Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“I understand. Detective Sturgis said he started a fight with members of the Touch and came out the worse for it.”

Houten’s mouth twisted under his mustache.

“That about sums it up. From what I understand Dr. Lynch is a prominent man,” he said skeptically.

“He’s an internationally renowned expert on children’s cancer.”

Another look out the window. I noticed a diploma hanging on the wall behind the desk. He’d earned a bachelor’s degree in criminology from one of the state colleges.

“Cancer.” He mouthed the word softly. “My wife had it. Ten years ago. It ate her up like some wild animal before it killed her. The doctors wouldn’t tell us anything. Hid behind their jargon till the end.”

His smile was frightful.

“Still,” he said, “I don’t recall any of them quite like Dr. Lynch.”

“He’s one of a kind, Sheriff.”

“Seems to have a temper problem. What is he, Guatemalan?”

“Cuban.”

“Same thing. The latino temperament.”

“What he did here wasn’t typical. To my knowledge he’s never been in trouble with the law.”

“I know that, Doctor. We ran him through the computer. That’s one reason I’m willing to be lenient and let him go with just a fine. I’ve got enough to hold him over for quite a while — trespassing, assault, malicious mischief, interfering with an officer. Not to mention the damage he did to their gate with his car. But the circuit judge doesn’t get up this way until winter and we’d have to ship him to San Diego. It would be complicated.”

“I appreciate your leniency and I’ll write a check for any damages.”

He nodded, put out his cigarette, and got on the phone.

“Walt, write up Dr. Lynch’s fines and include the estimate on the gate...No need, Dr. Delaware will come by and pay for it.” A glance in my direction. “Take his check, he looks like an honest man.”

When he hung up he said, “It’s going to be a sizable sum. The man created lots of problems.”

“He must have been traumatized hearing about the Swope murders.”

“We were all traumatized , Doctor. Nineteen hundred and seven people live in this town, not counting migrants. Everyone knows everyone. Yesterday we flew the flag at half mast. When little Woody got sick it was a kick in the gut for all of us. Now this...”

The sun had changed position and it flooded the office. Houten squinted. His eyes disappeared in a thatch of crow’s feet.

“Dr. Lynch seems to have gotten it into his head that the children are here, over in the Retreat,” he said expectantly. I got the feeling I was being tested, and turned it back on him.

“And you feel that’s out of the question.”

“You bet. Those Touch people are — unusual — but they’re not criminals. When folks found out who bought the old monastery, there was one hell of an uproar. I was supposed to play Wyatt Earp and run ’em out of town.” He smiled sleepily. “Farmers don’t always grasp the finer points of due process, so I had to do a bit of educating. The day they drove into town and actually moved in, it was a circus, everyone gawking and pointing.

“That very day I went over and had a chat with Mr. Matthias, gave him a sociology lesson. Told him they’d do best to keep a low profile, patronize local businesses, make timely contributions to the church auxiliary.”

It was precisely the strategy Seth Fiacre had described.

“They’ve been here three years, without a traffic ticket. Folks have grown used to them. I drop in on them when I please, so that everyone knows there’s no witchcraft brewing behind those gates. They’re just as strange as the day they moved in. But that’s all. Strange, not criminal. If felonies were being committed, I’d know about it.”

“Any chance Woody and Nona could be somewhere else around here?”

He lit up again and regarded me coldly.

“Those children were raised here. They played in the fields and explored the dirt roads and never fell into harm’s way. One trip to your big city and all that’s changed. A small town is like a family, doctor. We don’t murder each other, or kidnap each other’s young.”

His experience and training should have taught him that families are the cauldrons in which violence is brewed. But I said nothing.

“There’s one more thing I want you to hear so that you can pass it along to Dr. Lynch.” He got up and stood in front of the window. “This is one giant TV screen. The show is called La Vista. Some days it’s a soap opera, other times a comedy. Once in a while there’s action and adventure. No matter what’s on, I watch it every day.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you would, Doctor.”

He retrieved his hat and put it on.

“Let’s go see how the renowned expert is doing.”

The bolt on the metal door responded noisily to Houten’s key. On the other side were three cells in a row. I thought of the Laminar Airflow rooms. The jail was hot and humid, and it stank of body odor and solitude.

“He’s in the last one,” said Houten.

I followed his bootsteps down the windowless passageway.

Raoul was sitting on a metal bench bolted to the wall, staring at the floor. His cell was seven feet square and contained a bed, also bolted down and covered by a thin stained mattress, a lidless toilet, and a zinc washbasin. From the smell of things the toilet wasn’t in peak condition.

Houten unlocked the door and we walked in.

Raoul looked up with one eye. The other was blackened and swollen shut. A crust of dried blood had formed under his left ear. His lip was split and the color of raw steak. Several buttons were missing from his white silk shirt, which hung open, exposing his soft hairy chest. There was a blue-black bruise along his ribcage. A shirtsleeve had been ripped at the seam and it dangled vestigially. His belt, tie, and shoelaces had been taken from him and I found the sight of his alligator shoes, caked with dirt, the tongue protruding, especially pathetic.

Houten saw my expression and said, “We wanted to clean him up but he started fussing so we let it be.”

Raoul muttered something in Spanish. Houten looked at me, his expression that of a parent faced with a tantruming child.

“You can go now, Dr. Lynch,” he said. “Dr. Delaware will drive you home. You can have your car towed back to Los Angeles at your expense, or leave it here to be fixed. Zack Piersall knows foreign ca—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” snapped Raoul.

“Dr. Lynch—”

“It’s Melendez-Lynch , and your deliberate failure to remember that doesn’t intimidate me. I’m not leaving until the truth comes out.”

“Doctor, you’re in a lot of trouble, potentially. I’m letting you go with fines in order to simplify things for all of us. I’m sure you’ve been under a lot of strain—”

“Don’t patronize me, Sheriff. And stop covering for those murderous quacks!”

“Raoul—” I said.

“No, Alex, you don’t understand. These people are close-minded imbeciles. The tree of knowledge could sprout on their doorstep and they wouldn’t pick the fruit.”

Houten moved his jaws as if trying to bring up a cud of patience.

“I want you out of my town,” he said softly.

“I won’t go,” Raoul insisted, gripping the bench with both hands to demonstrate his intransigence.

“Sheriff,” I said, “let me speak to him alone.”

Houten shrugged, left the cell, and locked me in. He walked away, and after the metal door closed behind him I turned to Raoul.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!”

“Don’t lecture me, Alex.” He stood and shook a fist in my face.

I stepped back instinctively. He stared at his upraised hand, dropped it to his side and mumbled an apology. Collapsing as if he’d been fileted, he sat back down.