Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

Late on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I stood on the lawn across from the entrance to the Retreat and waited for Matthias. Furnace-blast winds had strafed the southern half of the state without letup for thirty-six hours and though sunset was drawing near the heat refused to dissipate. Sticky, itchy, and overdressed in jeans, chambray shirt, and a calfskin jacket, I sought the shade of the old oaks circling the fountain.

He emerged from the main building encircled by a cocoon of followers, glanced in my direction and bade them disperse. They moved to a hilly spot, sat and began to meditate. He approached slowly and deliberately, staring downward, as if searching for something in the grass.

We came face to face. Instead of greeting me, he dropped to the ground, folded himself into a lotus position, and stroked his beard.

“I don’t see pockets in the outfit you’re wearing,” I said. “No place to hold a substantial wad of cash. I hope that doesn’t mean you didn’t take me seriously.”

He ignored me and stared off into space. I tolerated it for a few minutes then made a show of losing my patience.

“Cut the holy-man, crap, Matthews. It’s time to talk business.”

A fly settled on his forehead, walked nimbly along the edge of the crater-scar. It didn’t seem to bother him.

“State your business,” he said softly.

“I thought I was pretty clear over the phone.”

He picked a stalk of clover and twirled it in his long fingers.

“About certain things, yes. You confessed to trespassing, assault on Brother Baron, and burglary. What remains unclear is why there should be any — business for you and me to conduct.”

“And yet you’re here. Listening.”

He smiled.

“I pride myself on maintaining an open mind.”

“Listen,” I said, turning to go. “I’ve had a rough couple of days and my tolerance for bullshit is at an all time low. What I’ve got will keep. You want to think about it, go ahead. Just add a thousand a day in late fees.”

“Sit down,” he said.

I settled opposite him, crossing my legs and tucking them under me. The ground was as hot as a waffle iron. The itch in my chest and belly had intensified. Off in the distance the cultists bowed and scraped.

His hand left his beard and stroked the grass idly.

“You mentioned a substantial sum of money over the phone,” he said.

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Three installments of fifty thousand each. The first today, the following two at six-month intervals.”

He worked hard at looking amused.

“Why in the world would I pay you that kind of money?”

“For you it’s petty cash. If the party I saw a couple of nights ago is typical, you and your zombies shovel that much up your noses in a week.”

“Are you implying that we use illicit drugs?” he asked, mockingly.

“Perish the thought. No doubt you’ve removed the stash, stowed it somewhere else, and would welcome a police search with open arms. Just like you did the first time I was here. But I’ve got Polaroids from the party that would make great porno for the geriatric set. All those worn-out bodies grinding away. Bowls of snow and straws up noses. Not to mention a couple of clear shots of the cache under your bookcase.”

“Photographs of consenting adults having sex,” he recited, sounding suddenly like an attorney, “bowls on a table containing an unknown substance. Plastic bags. It doesn’t add up to much. Certainly not a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“How much is avoiding a murder rap worth?”

His eyes narrowed and his face changed into something lupine and predatory. He tried to stare me down but it was no contest. The itch had grown nearly unbearable and gazing back at the brutal mask was a welcome distraction.

“Go on,” he said.

“I made three copies of the file, added a page of interpretation to each one, and put them in separate safe places. Along with the pictures and instructions to several attorneys in the event of my untimely demise. Before I copied I read through it several times. Fascinating.”

He looked composed but his right hand gave him away. The bony white fingers had clawed the ground and ripped out a handful of grass.

“Generalities are worthless,” he whispered harshly. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“All right,” I said, “Let’s flash back a little over twenty years ago. Long before you discovered the guru scam. You’re sitting in your office on Camden Drive. A mousy little woman named Emma is on the other side of the desk. She’s traveled all the way from a hick town called La Vista to Beverly Hills and has paid you a hundred dollars for a confidential legal consultation. A lot of money in those days.

“Emma’s story is a sad one, though no doubt you think of it as third-rate melodrama. Finding herself trapped in a loveless marriage she’d sought comfort in the arms of another man. A man who made her feel things she’d never imagined possible. The affair had been heavenly, true refuge. Until she became pregnant by her lover. Panicked, she hid the fact for as long as possible and when she started showing, told her husband the child was his. The cuckold had been ecstatic, ready to celebrate, and when he uncorked the champagne she nearly died of guilt.

“She’d considered an abortion but had been too scared to go through with it. She prayed for a miscarriage but none came. You ask her if she’s told her lover about the problem and she says no, horrified at the thought. He’s a pillar of the community, a deputy sheriff charged with upholding the law. On top of that, he’s married, with a pregnant wife of his own. Why destroy two families? Besides he hasn’t called in a long time, confirming her suspicions that for him the relationship had been primarily carnal all along. Does she feel abandoned? No. She’s sinned and now she’s paying for it.

“As the fetus grows in her womb so does the burden of her secret. She lives the lie for eight and a half months until she can’t take it any longer. On a day when her husband is out of town she gets on the bus and heads north, to Beverly Hills.

“Now she sits in your big glossy office, so out of her element, just weeks from delivery, confused and terrified. She’s considered her options for plenty of sleepless nights and has finally come to a decision. She wants out. A divorce, quick and easy, with no explanation. She’ll leave town, have the baby in solitude, maybe in Mexico, put it up for adoption, and start a new life far away from the site of her transgression. She’s read about you in the pages of a Hollywood fan magazine and is sure you’re the man for the job.

“As you listen to her, it’s clear that quick and easy is out of the question. The case would be a messy one. That by itself wouldn’t have stopped you from taking it on, because the messy cases bring in the fattest fees. But Emma Swope wasn’t your type of client. Drab and unglamorous and strictly small town. Most important, she didn’t smell of money.

“You took her hundred, and discouraged her from engaging your services. Gave her a line about doing better with a local attorney. She left red-eyed and heavy-bellied and you filed it away and forgot about it.

“Years later you get shot in the head and decide to make a career switch. You’ve built up lots of connections with the big money people, which in L.A. includes the dope trade. I don’t know who suggested it first, you or one of them, but you decide to go for megabucks as a coke and smack middleman. The fact that it’s illegal adds to the appeal because you see yourself as a victim, as having been failed by the system you’d served faithfully. Dealing dope is your way of saying fuck the system. The money and power aren’t too shabby, either.