Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “A true alpha wouldn’t need to steal someone else’s man,” she said. She glanced at the dash clock. “I’ve got five minutes.”

  “Shucks.”

  “So what happens to the practice now that Mary Lou’s gone?”

  “Gull and Larsen say they’ll take any patients who want to continue with them and refer the rest out.”

  “If even a small percentage of her patients transfer, that could be quite an income boost.”

  I stared at her. “You see a profit motive, here?”

  “I agree with you, there’s dominance and anger at play and probably some sexual overtones. But profit would a nice side benefit. And if Gull’s your murderer, it would fit. What would be more intoxicating to a psychopath than eliminating someone he once possessed sexually and looting her business? It’s basic warfare.”

  Coins of color spotted her ivory cheeks. Robin had always been repelled by these kinds of discussions.

  “You,” I said, “are an interesting girl.”

  She said, “Interesting but weird, huh? You drop by for some romance, and I’m analyzing at warp speed.”

  Before I could answer, she kissed me full on the lips, sat back suddenly.

  “On the other hand,” she said, “analyzing is what they sent us to school for. Gotta go. Call me soon.”

  *

  Dr. Leonard Singh was tall and slightly stooped, with nutmeg skin and clear, amber eyes. He wore an exquisite Italian suit— navy blue overlaid with a faint red windowpane check— a yellow spread-collar shirt, a glistening red tie with matching pocket foulard, and a jet-black turban. His beard was full and gray, his mustache Kiplingesque.

  He was surprised to see me in his waiting room, even more surprised when I told him why I was there. But no guardedness; he invited me into the cramped, green space that served as his hospital office. Three spotless white coats hung from a wooden rack. A glass jar of peppermint sticks was wedged between two stacks of medical charts. His medical degree was from Yale, his accent by way of Texas.

  “Dr. Gull,” he said. “No, I don’t really know him.”

  “You referred Gavin Quick to him.”

  Singh smiled and crossed his legs. “Here’s the way that happened. The boy came to me through the ER. I was one of two neurologists on call, just about to go off service, but someone I’ve worked with asked me to do the consult.”

  Jerome Quick had given me a name. The family doctor, a golfing buddy . . .

  “Dr. Silver,” I said.

  “That’s right,” said Singh. “So I saw the boy, agreed to follow him, did what I could. Given the situation.”

  “Closed-head injury, nothing obvious on the CAT scan.”

  Singh nodded and reached for the candy jar. “Care for some late-afternoon sucrose?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself, they’re good.” He pulled out a peppermint stick, bit off a section, crunched, chewed slowly. “Cases like that, you’re almost hoping for something blatant on the CAT. You’re don’t actually want to see tissue damage, because those situations are usually more severe. It’s just you want to know what the insult to the brain is, want to have something to tell the family.”

  “Gavin’s situation was ambiguous,” I said.

  “The problem with a case like Gavin’s is you just know he’s going to have problems, but you can’t tell the family exactly what’s going to happen or if it’s going to be permanent. When I found out he’d been murdered, I thought, ‘Oh my, there’s a tragedy.’ I called and left a message with his folks, but no one’s returned it.”

  “They’re pretty torn up. Any thoughts about the murder?”

  “Thoughts? As in who mighta done it? No.”

  “Gavin’s symptoms had persisted for ten months,” I said.

  “Not a good sign,” said Singh. “On top of that, all his symptoms were behavioral. Psychiatric stuff. We cellular types prefer something concrete— a nice solid ataxia, something edematous that we can shrink down and feel heroic about. Once we veer off into your field, we start to feel at loose ends.”

  He took another bite of peppermint stick. “I did what I could for the boy. Which consisted of monitoring him to make sure I wasn’t missing something, then I prescribed a little occupational therapy.”

  “He had fine motor problems?”

  “Nope,” said Singh. “This was more supportive in nature. We knew he’d experienced some cognitive loss and personality change. I thought some sort of psychological support was called for, but when I suggested a psych consult to the parents, they didn’t want to hear about it. Neither did Gavin. So I backed off and offered O.T., figuring maybe that would be more palatable to them. It was, but unfortunately . . . you know about Gavin’s experiences with his therapist.”

  “Beth Gallegos.”

  “Nice gal. He tormented her.”

  “Have you seen that before in CHI cases?”

  “You can certainly have obsessive changes, but no, I can’t say I’ve seen anyone turn into a stalker.” Singh nibbled the broken edge of the peppermint stick.

  “So the family was resistant to psychotherapy,” I said.

  “Highly resistant.” Singh smiled, sadly. “I got the impression this was a family big on appearances. Dr. Silver said so, too. Though he didn’t know them well.”

  “Really,” I said. “I got the impression he was a family friend.”

  “Barry? No, not at all. Barry’s an OB-GYN, he’d only recently started treating the mother for premenopausal symptoms.”

  Jerome Quick had lied about Silver being a golfing buddy. A small lie, but why?

  I said, “So what was your connection to Dr. Gull?”

  “I don’t have one,” said Singh. “After Gavin got into trouble because of what he did to Beth, the father called me, saying the boy had been arrested and that the court down in Santa Ana was going to lock him up unless they could show sort of mitigating circumstances. What he wanted from me was a letter stating that the boy’s behavior was a clear result of his accident. If that wasn’t enough, he wanted me to testify for Gavin.”

  Singh finished the peppermint stick. “I have to tell you, I was of two minds on that. I hate going to court, I didn’t know that I could say all that and be truthful. Beth Gallegos was one of our best O.T.s, a really super gal, and I felt terrible about what happened to her. I had to wonder if letting Gavin off the hook completely was the best thing for anyone. The boy clearly had serious problems, so maybe he needed to learn a lesson. On the other hand, this was jail we were talking about and he had experienced a cerebral insult and he was my patient. I decided to call the district attorney who was prosecuting the case, and she told me it being a first offense, they weren’t gonna throw the book at him. She said if I referred him to a psychiatrist or a psychologist, that would work for her. I asked a couple of the psych guys who attend here, but they all felt it would be a conflict of interest because they knew Beth. Before I could make more calls, Mr. Quick phoned me and said he’d found a good psychologist, right there in Beverly Hills, real close to the house. He said that was important because he didn’t want Gavin going too far afield.”

  “Mr. Quick asked to be referred to Dr. Gull,” I said.

  “He asked to be referred to Dr. Koppel, but she punted and sent him to Dr. Gull. I had my secretary call up and check Dr. Gull’s credentials, and everything was in order. I called Dr. Gull, and he seemed like a nice fellow, so I wrote the letter.”

  He smoothed his tie. The amber eyes were sharp. “So tell me, was there some problem with that? ’Cause my name’s on that referral letter, and if there are going to be problems, I’d sure like to know.”

  “I can’t think of anything that would reflect on you.”

  Singh said, “That sounds upsettingly vague.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s too soon to be more specific. I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes.”

  Singh touched his turban. “Much obliged.”

  “W
ere you aware that Gavin didn’t stick with Gull?”

  “Really?” said Singh.

  “No one told you.”

  “The only communication I got was from Gull. A week in, he called, thanked me, said everything was going fine. Never heard from him again. What happened?”

  “Gavin didn’t get along with Gull and was transferred to Dr. Koppel.”

  “Guess she found time for him. Poor Gavin. Whatever he did to Beth, the boy had it rough. Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”

  He walked me out.

  I thanked him for his time, and said, “Dallas?”

  “Houston. Born and bred; my daddy was a heart transplant surgeon on Denton Cooley’s team.” He smiled. “Cowboys and Indians, and all that good stuff.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I got home just after five, tried the Times human resources office, found out it was closed. I tried to recall the names of colleagues Ned Biondi had mentioned and came up with one, Don Zeltin, like Ned, once a reporter, now a columnist. I phoned the paper’s switchboard, asked for him, got patched through.

  “Zeltin,” said a gruff voice.

  I started to explain who I was and that I wanted to get in touch with Ned.

  “Sounds complicated,” said Zeltin. “You could be some nut.”

  “I could be but I’m not. If you don’t mind calling Ned—”

  “Maybe Ned didn’t leave you a number because he doesn’t want to hear from you.”

  “Would calling him and asking be a huge imposition? It’s important.”

  “Psychologist, huh? My ex-wife decided she was going to be a psychologist. Back when she was still my wife. I’ve got three friends in the same boat. Wife talks about going back to shrink school, get on the horn to your divorce lawyer.”

  I laughed.

  He said, “It’s not funny. Actually, it is. She ended up dropping out, and now she lives in Vegas and sells clothes at a crappy boutique. Okay, what the hell, I’ll call Ned. Give me your name again.”

  *

  I looked up Franco Gull in my American Psychological Association directory. He’d gone to college at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. Double major: psychology and business. His move to Berkeley for grad school had been delayed by two years playing semipro baseball at a farm club in Fresno. Not the kind of thing generally listed in the APA book; Gull had been proud of his athletic stint.

  Charismatic at a young age, sure about his physicality.

  Gull had no academic appointments, had conducted no research since grad school that he cared to specify. His areas of interest were “interpersonal relations” and “insight-oriented therapy.” From what I could tell, he’d gone straight from a postdoc at UC Riverside into private practice with Mary Lou Koppel.

  While I had the book in front of me, I checked out Albin Larsen. His bio was considerably longer and more impressive. Undergraduate work at Stockholm University, followed by a one-year fellowship in public policy at Cambridge, back to Sweden for a doctorate at Göteborg University and an assistant professorship in the Social Sciences Institute at that same institution. His areas of interest were cultural factors in psychological assessment, the integration of social and clinical psychology, the application of psychological research to conflict resolution, and the appraisal and treatment of war-related trauma and stress. He’d done relief work in Rwanda and Kenya, consulted to Amnesty International, Doctors Without Borders, the Human Rights Beacon Symposium, World Focus on Prisoners’ Rights, and a child welfare subcommittee of the United Nations. Though he’d lived in the U.S. for eight years and had earned a California license shortly after arriving, he’d maintained an academic appointment at Göteborg.

  Substantive fellow. Would Koppel and Gull’s shenanigans have offended him?

  I got on the computer, logged on to the California Board of Psychology website and checked the list of disciplinary actions. Nothing on Gull or Larsen. Whatever Gull’s transgressions had been, they’d remained private.

  Which might very well be the point.

  Had Gavin learned something that made him a threat to Gull?

  Was the secret something to do with the Quick family? Why had Jerome Quick lied about Barry Silver being a golfing buddy? Why hadn’t he told us that he, himself, had spearheaded the referral?

  Did Quick have some kind of prior relationship with Koppel or Gull? Some specific reason he wanted Gavin under the group’s care?

  If so, he wasn’t saying, and now Gavin was dead.

  And so was his therapist.

  I turned it over a couple of times, produced nothing but a headache, broke for a cup of coffee, found the machine empty, and was loading it when Ned Biondi called.

  “Doc,” he said. “Sorry for not keeping in touch, but I just moved, and the boxes aren’t even unpacked.”

  “Oregon?”

  “The other direction. Got myself a great little apartment on Coronado Island. Dinky little place because everything’s so expensive, but what do I need, one guy.”

  I said, “It’s pretty out there.”

  “Got a view of the bay, the bridge. Norma and I got divorced. To be accurate, I divorced her. Last year.”

  “Sorry to hear about it.”

  “Don’t be, I should’ve done it years ago. She’s a mean woman, terrible mother— you remember how she wouldn’t give you the time of day, wouldn’t participate in Anne Marie’s treatment?”

  “I do.”

  “Ice queen,” he spit. “As far as I’m concerned she was a big part of Anne Marie’s problem, I should’ve recognized it sooner. You probably saw it, but you couldn’t come out and say that, right? ‘Go divorce your wife, Ned.’ You’d have said that, I’d have fired you. But you’d have been right.”

  “How’s Anne Marie?”

  “Mostly good,” he said. “Not always great. She has her moods, but most of the time, good. That husband of hers is okay, and they just had a third kid. Career-wise, she never got it together, but she says she loves being a mom and why shouldn’t I believe her? She’s a terrific mom, the kids love her, Bob loves her. Do you know what made me realize I needed to divorce Norma?”

  “What?”

  “I decided to quit smoking. Finally got serious about it. So what does Norma do? Tries to talk me out of it, I’m talking a pitched battle. She didn’t want to quit because smoking was something we did together— cigarettes and coffee in the morning, reading the paper. Taking walks and puffing away like the cancer fiends we were. She actually accused me of abandoning her by wanting to quit. I stuck to my guns, and she went ballistic. So I sat back and thought, ‘Dummy, she doesn’t care if you get sick or die, she just wants what she wants, it’s all about her.’ Thirty-five years too late, but what the hell, I’m here, and she moved to New York to write a novel and I’m wearing the patch and have worked myself down to seven Winstons a day.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. So what can I do for you?”

  I told him about the photo of the blond girl.

  He said, “I’ll make a call, but I’m sorry to say I can’t promise you, Doc. The paper’s not about public service— if it ever was. It’s about peddling ad space, and that means going for the hook. From what you’re telling me there’s no juicy angle to this one.”

  “A double killing?” I said. “Two kids up on Mulholland?”

  “Unfortunately L.A.’s more of a company town than it ever was, and juice means a Hollywood tie-in. Give me a klepto starlet boosting scanties on Rodeo, and I’ll guarantee you lots of print inches. Two kids on Mulholland is tragic, but it ain’t man bites dog.”

  “How about this for a hook: The police didn’t want to release the photo because it was too early in the investigation, but an anonymous source supplied it to the Times.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Maybe the editors will go for that, they’ve got a reflexive dislike of authority. Anytime they can show they’re not in lockstep with LAPD it makes them feel the muckrackers they w
ish they were . . . okay, I’ll try. By the way, is it true?”

  “LAPD Communications didn’t want to release it because they thought it lacked a hook.”

  He laughed. “Everyone’s in showbiz. I’ll call and get back to you. Anything more you can tell me about this girl?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Doc. Good talking to you— as long as I’ve got you, let me ask you something. Do you believe that study that came out, said guys do better married than single?”