Burning Man

by Alan Russell

  “Our talks were confidential.”

  “I am not going to ask him about what you talked about.”

  “It still feels like an invasion of privacy.”

  “What do you think a police investigation is? Is there a reason you don’t want me to talk to him?”

  “I don’t want him to get into any trouble.”

  “Why would he get in trouble?”

  “He went out of his way to help me.”

  “And how did he do that?”

  “We talked on the phone a few times when he wasn’t working at the help line. And he met with me once or twice.”

  “And I’m assuming personal calls and meetings aren’t allowed?”

  “He only did those things because he was afraid I might do something drastic and wanted to make sure I was all right.”

  “Where did the meetings take place?”

  “We talked in his car.”

  “You met with him in his car?”

  “That’s where I asked to meet. I didn’t want anyone seeing us.”

  “Was there any physical contact between the two of you?”

  Dinah’s answer was shrill: “Of course not! All he did was try and help me. See, I was right. I knew you’d make it look like he did something wrong.”

  “It seems to me he would have helped you a lot more by reporting the bullying to the school administration.”

  “He wanted to, but I convinced him not to.”

  “I need his name, Dinah.”

  “He never gave it to me. The help lines are anonymous.”

  Her voice tailed off. Even she knew her lie sounded lame. “You know, with one phone call I can get his name, but do you want me to do that? It would mean involving other people, including your family.”

  “Can’t you understand that I don’t want to betray a confidence?”

  “If you call him now and explain the situation, he’ll understand you don’t have a choice. And after you do that I want you to have him call me back at this number.”

  Dinah sighed and then clicked off.

  Two minutes later my phone rang. A male voice asked me if he was speaking with Detective Gideon, and when I told him he was, the man said, “This is Dave Miller. Dinah Hakimi said you wanted to talk with me.”

  “You’re her counselor?”

  “I am not a licensed counselor. I am a volunteer at the Community Crisis Line.”

  “How long have you been advising Dinah?”

  “We first started talking about a year ago.”

  “Dinah didn’t want to give me your name. She was afraid of getting you into trouble.”

  “I’ve already reassured her about that. I told her that I brought any trouble on myself by breaking the rules.”

  “So why is it that you thought you were above the rules?”

  “That’s not what I thought or think. I understand the reasoning behind the rules. I know counselors need to maintain boundaries between themselves and those they are trying to help. And in the eighteen months I’ve worked at the Community Crisis Line, I never violated those rules. In Dinah’s case, though, I felt the need to intervene. I tried to refer her to specialists, but she refused to talk to anyone but me. When she threatened to kill herself, I agreed to meet with her in person.”

  “Was she crying wolf?”

  “I don’t think so. But I still should have found a better way to help her other than by meeting with her.”

  “I’d like a face-to-face with you—today, if possible.”

  “Since today is my volunteer day, I am going to be in the LA area anyway. I can talk with you in the early afternoon, but I am scheduled to be on the phones beginning at three.”

  “Where are the offices of the Community Crisis Line?”

  “Culver City.”

  “And where are you driving from?”

  “I live just above Temecula.”

  Temecula is in the south of Riverside County and nowhere near Culver City. “That’s a long commute.”

  “I only do it one or two days a week. When I first started volunteering at the Community Crisis Line, I lived in West LA and then last year moved to De Luz. It’s a bit of a drive, but I didn’t want to quit the help line.”

  “Let’s meet in Culver City at two then. Do you know a good spot to talk?”

  He thought a moment and then said, “Are you familiar with the lobby bar in the Culver Hotel?”

  I almost said something about following the yellow brick road but refrained. I had frequented the Tiny Town retreat a few times and told him I would be there at two.

  Over a cup of coffee and a piece of burned toast, I googled “bullying causes teen suicide.” I was sorry to see there were so many hits and so many sad stories. According to what I gleaned, there are about five thousand teen suicides in the United States every year, but in some ways that’s only the tip of the iceberg; for every successful suicide, there are many, many attempts. There is even a word for a suicide caused by bullying: “bullycide.”

  Among teens, suicide is the third leading cause of death, and sensitive children are especially vulnerable to bullies. I wondered if the bullying pack sensed that, and if they targeted the vulnerable just like animals of prey did. Even the mental health professionals aren’t sure of which comes first: the depression that worsens from the teasing, or the teasing that causes depression. What isn’t in question is that the bullying makes it worse for the suffering victim. Even someone strong like Dinah Hakimi had been beaten down by her tormentors.

  Unfortunately, home is no longer a place to be safe from the bullies. Cyberbullying can be just as bad, if not worse, than being physically bullied. Electronic character assassinations are all too commonplace. Young people don’t have the coping mechanisms that come with age, and I read about suicides that had resulted from poison-pen websites and devastating instant messages and anonymous posts. One mother had gotten involved in her daughter’s fight and posed as a sixteen-year-old boy to lure in her daughter’s rival. After pretending friendship, the mother had written devastating comments about the girl, who ultimately committed suicide.

  Those stories and others dominated my thoughts during my drive to the Police Administration Building. Gump and Martinez were holed up on the fifth floor, the home for Robbery-Homicide. We met in a conference room and went over where we were with the case.

  I found a spare desk and used my laptop to continue delving into the world of cyberbullying. I wondered if Klein and company had gone that route, and added it to my list of things to check out.

  Of course Klein hadn’t been averse to the old-fashioned kind of bullying either. I made a call to Troy Vincent, the lacrosse player Klein had allegedly coldcocked. When I identified myself and the purpose for my call, Vincent sounded distinctly uncomfortable.

  “You’re not supposed to say bad things about dead people, are you?” he said.

  “That’s a saying,” I said, “but not a reality.”

  Reluctantly, Vincent agreed to meet with me the following morning at his high school.

  I thought about the need for people to speak ill of the dead. If not for Dinah Hakimi’s card, I might not have gotten a lead on Paul Klein’s bullying. These days, when people die their obituaries are available online, and friends and acquaintances are encouraged to leave testimonials. I had this feeling that sometimes it’s not only friends that feel the urge to write something. I looked up Paul Klein’s obit online and then went to the guest book where I could read the entries that had been left. Almost eight hundred people had written notes for Paul, the kind of figure that’s usually only generated by professional athletes and actors. Klein’s unusual death had struck a nerve not only in LA but also in the country.

  After looking through a few hundred entries, I began to suspect something wasn’t right. Each of the notes expressed sorrow. As far as I could determine, there were no undercurrents and not even a hint of discord. That didn’t seem possible to me. Even saints have their detractors. I was certain a
censor’s hand was at work.

  My suspicions were confirmed when I contacted the Dearly Departed website and was able to talk to its obituary editor, Mary Ann Wiggins. “About a third of our staff spends its days vetting comments on the guest book,” she said. “Nothing gets posted until we have checked through it carefully.”

  Cyberbullying apparently didn’t only extend to the living. “People like to speak ill of the dead?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what comes through here. It’s nastier than you could imagine.”

  “I’m a cop.”

  That meant I had seen and heard everything, but that didn’t stop Wiggins from telling me a few stories. I heard about sons and daughters trying to “set the record straight.” It was Mommie Dearest multiplied tenfold. She also told me about outsiders with axes to grind who weren’t placated by death; people wanted to expose supposed pillars of the community as drunks, pedophiles, adulterers, and whoremongers.

  “Of course our readers don’t get to see those comments,” Wiggins said.

  “Those are exactly the comments I want to see,” I said.

  “I don’t know if that would be possible.”

  “I am hoping you can make it possible. It’s important. Your assistance might help us nail a murderer.”

  I second-guessed myself for using the word “nail,” but Wiggins didn’t seem to notice. She promised to see what she could do, and said she would get back to me. Wiggins sounded sincere.

  Tom Sawyer got to watch his own funeral and hear what everyone had to say about him. Public bereavement is one thing, private thoughts are another. Someone had taken speaking ill of the dead to a new level by crucifying Paul Klein and putting him on display. If I was lucky, maybe even that kind of revenge wasn’t enough for the killer, and even now he was intent on inflicting more damage on his victim.

  Before meeting with Dave Miller, I did a cursory background check on him. Miller was fifty years old and had been a successful jeweler, the owner of two mall jewelry stores in the Los Angeles area. He’d been divorced for ten years. Miller had never been arrested; he didn’t even have a recent moving violation. There were no court actions other than the divorce attached to his name. Many jewelers are registered handgun owners; Miller had never registered a gun in his name.

  I arrived a few minutes early for our meet-up and parked in a parking lot a block from the hotel. The Culver Hotel has been around since before the Great Depression, and has managed to survive earthquakes, economic downturns, and redevelopment. When it was built in the Roaring Twenties, the six-story building had been described as a skyscraper. These days it’s a national historical landmark. Its main claim to fame, though, is that it housed the Munchkins.

  When The Wizard of Oz was being filmed in 1938, 124 little people stayed at the Culver Hotel. If Judy Garland is to be believed, the occupants of the Culver Hotel were into nonstop partying. The hotel guests might have been little, but they partied big—there were stories of drunken escapades and wild sex parties. All of those supposed Munchkin antics inspired the 1981 movie Under the Rainbow.

  Dorothy left a black-and-white Kansas for the color of Munchkinville and Oz. When I stepped into the lobby, it wasn’t exactly like stepping into another world, but I did appreciate the high ceilings of the hotel as well as its old world charm.

  There were only a few people in the lobby bar, and only one of them was sizing me up. I walked toward the man’s table, and he got to his feet. He was middle-aged, with droopy brown eyes, frown lines, and salt-and-pepper hair. Because I’ve worked with dogs for much of my adult life, I often categorize people as breeds. Happy, animated sorts are golden retrievers. Those that are nervous and hyper are Jack Russell terriers. Beautiful people are poodles. Those with OCD are border collies. Solid citizens are Airedales. Class clowns are Labradors. Sensitive sorts are basset hounds. Independent types are cairn terriers, a breed that came to mind because of my being in Munchkinville. Toto was a cairn terrier, but Dave Miller was no Toto. The man reminded me of a basset hound, probably because of his eyes.

  We shook hands and confirmed our identities. A server came over. I ordered an iced tea; Miller went with a tonic water.

  “So what made you flee LA?” I asked.

  The question appeared to surprise him. “Flee?”

  “Why did you move to Temecula?”

  “I like to describe it as a Field of Dreams thing, but without the voices. I had this Kevin Costner midlife crisis I suppose. After twenty-five years of being a jeweler and having responsibility over two stores, I cashed in my chips and bought a forty-acre avocado farm.”

  “So now you’re a farmer?”

  “No, I’m a landowner pretending to be a farmer.”

  “It’s just a hobby?”

  “If it is, it’s an all-consuming hobby. Last year my avocado crop brought in more than sixty thousand dollars, but that doesn’t take into account all of my expenses. I figure with all the hours I put in I didn’t even make minimum wage.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve embarked upon quite an adventure.”

  “Is that a polite way of saying I’m crazy?”

  “Maybe you just like guacamole more than most.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Was this ranch a lifetime dream of yours?”

  Miller shook his head. “An opportunity presented itself and I acted.”

  “It sounds like a big change. Most people would be scared to start a new life like that. Wasn’t it hard leaving behind friends and family in LA?”

  “I don’t have any family in LA. I’m divorced. And now that I have a place in the country, all my LA friends have a good reason to come and visit me. It almost feels like I’ve opened a bed and breakfast.”

  “How is it that you started volunteering at the help line?”

  “My best friend committed suicide,” Miller said. “Afterward I wondered what I could have said or done that might have made a difference. It bothered me that I never really picked up on all the signs I should have seen. And then one day I heard a public service announcement asking for volunteers for the Community Crisis Line.”

  “Are most of the help lines manned by volunteers?”

  “Some are and some aren’t. Community Mental Health operates one help line, and the LA County Department of Mental Health has another. Cedars Sinai operates a line that has teens helping other teens. And then there are the national help numbers as well.”

  “What kind of formal training did you have?”

  “I went to classes for a month. There were sixty hours of lectures and a few tests I had to pass. Before doing the training, I had to make a four-hour-a-week commitment for a minimum of one year. More than anything, though, I think I needed to demonstrate that I had a sympathetic ear. That’s what I am there for—to listen.”

  “But with Dinah Hakimi you did more than listen?”

  Miller nodded. “I don’t offer this as an excuse, Detective, but more as an explanation. I didn’t want another death on my conscience. I never helped my friend like I should have, and I wasn’t about to make that mistake with Dinah. I must admit to being somewhat surprised, though.”

  “Surprised about what?”

  “That you sought me out for this talk. I know I shouldn’t have met with Dinah privately, but we didn’t do anything against the law, and I’m willing to take a polygraph to that effect.”

  “I am not here about your private sessions with Dinah. I am here because the bully that was plaguing Dinah was murdered.”

  “Oh,” Miller said. He nodded several times while taking in the news. His face didn’t reveal his take on the information.

  I waited for him to break the silence. When he did, Miller said, “If Dinah is a suspect in any form or fashion, she shouldn’t be.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She could never commit murder. She is a gentle soul. She would hurt herself sooner than hurt someone else. That was the problem, you see. She turned her anger inward. Even thou
gh she was without blame, she started blaming herself, and that began a vicious cycle.”

  “How do you feel knowing that her tormentor is dead?”

  Miller didn’t answer right away. When he did he said, “For Dinah’s sake, I’m relieved.”

  “Some mental health therapists go into the profession because they like to think of themselves as saviors.”

  “I am not a mental health therapist.”

  “But you’re a voice in the darkness.”

  “I hope I am.”

  “I think I became a cop to help others. It must have been hard to listen to the anguish of a young lady and yet not be able to do anything about it.”

  “It was difficult, but I was doing something about it. I listened to Dinah, and I tried to make sure she didn’t fixate on the present but instead looked to the future.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  Miller shook his head.

  “Did you begin to feel paternal with Dinah? When we talked on the phone, you said you broke the rules because you felt responsible for her.”

  “I care about Dinah, but I have never thought of her as a daughter.”

  “Did you ever consider confronting the bullies? It must have been hard just sitting back and having to hear about all their mind games.”

  “I am sure everyone has fantasies about being a knight in shining armor, but I know it does no good in the long run to fight someone else’s battles. What I did was to try and teach Dinah coping mechanisms.”

  “How did your friend kill himself?”

  Miller took a deep breath, sighed, and said, “He shot himself.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I think the pain became too great for him to endure it any longer.”

  I nodded. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I had been there. “I can understand why you wanted to help Dinah,” I said, “but I am still going to have to contact the director of the help line and tell him what transpired.”

  Miller nodded. “I figured as much. That’s why I set up a meeting with him this afternoon. I don’t anticipate a good outcome.”

  “For what it’s worth, Dinah thinks you saved her life.”

  “It’s worth a lot.”