Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 12 - Survival of the Fittest

by Survival Of The Fittest(Lit)

  Staring at me.

  'Sexual problems?' I said.

  He waved me off. 'Tell her you spoke to me and I said he was depressed and that police work may have exacerbated the depression but didn't cause it. Tell her his suicide couldn't have been prevented and she had nothing to do with it. Help her plaster her emotional fissures. That's our job. To patch, assuage. Massage. Inform our patients they're okay. We're couriers of okayness.'

  Through the anger came something I thought I recognized. The sadness that can result from too many years absorbing the poison of others. Most therapists experience it sooner or later. Sometimes it passes, sometimes it settles in like a chronic infection.

  'Guess we are,' I said. 'Among other things. Sometimes it gets difficult.'

  'What does?'

  'Massaging.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' he said. 'One chooses one's job and one does it. That's the key to being a professional. There's no point complaining.'

  When the going gets tough, the therapist gets tougher. I wondered if he'd used the chin-up approach with Nolan. The department would approve of something like that.

  He smiled. 'After all these years, I find the work enriching.'

  'How many years is that?'

  'Sixteen. But it's still fresh. Perhaps it's because my first career was in the business world where the philosophy was quite different: It's not enough for me to succeed. You must fail.'

  'Brutal,' I said.

  'Oh, quite. Policemen are easy, by comparison.'

  He walked me to the door and as I passed the bulky bookshelves I was able to make out some of the titles. Organizational structure, group behavior, management strategies, psychometric testing.

  Out in the waiting room, he said, 'I'm sorry I haven't been able to reveal more. The entire situation was... bleak. Let the sister maintain her own image of Nolan. Believe me, it's far more compassionate.'

  'This unspeakable pathology he displayed,' I said. 'It's directly related to the suicide?'

  'Very likely so.'

  'Was he feeling guilty about something?'

  He buttoned his blazer.

  'I'm not a priest, Dr Delaware. And your client wants illusion, not facts. Trust me on that.'

  As I got back on the elevator, I felt as if I'd been rushed through an overpriced, tasteless meal. Now it was starting to repeat.

  Why had he wasted my time?

  Had he intended to say more but changed his mind?

  Knowing he was professionally vulnerable because he'd missed something crucial?

  Fear of a lawsuit would make Helena - and me - a major threat. Not talking to me at all would be seen as unreasonable obstructionism.

  But if he was covering, why even hint around at Nolan's serious problems?

  Wanting to find out what I knew?

  The lift opened at 5 to let in three hefty men in gray suits and eyeglasses. Their jovial chatter ceased the moment they saw me and they turned their backs as the taller one slipped a key into the City Club slot. After they exited, the elevator took a while to kick in and I had a view of white-and-black checkerboard marble floor, polished wood walls, softly lit oil landscapes, riotously colored mixed flowers in obsidian urns.

  A tuxedoed maitre d' smiled and welcomed them forward. They entered the club talking again. Laughing. Behind them, silverware clattered and red-jacketed black waiters hurried by with covered dishes on trays. As the elevator filled with the smell of roast meat and rich sauce, the gilded door slid shut silently.

  I drove west, taking the freeway this time, still thinking about Lehmann.

  Strange bird. And an old-world quality to his demeanor. British pronunciations. He'd said the right things but was unlike any therapist I'd ever met.

  As if reciting for my benefit.

  Analyzing me?

  Some psychologists and psychiatrists - the bad ones - make a game of it.

  Believe me, she is much better off not knowing.

  Strange bird, strange location.

  Consultant.

  All those books on management and psychological testing, nothing on therapy.

  Practicing beyond the boundaries of his competence?

  Was that why he was edgy?

  If so, how had he gotten LAPD's business?

  No big mystery, there. Politics as usual. Who you knew.

  The custom-made cashmere, the studied carelessness and old-money furnishings.

  A consultant with family connections? Downtown connections could mean big business: a stream of referrals from the police department and other government agencies.

  A potential flood of referrals because though LAPD maintained a few psychologists on staff, most of their time was spent screening applicants and teaching hostage negotiation and they were chronically overworked.

  Something else: Milo had told me, once, that cops considered the in-house shrinks tools of the brass, were cynical about assurances of confidentiality, often reluctant to seek them out for help.

  Except when filing for stress disability. Something LAPD officers had engaged in for years at a notorious rate, now even worse in the post-riot era.

  Meaning lots of money could be made contracting just to field complaints. The unspoken directive from the department would be find them healthy.

  Which would explain Lehmann's self-description as a courier of okayness.

  And why he might have been reluctant to acknowledge warning signs in Nolan.

  Had the young cop come to him with a history of mood

  swings and alienation, complaining of crushing job pressures, only to receive tough love?

  One does one's job. That's the key to being professional.

  Now Lehmann wanted to quash any budding inquiry.

  Let the dead rest. His reputation, too.

  When I got home, I looked him up in my American Psychological Association directory. No listing. None in any of the local guilds or health-care provider rosters, either, which was odd, if he was a contractor. But maybe LAPD referrals alone gave him enough business and he didn't need to solicit other sources.

  Or maybe he really was old money, choosing psychology as a second career for personal fulfillment, rather than income. Respite after years in the heartless world of business.

  The big office and leather desk and books - the trappings of doctorhood. Simply props to help him fill the hours before he rode down for a rubdown at the club?

  I phoned the state medical board and confirmed that Roone Mackey Lehmann was indeed duly licensed to practice psychology in California and had been for five years. His degree was from a place called New Dominion University and he'd done his clinical training at the Pathfinder Foundation, neither of which I'd heard of.

  No complaints had ever been filed against him, nothing irregular about his certification.

  I thought about him some more, realized there was nothing I could - or should - do. Bottom line, he was right: If Nolan had been adamant about leaving this world, no one could have stopped him.

  Serious problems.

  My question about sexuality had evoked a meaningful silence, so maybe that had been it.

  A bleak situation. The sister better off not knowing.

  Leading me to the main question: What would I tell Helena?

  I called her at the hospital but she wasn't in. Not at home, either, and I left a message and phoned Milo at the station.

  'New insights?' he said.

  'Sorry, no. Actually, I'm calling about Nolan Dahl.'

  'What about him?'

  'If you're busy-'

  'Wish I was. Been on the phone all day and the closest case I've got to Irit is a retarded thirteen-year-old boy abducted a year ago in Newton Division. Body never found but his sneakers were, full of dried blood. Left in front of the Newton station. No lightbulb-over-the-head feeling but I'm driving over later to look at the actual file. What about Dahl?'

  'I just met with his therapist, fellow named Roone Lehmann. Ever hear of him?'

  'No. Why?'


  'He got the referral through the department and I got the

  feeling he was on some LAPD list.'

  'Could be. Is there some other reason you're asking about him?'

  I told him.

  'So you think maybe he botched Dahl's treatment and is covering his ass.'

  'He implied that Nolan had serious problems that Helena doesn't want to know about.'

  'Meaning if he missed the boat it was a big one.'

  'Exactly. And he's an odd one, Milo. Works in a building with bankers and lawyers, labels himself a consultant but doesn't spell out what he does in the directory. But he's duly licensed, no checkered history, so maybe I'm being paranoid. I would like to know why Nolan went to see him. Would the department keep records?'

  'If it was something to do with the job, they sure would, but good luck getting hold of it. Especially now that he killed himself. If he put in for a stress pension or some other compensation, there'd be a record of that, but once again, things get lost when it suits the right people.'

  'That's another thing,' I said. 'If he was under stress, why'd he transfer from West L.A. to Hollywood?'

  'You got me - maybe he got tired of scumbag celebrities and their battered wives.'

  'My thought was he craved action. liked taking risks.' I told him about the break-in at Nolan's apartment, the cheap lock on the back door.

  'No big surprise,' he said. 'Cops can be super-security freaks or they become danger freaks and get lax. If the public knew how many times we got victimized, the confidence level would sink even lower. If that's possible.'

  'But if Nolan craved danger, why would he buckle?'

  He grunted. 'Your field, not mine. Sounds like we're both

  running the blind-alley marathon. I'd offer to ask around about his records, but it would be a waste of time. One person who might be able to tell you something would be his training officer.'

  'Helena already spoke to him and he was baffled by the suicide.'

  'Name?'

  'A Sergeant Baker.'

  'Wesley Baker?'

  'Don't know the first name. Helena said he's at Parker Center, now.'

  'That's Wes Baker.' His voice changed. Softer. Guarded.

  'You know him?' I said.

  'Oh, yeah... interesting.'

  'What is?'

  'Wes Baker training rookies again. I didn't know, but we don't have much contact with the boys in blue... Listen, Alex, this isn't the best time - or place - to have this discussion. Lemme get over to Newton, check out the year-old abduction file, and if nothing else comes up, I can drop by this evening. If you'll be home.'

  'No plans not to be,' I said, realizing I'd been home for nearly an hour and hadn't gone back to see Robin. 'If I go out, I'll call you.'

  'Fine. I'm heading over to the East Side now. Sayonara.'

  Robin was taking off her goggles when I walked in, and she reached for the vacuum cleaner. At the sight of the hose, Spike began barking furiously. He despises the industrial age. Canine Luddite. When he saw me he stopped, cocked his head, started to trot forward, then changed his mind and returned to attacking the vacuum canister.

  Robin laughed and said, 'Stop.' She tossed a Milk-Bone in a corner and Spike went after it.

  We kissed.

  'How was your day?' she said.

  'Unproductive. Yours?'

  'Quite productive, actually.' She tossed her curls and smiled. 'Don't hate me.'

  'Because you're beautiful?'

  'That, too.' She touched my cheek. 'What went wrong, Alex?'

  'Nothing. Just lots of seek and very little find.'

  'That little girl's murder?'

  'That and another case. A suicide that will probably never be explained.'

  She put her arm through mine and we left the studio, Spike at our heels, breathing excitedly, Milk-Bone crumbs dotting his pendulous flews.

  'I don't envy you,' she said.

  'Don't envy what?'

  'Hunting for explanations.'

  She showered and changed into a charcoal-gray pantsuit and diamond stud earrings and said how about meat, that Argentinian place we'd tried a few months ago.

  'Baked garlic appetizers?' I said. 'Not very social.'

  'It is if we both indulge.'

  'Sure, I'll eat a whole bowl. Afterward we can tango or lambada, whatever, and fume up each other's faces.'

  Suddenly she swooned into my arms. 'Ah, Alessandro!'

  She set Spike up with water and snacks while I changed and left messages at Milo's West L.A. desk, his home in West Hollywood, and the number he used for his after-hours private-eye business, Blue Investigations.

  He'd begun the moonlight gig several years ago, after the

  department took him off duty for punching out a superior who'd endangered his life and banished him to the Parker Center data-processing office in hopes of nudging him off the force. He'd managed to regain his detective position and it had been a while since he'd solicited private work, but he'd held on to the exchange.

  Symbol of freedom, I supposed. Or insecurity. For all the talk of diversity and open recruitment, the role of a gay detective was far from comfortable.

  Had that been Nolan's problem?

  Never married. But he was only twenty-seven.

  Relationships with women in the past, but, as far as Helena knew, nothing recent.

  As far as Helena knew. Which wasn't very far at all.

  I thought of Nolan's apartment. Mattress on the floor, no food in the fridge, the dingy furniture. Even accounting for the trashing, not exactly a swinging bachelor lair.

  A loner. Flirting with all sorts of philosophies, shifting from one political extreme to the other.

  Had self-denial been the latest?

  Or had he divested himself of material pleasures because he just didn't care anymore?

  Or wanted to punish himself.

  Lehmann had used the word sin but when I'd asked him about guilt he'd said he wasn't a priest.

  Somewhere along the line, had he judged Nolan?

  Had Nolan judged himself? Passed sentence and carried out the execution?

  For what?

  I pictured the young cop in Go-Ji's, surrounded by the night denizens he'd been assigned to rein in.

  Drawing out his service gun, putting it in his mouth.

  Symbolic, as so many suicides are?

  Final fellatio?

  Stripping himself bare in front of other sinners? Policemen committed suicide more frequently than civilians, but few did it publically.

  'Ready?' Robin called from the door. 'Oh yeah,' I said. 'Let's tango.'

  The Observer

  The psychologist. His presence complicated matters: attend to him or Sturgis?

  Sturgis was the professional, but so far all the big policeman had done was stay in his office all day.

  On the phone, probably.

  Predictable.

  The psychologist was a bit more adventurous. He'd gone on two outings.

  Perhaps he could be used to advantage.

  The first trip had been to that duplex on Sycamore to meet the pleasant-looking but tense-faced blond woman.

  Her tension made him think: patient? Some kind of on-the-street therapy?

  Of course, there was another possibility: a girlfriend; the guy was stepping out on the woman with the auburn hair who lived with him. A beauty, some kind of sculptress. He'd seen her carrying blocks of wood from her truck to the rear of the house.

  He watched the psychologist and the unhappy woman talk, then go inside the duplex. Liaison with one while the other one chipped away?

  The blond woman was trim and nice-looking but nothing like the sculptress. And the two times he'd seen the sculptress with the psychologist the affection had seemed genuine. Touching each other a lot, that eagerness.

  But logic had little to do with human behavior.

  Terrible things had taught him about the self-destructive element that ran through the human soul like a polluted st
ream.