said.
"Your job requires patience. I'd be lousy at it. I've been told I don't suffer fools well."
"Told by whom?"
"Everyone. Dad. He meant it as a compliment. He's rather proud of me and displays it with ostentatious shows of support— there's a case of constructive guilt for you."
"What's your father guilty about?" I said.
"Losing control. Raising his kiddies by himself when all three of us know what he'd really rather be doing is flying all over the country amassing real estate."
"It's not as if it was his decision."
"Well"— the curling lips twisted upward—"Dad's not always rational. But then, who is? To understand the root of his guilt, you'd need to know something about his background— do you?"
"Why don't you fill me in."
"He's your basic self-made man, the cream of immigrant stock. His father's Greek, his mother's Sicilian. They ran a grocery in Bayonne, New Jersey, can't you just smell the Kalamata olives? In that world, family means mama, papa, kiddies, grape leaves, farting after too much soup, the usual Mediterranean accoutrements. But poor Dad's stuck with no mama in his family— he didn't save his wife."
"Was that within his power?"
His face flushed and his hands rolled into fists. "How the fuck should I know? Why even ask that kind of question when it's structurally unanswerable? Why should I have to answer any of your questions?"
He looked at the door, as if considering escape, muttered, "What's the use?" and slumped lower.
"The question bothered you," I said. "Have you been asked it by someone else?"
"No," he said. "And why would I give a fuck about anyone else? Why the fuck would I give a fuck about the fucking past, period? It's what's happening now that's . . . Forget it, there's clearly no point discussing this. Don't start feeling all triumphant because the first time I meet you I exhibit emotion. If you knew me, you'd know that's no big deal. I'm Mr. Emotion. I think it, I say it, in the brain, out the mouth. I'll emote to a fucking stranger if the mood strikes me, so this isn't progress."
More sotto voce swearing.
"The only reason I let Dad get me into this is . . ."
Silence.
"Is what, Eric?"
"He caught me in a weak moment. The moon was full and I was full of shit. Believe me, it won't happen again. First item of business: back to Palo Alto tonight. Second item: get a new roommate who won't rat me out if I decide to deviate from routine. This is bullshit, understand? I know it, Dr. Manitow knows it and if you earned all that paper on the wall, you should know it."
"Much ado about nothing," I said.
"It sure isn't A Midsummer Night's Dream— no comedy in my life, dottore, I'm a po', po' child of tragedy. My mother came to a horrible end, I'm entitled to be obnoxious, right? Her death bought me leeway." His hands pressed together prayerfully. "Thank you, Mom, for miles of leeway."
He slid down so that he was nearly lying in the chair. Smiled. "Okay then, let's talk about something a bit cheerier— how about them Dodgers?"
I said, "Seeing as you're going back to Stanford and I'll probably never talk to you again, I'm going to incur your wrath by suggesting you find someone there to talk to— Hear me out, Eric. I'm not saying you're dysfunctional. But you have been through something terrible and—"
"You are so full of shit," he broke in. Discomfort- ingly mild tone. "How can you sit there and judge my experience?"
"I'm not judging, I'm empathizing. I was older than you when my father died, but not much older. He brought on his own death, too. I was a good deal older when my mother died, but the loss was more profound because I was closer to her and now I was an orphan. There's something about that— the aloneness. My father's death was a big blow to my sense of trust. The fact that something so important can be taken away from you, just like that. The powerlessness. You view the world differently. I think that's worth talking about to someone who'll really listen."
The black eyes hadn't moved from mine. A vein in his neck pulsed. He smiled. Slouched. "Nice speech, bro. What's that called? Constructive self-disclosure? Technique Number Fifty-five C?"
I shrugged. "Enough said."
"Sorry," he said in a small, hurried voice. "You're a nice guy. Problem is, I'm not. So don't waste your time."
"You seem heavily invested in that," I said.
"In what?"
"Being the quirky, obnoxious genius. My guess is that somewhere along the line you were taught to associate smarts with having an edge. But I've met some really bad people and you don't qualify for that club."
His face went scarlet. "I apologized, man. No need to twist the fucking knife."
"No need for apologies, Eric. This is about you, not me. And yes, you're right, that was constructive self-disclosure. I chose to expose part of myself in the hope it might spur you to get some help."
He turned away from me. "This is bullshit. If Dad hadn't been a fucking old maid and freaked out, none of this would be happening."
"That wouldn't change the reality."
"Give me a break."
"Forget philosophy, Eric. Forget intro psych. Your reality is what you're experiencing. Most people your age don't have to endure what you've endured. Most aren't concerned with guilt and expiation."
His shoulders jerked as if I'd shaken him. "I. Was. Talking. Abstractly."
"Were you?"
He seemed poised to leap from the chair. Settled back down. Laughed. "So you've met a lot of bad guys, have you?"
"More than I'd care to."
"Killers?"
"Among others."
"Serial killers?"
"That, too."
Another laugh. "And you don't think I'd qualify?"
"Let's call it an educated guess, Eric. Though you're right: I don't really know you. I'm also guessing guilt's more than an abstraction for you. Your father and your sister both told me how much time you spent with your mother during her illness. Taking the semester off—"
"So, now I get punished for it? Have to listen to all this fucking shit?"
"Being here's not punishment."
"It is if it's against your will."
"Could your father really have forced you?" I said.
He didn't answer.
"It's your choice," I said. "Your volition. And since this is a one-shot deal, the best I can do is give you some advice and let you run with it."
"My advice is forget it— don't waste your midwestern time. I shouldn't be here in the first place. I shouldn't be horning in on Stacy's therapy."
"Stacy's okay with it—"
"That's what she says. That's the way she always starts out, path of least resistance, everything's fine. But, believe me, she'll get pissed about it, it's just a matter of time. Basically, she hates me. I'm a shadow in her life, the be
st thing that ever happened to her was my going away. Stanford's the last place she should go, but with Dad leaning on her, she'll comply once again— the path of least resistance. She'll come up there, want to hang out with me, start hating me again."
"She stops hating you when you're apart?"
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"Sometimes absence makes the heart grow hollow."
"Profound," he said. "All this fucking profundity so early in the day."
"You really think Stacy hates you."
"Ah knows she duz. Not that I can do anything about it. Birth order's birth order, she'll just have to deal with being number two."
"And you have to deal with being number one."
"The burdens of primacy." He peeled back a sleeve. "Oh man, left my watch back in my dorm room . . . Hopefully no one swiped it— I've really got to get back, take care of business. How much more time do we have?"
"Ten more minutes."
He examined the room some more, saw the play corner, the bookcase stacked with board games. "Hey, let's play Candy Land. See who gets to the top of that big rock-candy mountain first."
"Nothing wrong," I said, "with having a sweet life."
He wheeled, gaped at me. I never saw the tears in his eyes but the frantic way he swiped at them told me they were there. "Everything's a punch line with you— making your fucking point. Well, thanks for all the fucking insight, Doc."
The bell rang. Eight minutes early. Richard, overeager?
I picked up the phone, punched the intercom button for the side door.
"It's me," said Richard. "Sorry for interrupting, but we've got a bit of a problem out here."
• • •
Eric and I hurried over. Richard stood on the porch along with Stacy. Two tall men behind them.
Detectives Korn and Demetri.
Richard said, "These gentlemen want me to accompany them to the police station."
Korn said, "Hey, Doc. Nice place."
Richard said, "You know them?"
"What's going on?" I said.
Korn said, "Like Mr. Doss said, his presence is requested at the station."
"For what?"
"Questioning."
"In regard to?"
Demetri stepped forward. "That's not your business, Doctor. We allowed Mr. Doss to call you because his children are present and one of them's a minor. The boy's twenty, right? So he can drive both of them home in Mr. Doss's car."
He and Korn moved closer to Richard. Richard looked scared.
Stacy said, "Daddy?" Her eyes were wide with terror.
Richard didn't answer her. Nor did he ask what it was all about. Not wanting his children to hear the answer?
"You ride with us, sir," said Demetri.
"First I'm calling my lawyer."
"You're not being arrested, sir," said Korn. "You can call from the station."
"I'm going to call my lawyer." Richard brandished the silver phone.
Korn and Demetri looked at each other. Korn said, "Fine. Tell him to meet you at the West L.A. station, but you're coming with us."
"What the fuck," said Eric, moving toward the detectives.
Demetri said, "Stand back, son."
"I'm not your fucking son. If I was, my knuckles would be scraping the ground."
Demetri reached inside his jacket and touched his gun. Stacy gasped and Eric's eyes got wide.
I placed my hand on his shoulder, bore down. He was trembling.
Richard stabbed the keypad of the silver phone. Eric got next to Stacy, put his arm around her. She threw her arm across his chest. Her lips quivered. Eric's were still but the neck vein was racing. Both of them watched their father as he held the phone to his ear.
Richard's foot tapped impatiently. No more fear in his eyes. Calm under fire, or not totally surprised?
"Saundra? Richard Doss. Please get Max on the phone. . . . What's that? When? . . . Okay, listen, it's really important that I talk to him . . . I'm in a bit of a jam . . . no, something different, I can't get into it right now. Just reach him in Aspen. ASAP. I'll be at the West L.A. police station— with some detectives. . . . What're your names?"
"Korn."
"Demetri."
Richard repeated that. "Reach him, Saundra. If he can't jet back, at the very least I need the name of someone who can help me. I'm on cellular. I'm counting on you. Bye." He clicked off the phone.
"On our way," said Demetri.
Richard said, "Demetri. Greek?"
"American," said Demetri, too quickly. Then: "Lithuanian. A long time ago. Let's get going, sir."
No one can make "sir" sound like an insult the way a cop can.
Stacy started to cry. Eric held her tight.
Richard said, "I'll be okay, kids, you just hold on— I'll see you for dinner. Promise."
"Daddy," said Stacy.
"It'll be fine."
"Sir," said Korn, taking hold of Richard's arm.
"Hold on," I said. "I'm going to call Milo."
Both detectives grinned, as if on cue. I was the perfect shill.
Demetri moved behind Richard as Korn kept his grip. The two of them shadowing the much smaller man.
"Milo," Demetri said, "knows."
21
THE BIG, PALE palm of a hand hung inches from my face, a fleshy cloud.
"Don't," said Milo, barely audible. "Don't say a thing."
It was 5:23. I was in the front reception area of the West L.A. station and he'd just come down the stairs.
I wanted to knock his hand away, waited as it lowered. His jacket was off but his tie was tight— too tight, reddening his neck and face. What did he have to be angry about?
I'd been waiting in the lobby for over an hour, most of it alone with the civilian clerk behind the desk, a pasty, overly enunciative man named Dwight Moore. I knew some of the clerks. Not Moore. The first time I'd approached, he'd looked wary, as if I had something to sell. When I asked him to reach Milo upstairs, he took a long time to put the call through.
For the next sixty-three minutes I used every anger-reduction trick I knew while warming a hard plastic chair as Moore answered the phone and moved paper around. Twenty minutes into the wait, I stepped up to the desk and Moore said, "Why don't you just go home, sir? If he really does know you, he's got your number."
My hands clenched below the counter. "No, I'll wait."
"Suit yourself." Moore got up, walked into a back room, returned with a large cup of coffee and a glazed bear claw. He ate with his back to me, taking very small bites and wiping his chin several times. Minutes dripped by. A few blues came and went, some of them greeting Moore, none with enthusiasm. I thought of Stacy and Eric watching their father taken away by LAPD's finest.
At five-fifteen, an elderly couple in matching green cardigans walked into the station and asked Moore what could be done about their lost dog. Moore adopted a skeptical look and gave them the number for Animal Control. When the woman asked another question, Moore said, "I'm not Animal Control," and turned his back.
"What you are," said the old man, "is a little prick."
"Herb," said his wife, easing him toward the door.
As they left, he told her, "And they wonder why no one likes them."
Five-twenty. Eric and Stacy were nowhere in sight. If they'd made it, I assumed they'd been allowed upstairs, but Moore wouldn't confirm it.
I'd sped over in the Seville, following Richard's black BMW as Eric gunned it down from the glen and wove through Westwood traffic. Easy to follow: the car was a blade of onyx cutting through dirty air. The car that I'd wondered about as the match to the vehicle Paul Ulrich had spotted on Mulholland. Richard, Eric . . .
The boy drove much too fast, took foolish chances. At Sepulveda and Wilshire, he ran a red light, nearly collided with a gardener's truck, swerved into the center lane, sped away from a chorus of honks. I was two cars back, got caught at the light, lost sight of him. By the time I reached the station, I couldn't fi
nd the BMW on the street. No parking space for me in the police lot this time. I circled several times, finally grabbed a spot two blocks away. Jogging the distance, I arrived huffing.
Remembering the fear in Stacy's eyes as Korn and Demetri placed their father in the back of a dung-brown unmarked. Tears striping her face. As Korn slammed the door of the police car, she mouthed, "Daddy." Eric dragged her to the BMW, opened her door, nearly shoved her into the passenger seat. Flashing me one furious look, he ran to the driver's side, started the car up hard, shoved the RPMs to a defiant whine. Fishtailing and burning rubber, he took off.
Dr. Death Page 22
