Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“He’s one of a kind. He won’t last much longer here.”

We headed west on Sunset.

“You going to check out his story?” I asked.

“I could ask the Touch people how well they know him but if there is some kind of conspiracy they’d lie. Best thing is to call the sheriff down there and find out if the joker’s been spotted more than once. Small town like that the law tends to notice things.”

“I know someone who might be familiar with the Touch. Want me to call him?”

“Why not? Couldn’t hurt.”

He drove me home and stayed for a minute to look at the koi. He was transfixed by the colorful fish and smiled as they gobbled down the pellets he tossed them. When he tore himself away to leave, his big body seemed heavy and slow.

“Any longer, I’d stay here till my beard turned white.”

We shook hands, he gave a little salute, turned and ambled off for another afternoon of witnessing the human animal at its worst.

I phoned Professor Seth Fiacre at UCLA. He’s an old classmate from grad school, a social psychologist who’d been studying cults for several years.

“Hi, Alex,” he said, cheerful as always, “just got back from Sacramento. Senate hearings. Stultifying.”

We reminisced and played catch-up and then I told him why I’d called.

“The Touch? I’m surprised you’ve even heard of them. They’re not well-known and they don’t proselytize. They’ve got a place called the Retreat, used to be a monastery, down near the Mexican border.”

“What about the leader — Matthias?”

“Noble Matthias. He was a lawyer originally. Used to call himself Norman Matthews.”

“What kind of law did he practice?”

“I don’t know. But it was high powered. Beverly Hills.”

Attorney to guru seemed an unlikely metamorphosis.

“Why the change of lifestyle?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Alex. Most charismatic leaders claim some sort of cosmic vision, usually after a trauma. Your basic voice in the desert stuff. Maybe he ran out of gas in the Mojave and saw God.”

I laughed.

“I wish I could tell you more, Alex. The group hasn’t attracted much attention because it’s so small, maybe sixty members. And like I said, they’re not out looking for converts, so it’ll probably stay small. Whether or not that’ll change if there’s increased attrition remains to be seen. They’ve only been around for three or four years. Another thing that’s unusual is that most of their members are middle-aged. Groups that recruit tend to go after young people. In practical terms that means you don’t have parents screaming to the cops or calling in the deprogrammers.”

“Are they into holistic health?”

“Probably. Most of these groups are. It’s part of rejecting the values of the greater society. But I haven’t heard about them obsessing on it, if that’s what you mean. I think their focus is more on self-sustenance. Growing their own food, making their own clothes. Like the original Utopians — Oneida, Ephrata, New Harmony. Can I ask why you want to know all of this?”

I told him about the Swopes’ decision not to treat Woody and the family’s subsequent disappearance.

“Does that sound like something this group could be involved in, Seth?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, because they’re reclusive. Taking on the medical establishment would subject them to lots of scrutiny.”

“They did visit the family,” I reminded him.

“If they wanted to be subversive why do it so publicly? You said the family lived near the Retreat?”

“From what I understand.”

“So maybe they were just being neighborly. In a small town like La Vista there’s bound to be plenty of distrust of oddballs on the part of the natives. A smart oddball makes a special effort to be friendly. It’s good survival strategy.”

“Speaking of survival,” I asked, “how do they support themselves?”

“My guess is member contributions. On the other hand, Matthews was a rich man. He could be bankrolling the whole thing himself just for the power and prestige. If they’re really into self-reliance the overhead wouldn’t be that high.”

“One more thing, Seth. Why do they call themselves the Touch?”

He laughed. “Damned if I know. I think I’ll sic a grad student on it.”

Mal Worthy called me later that day.

“It appears that Mrs. Moody didn’t get a rat because she was destined for bigger and better things. This morning she found a dog eviscerated, hanging from the front doorknob by its entrails. He castrated it too, stuffed the balls in its mouth.”

Revulsion kept me silent.

“What a guy, huh? On top of that he snuck in a phone call, in defiance of the order, talked to the boy and told him to run away. The kid obeyed and it took seven hours to find him. They finally caught up with him late last night, wandering around the parking lot of some mall, five miles from home. Apparently he thought his father was going to pick him up and take him away. No one showed up and he was scared out of his mind, poor kid. Needless to say Darlene is going bananas, and I’m calling to ask you to see the kids. More for their mental health than anything else.”

“Did they see the dog?”

“Thank God, no. She cleaned it up before they had a chance. How soon can you see them?”

“I won’t have access to the office until Saturday.” I’d been renting space for forensic evaluations in the Brentwood suite of a colleague, but only had use of the office on weekends.

“You can do it here. Just name the time.”

“Can you get them down there in a couple of hours?”

“You got it.”

The offices of Trenton, Worthy & La Rosa were located on the penthouse floor of a high-prestige building at the intersection of Roxbury and Wilshire. Mal, resplendent in a navy silk and worsted from Bijan, was in the waiting room to greet me personally. He informed me I’d be using his office. I remembered it as a cavernous, dark-walled room with an oversized amorphous desk that looked like a piece of free-form sculpture, saw-toothed abstract prints hanging from the paneling, and shelves full of expensive — and breakable — mementos. Not an ideal place for child therapy but it would have to do.

I rearranged some chairs, moved an end table, and created a play area in the center of the room. Removing paper, pencils, crayons, hand puppets, and a portable playhouse from my carrying case, I placed them on the table. Then I went to fetch the Moody children.

They were waiting in the law library: Darlene, Carlton Conley, and the children, who’d been dressed as if for church.

The three year old, April, wore a white taffeta dress and white patent leather sandals over lace-hemmed socks. Her blond hair had been ribboned and braided. She nestled sleepily in her mother’s lap, worrying a knee scab and sucking her thumb.

Her brother’d been costumed in a white western shirt, brown corduroy pants with the cuffs turned up, a snap-on tie and black oxfords. His face had been scrubbed, his dark hair slicked down in an unsuccessful attempt to make it behave. He looked as miserable in the getup as any nine year old could. When he saw me he turned away.

“Now, Ricky, don’t be rude to the doctor,” admonished his mother. “Say hello, nice and polite. Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Mrs. Moody.”

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled.

Conley got up from his seat next to her and shook my hand, grinning awkwardly. The judge had been right. Except for being significantly taller, he looked strikingly like the man he’d replaced.

“Doctor,” he said weakly.

“Hello, Mr. Conley.”

April stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled at me. She’d been the easy one during the evaluation, an expressive, happy child. Because she was a girl her father had chosen to ignore her and she’d been spared his destructive love. Ricky was the favorite; he’d suffered for it.