"I'll be down there as soon as I can."
I gave the sleeping mummy next to me a kiss on the fanny, got up, and threw on my clothes.
I sped along Pacific, heading north. The streets were empty and slick with marine mist. The guide lights at the end of the pier were distant pinpoints. A few trawlers sat on the horizon. At this hour the sharks and other nocturnal predators would be prowling the bottom of the ocean floor. I wondered how much carnage was hidden by the glossy black outer skin of the water; and how many of the night hunters lurked on dry land, hiding in alleys, behind trash bins, concealed among the leaves and twigs of suburban shrubbery, wild-eyed, breathing hard.
As I drove I developed a new theory of evolution. Evil had its own metamorphic intelligence: The sharks and the razor-toothed serpents, the slimy, venomous things that hid in the silt, hadn't given way in an orderly progression to amphibian, reptile, bird and mammal. A single quantum leap had taken evil from water to land. From shark to rapist, eel to throat-slasher, poison slug to skull-crusher, with bloodlust at the core of the helix.
The darkness seemed to press against me, insistent, fetid. I pushed down harder on the accelerator and forced my way through it.
When I got to the apartment complex, Milo met me at the door.
"She's just started again."
I could hear it before I got to the bedroom.
The light was dim. Melody sat upright in her bed, her body rigid, eyes wide open but unfocused. Bonita sat next to her. Towle, in sports clothes, stood on the other side.
The child was sobbing, a wounded animal sound. She wailed and moaned and rocked back and forth. Then the moan picked up volume, gradually, like a siren, until she was screaming, her thin voice a piercing, shrieking assault upon the silence.
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"
Her hair was plastered against her face, slick with sweat. Bonita tried to hold her but she flailed and struck out. The mother was helpless.
The screaming continued for what seemed like forever, then it stopped and she began moaning again.
"Oh, Doctor," Bonita pleaded, "she's going at it again. Do something."
Towle spotted me.
"Maybe Dr. Delaware can help." His tone of voice was nasty.
"No, no, I don't want him near her! He caused all of this!"
Towle didn't argue with her. I could have sworn he looked smug.
"Mrs. Quinn--" I began.
"No. You stay away! Get out!"
Her screaming set Melody off. and she began calling for her father again.
"Stop it!"
Bonita went for her, putting her hand over the child's mouth. Shaking her.
Towle and I moved at the same time. We pulled her off. He took her aside and said something that quieted her down.
I moved next to Melody. She was breathing hard. Her pupils were dilated. I touched her. She stiffened.
"Melody," I whispered, "it's Alex. You're okay. You're safe."
As I talked she calmed down. I blabbed on, knowing that what I said was less important than how I said it. I maintained a low, rhythmic pattern of speech, easy-going, reassuring. Hypnotic.
Soon she had slipped lower in the bed. I helped her lie down. Her hands unfolded. I kept talking to her soothingly. Her muscles began to relax and her breathing became slow and regular. I told her to close her eyes and she did. I stroked her shoulder, continued to talk to her, to tell her everything was all right, that she was safe.
She snuggled into a fetal position, drew the covers over her, and placed her thumb in her mouth.
"Turn off the light," I said. The room became dark. "Let's leave her alone." The three of them left.
"Now you're going to continue sleeping, Melody, and you'll have a very peaceful, restful night, with good dreams. When you wake up in the morning you'll feel very good, very rested."
I could hear her snoring ever so slightly.
"Goodnight, Melody." I leaned over and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.
She mumbled one word.
"Dada."
I closed the door to her room. Bonita was in the kitchen, wringing her hands. She wore a frayed man's terrycloth robe. Her hair had been pulled back in a bun and covered with a scarf. She looked paler than I remembered as she busied herself cleaning up.
Towle bent over his black bag. He clicked it shut, stood and ran his fingers through his hair. Seeing me he raised himself up to his full height and glared down, ready to give another lecture.
"I hope you're happy," he said.
"Don't start," I warned him. "No I-told-you so's."
"You can see why I was reluctant to tamper with this child's mind."
"Nobody tampered with anything." I could feel tension rising in my gut. He was every hypocritical authority figure I'd detested.
He shook his head condescendingly.
"Obviously your memory needs some polishing."
"Obviously you're a sanctimonious prick."
The blue eyes flashed. He tightened his lips.
"What if I bring you up before the ethics committee of the State Medical Board?"
"You do that, Doctor."
"I'm seriously considering it." He looked like a Calvinist preacher, all stern and tight and self righteous.
"You do it and we'll get into a little discussion on the proper use of stimulant medication with children."
He smiled.
"It will take more than you to tarnish my reputation."
"I'm sure it will." My fists were clenched. "You've got legions of loyal followers. Like that woman in there." I pointed toward the kitchen. "They bring their kids to you, human jalopies, and you tinker with them, give 'em a quick tune-up and a pill; you fix them to their specifications. Make them nice and quiet, compliant, and obedient. Drowsy little zombies. You're a goddamn hero."
"I don't have to listen to this." He moved forward.
"No you don't, hero. But why don't you go in there and tell her what you really think of her? Piss poor protoplasm, and let's see--bad genes, no insight."
He stopped in his tracks.
"Easy, Alex." Milo spoke from the corner, cautiously.
Bonita came in from the kitchen.
"What's going on?" she wanted to know. Towle and I were facing each other like boxers after the bell.
He changed his manner and smiled at her charmingly. "Nothing, my dear. Just a professional discussion. Doctor Delaware and I were trying to decide what was best for Melody."
"What's best is no more hypnotizing. You told me that."
"Yes." Towle tapped his foot, tried not to look uncomfortable. "That was my professional opinion." He loved that word, professional. "And it still is."
"Well, you tell him that." She pointed at me.
"That's what we were discussing, dear."
He must have been just a little too smooth, be cause her face got tight and her voice lowered suspiciously.
"What's to discuss? I don't want him or him--" the second jab was at Milo "--around here no more." She turned to us. "You try and be a good Samaritan and help the cops and you get the shaft! Now my baby's got the seizures and she's screamin' and I'm gonna lose my place. I know I'm gonna lose it!"
Her face crumpled. She buried it in her hands and began to cry. Towle moved in like a Beverly Hills gigolo, putting his arms around her, consoling her, saying now, now.
He guided her to the couch and sat her down, standing over her, patting her shoulder.
"I'm gonna lose my place," she said into her hands. "They don't like noise here." She uncovered her face and looked wet-eyed up at Towle.
"Now, now, it's going to be all right. I'll see to that."
"But what about the seizures!?"
"I'll see to that, too." He gave me a sharp look, full of hostility and, I was sure, a bit of fear.
She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"I don't understand why she has to wake up screaming Daddy Daddy! That bastard's never been around to lift a finger or give me a cent
of child support! He has no love for her! Why does she cry for him, Doctor Towle?" She looked up at him, a novitiate beseeching the pope.
"Now, now."
"He's a crazy man, that Ronnie Lee is. Look at this!" She tore the scarf from her head, shook her hair loose and lowered her head exposing the top of it. Giving a whimper she parted the strands at the center of her crown. "Look at this!"
It was ugly. A thick, raw red scar the size of a fat worm. A worm that had burrowed under her scalp and settled there. The skin around it was livid and lumpy, showing the results of bad surgery, devoid of hair.
"Now you know why I cover it!" she cried. "He did that to me! With a chainl Ronnie Lee Quinn." She spat out the name. "A crazy, evil bastard. That's the Daddy Daddy she's cryin' out for! That scum!"
"Now, now," said Towle. He turned to us. "Do you gentlemen have anything more to discuss with Mrs. Quinn?"
"No, Doctor," said Milo and turned to leave. He took hold of my arm to guide me out. But I had something to say.
"Tell her, Doctor. Tell her those were not seizures. They were night terrors and they'll go away by themselves if you keep her calm. Tell her there'll be no need for phenobarbitol or Dilantin or Tofranil."
Towle continued to pat her shoulder.
"Thank you for your professional opinion, Doctor. I'll manage this case as I see fit."
I stood there rooted.
"Come on, Alex." Milo eased me out the door.
The parking lot of the apartment complex was crammed full of Mercedes, Porsches, Alfa Romeos and Datsun Zs. Milo's Fiat, parked in front of a hydrant, looked sadly out of place, like a cripple at a track meet. We sat in it, glum.
"What a mess," he said.
"The bastard."
"For a minute I thought you were going to hit him." He chuckled.
"It was tempting. The bastard."
"It looked like he was baiting you. I thought you guys got along."
"On his terms. On an intellectual level we were good old boys. When things fell apart he had to find a scapegoat. He's an egomaniac. Doctor is omnipotent. Doctor can fix anything. Did you see how she worshipped him, the goddamned Great White Father? Probably slit the kid's wrists if he told her to."
"You're worried about the kid, aren't you?"
"You're damn right I am. You know exactly what he's going to do, don't you--more dope. She'll be a total space cadet in two days."
Milo chewed on his lip. After a few minutes he said:
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it. I'm sorry I pulled you into it in the first place."
"Forget it. It wasn't your fault."
"Nah, it was. I've been lazy, trying for an instant miracle on this Handler mess. Been avoiding the old wear-down-the-shoe-leather routine. Question Handler's associates, get the list of known bad guys with razor-happy fingers from the computer and plod through it. Go through Handler's files. The whole thing was iffy in the first place, a seven-year-old kid."
"She could have turned out to be a good witness."
"Is it ever that easy?" He started up the engine, after three attempts. "Sorry for ruining your night."
"You didn't. He did."
"Forget him, Alex. Assholes are like weeds--a bitch to get rid of and when you do, another one grows back in the same place. That's what I've been doing for eight years--pouring weed-killer and watching them grow back faster than I can clear them away."
He sounded weary and looked old.
I got out of the car and leaned in through the window.
"See you tomorrow."
"What?"
"The files. We have to go through Handler's files. I'll be able to tell faster than you will which ones were dangerous."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I'm carrying around a huge Zeigarnik."
"A what?"
"Zeigarnik. She was a Russian psychologist who discovered that people develop tension for unfinished business. They named it after her. The Zeigarnik effect. Like most overachievers I've got a big one."
He looked at me like I was talking nonsense.
"Uh-huh. Right. And this Zeigarnik is big enough for you to let it intrude upon the mellow life?"
"What the hell, life was getting boring." I slapped him on the back.
"Suit yourself." He shrugged. "Regards to Robin."
"You give regards to your doctor."
"If he's still there when I get back. This middle-of the-night stuff is testing that relationship." He scratched at the corner of his eye and scowled.
"I'm sure he'll put up with it, Milo."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"If he's crazy enough to go for you in the first place, he's crazy enough to stick with you."
"That's very reassuring, pal." He ground the Fiat into first and sped away.
9
At the time of his murder, Morton Handler had been in practice as a psychiatrist for a little under fifteen years. During that period he had consulted on or treated over two thousand patients. The records of these individuals were stored in manila folders and packed, one hundred and fifty to a box, in cardboard cartons that were taped shut and stamped with the LAPD seal.
Milo brought these boxes to my house, assisted by a slight, balding, black detective named Delano Hardy. Huffing and wheezing, they loaded the cartons in my dining room. Soon it looked as if I was either moving in or moving out.
"It's not as bad as it seems," Milo assured me. "You won't have to go through all of them. Right, Del?"
Hardy lit a cigarette and nodded assent.
"We've done some preliminary screening," he said. "We eliminated anyone known to be deceased. We figured they'd be low probability suspects."
The two of them laughed. Dark detective laughs.
"And the coroner's report," he continued, "says Handler and the girl were cut by someone with a lot of muscle. The throat wound on him went clear back to the spine on the first try."
"Which means," I interrupted, "a man."
"Could be one hell of a tough lady," laughed Hardy, "but we're betting on a male."
"There are six hundred male patients," added Milo. "Those four boxes over there."
"Also," said Hardy, "we brought you a little present."
He gave me a small package wrapped in green and red Christmas paper with a bugle and holly wreath pattern on it. It was tied with red ribbon.
"Couldn't find any other paper," Hardy explained.
"We hope you like it," added Milo. I began to feel as if I were the audience for a salt-and-pepper comedy team. A curious transformation had come over Milo. In the presence of another detective he had distanced himself from me and adopted the tough-wiseacre banter of the veteran cop.
I unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton, was a plastic-coated LAPD. identification badge. It bore a picture of me like the one on my driver's license, with that strange, frozen look that all official photos seem to have. Under the picture was my signature, also from my license, my name printed out, my degree and the title "Special Consultant." Life imitates art...
"I'm touched."
"Put it on," said Milo. "Make it official."
The badge wasn't unlike the one I had worn at Western Pediatric. It came with a clasp. I affixed it to my shirt collar.
"Very attractive," said Hardy. "That and ten cents might get you a local phone call." He reached into his jacket and drew out a folded piece of paper. "Now, if you'll just read and sign this." He held out a pen.
I read it, all small print.
"This says you don't have to pay me."
"Right," said Hardy with mock sadness. "And if you get a paper cut looking over the files you can't sue the department."
"It makes the brass happy, Alex," said Milo.
I shrugged and signed.
"Now," said Hardy, "you're an official consultant to the Los Angeles Police Department." He folded the paper and slipped it back in his pocket. "Just like the rooster who was jumping the bones of all the hens in the henhouse.
So they castrated him and turned him into a consultant."
"That's very flattering, Del."
"Any friend of Milo and all that."
When the Bough Breaks Page 9
