Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

His eyes clamped shut. “Terrible sight. He’d been mangled. Shrapnel flyoff from a land mine on D-Day. Larger pieces and he’d have been sheared in two, fortunately he survived. However, the shards that did find their way into his body left hideous scars on his legs. And nothing much in the way of manhood.”

“Poor man.”

“When I saw it, Dr. Delaware, I couldn’t help myself, I cried like a baby. Not my style, when my mother passed I held myself in check. But Jimmy like that?”

Long sigh. “He pulled up his trousers and smiled and said, ‘So you see, Felix, it’s not for lack of interest, it’s for lack of equipment.’ Then he took a long swallow from the flask-emptied it-said, ‘You drive home.’ ”

Monahan placed both hands to his temples. “Jimmy was a man’s man. And you need to honor that and vow to not repeat this to anyone because if Grace ever learned the truth and that I was the one who told you, it would destroy her and do irreparable harm to my marriage.”

“I promise, Mr. Monahan. But there’s something you need to consider: The lieutenant I work with is honorable and discreet, but he’s also extremely persistent and left to his own devices he may eventually trace the car back to Jimmy, as I did. I have credibility with him and if I’m allowed to give him some basic details, it’s unlikely you’ll ever hear from him.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “But you can’t guarantee.”

“I’m being honest, Mr. Monahan.”

“You’re a psychologist, sir. Your allegiance should be building people up, not tearing them down.”

“I agree.”

“What would you like to tell this policeman?”

“That Jimmy was a good man whose war injuries prevented him from fathering a child. That most of his life seems to have centered around good deeds.”

“Not most,” said Felix Monahan. “All. A purer soul never walked this earth.”

His eyes swept over my face, thorough as a CAT scanner. “I choose to consider you a man of honor.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Show your appreciation by doing the right thing.”

A call to the development office at Western Peds added focus to Dr. James Asherwood’s generosity. Back in the sixties he’d endowed a small fund for the neonatal ICU.

Special concern for problem newborns on the part of a man unable to father children. A man who worked ob-gyn at a place where covert abortions were standard operating procedure.

How that connected to a baby buried under a tree eluded me.

That night the big blue Duesenberg didn’t appear in my dream but a cream-colored Auburn Boattail Speedster did. No reason to believe Jimmy Asherwood’s had been that color but I’d pulled up images on the Web, supplied my own script and scenery.

In the dream, Asherwood and a young Felix Monahan, who bore a striking resemblance to me in my twenties, roared up a series of dusty, sun-splotched canyons that snaked through the Santa Monica Mountains.

The ride ended with a smoke and a nip from a silver flask at a spot where the ocean grew vast. Then a return ride that felt more like aerial gliding than motoring.

When Asherwood dropped me at the dingy apartment building on Overland that had housed me during starving-student days, he tipped his fedora and saluted and I did the same and I assured him I’d never betray him.

His smile was blinding. “I trust you, Alex.”

The following morning Milo dropped in at nine o’clock.

Robin had left early for a trip to Temecula, visiting an old Italian violin-maker who’d finally retired and was parting with maple, ebony, and ivory. I was sitting at the kitchen table reviewing a custody report that had a decent chance of being read because the judge was a decent human being. Blanche curled at my feet relishing the shallow sleep of dogs, snoring gently. She sensed Milo’s presence before the door opened, was up on her feet waiting for him.

He said, “Ah, the security system,” patted her head, placed his attache case on the table, and sat down.

No fridge-scavenge. Maybe he’d eaten a big breakfast.

“Time for current events, class.” Out of the case came a rolled-up newspaper. The masthead read:

The Corsair

The voice of Santa Monica College

A pair of articles shared the front page: a feature on renewed interest in the benefits of high colonics and “SMC Student Plays Crucial Role in Westside Murder.”

Heather Goldfeder’s headshot was accurately elfin. The slant was her “extreme bravery after coming across a hideously slain homicide corpse as she trained for a marathon in Cheviot Park. ‘What made it worse,’ said the SMC freshman, ‘was this wasn’t the first murder in my neighborhood, a little baby skeleton was also found in the park and there was also another baby dug up real close to where I live. Though I heard that one was real old.’ ”

I said, “Let’s hear it for freedom of the press. Maria know yet?”

“She woke me at six, was spewing like I’ve never heard her. I told her it hadn’t come from me, she said she didn’t believe me, I said feel free to waste time investigating. Then she started in on how it was my responsibility to muzzle my witness and I said last I heard gag orders came from judges.”

He put the paper away. “The one who’s really got steam coming out of her ears is that Times gal, LeMasters. She left a message an hour ago using naughty words and accusing me of allowing this august publication to scoop her, probably because I have a kid who goes there.”

He went to the fridge, searched a top shelf.

I said, “Any tips come in?”

“Nothing serious yet, and I don’t think there will be unless Flower Dress’s picture goes public. Still waiting to hear back from Maria on that.”

He tried a lower tier. “What’s with you guys, no leftovers?”

“We’ve been eating out.”

“Not even a doggie bag? Oh, yeah, that’s not a dog, it’s an alien princess who won’t touch her foie gras unless it’s been consecrated by a celebrity chef. Am I right about that, mademoiselle?”

Blanche trotted up to him, cocked her head to the side.

Grumbling about his back, he bent low to rub behind her ears. She rolled over and exposed her belly. He murmured something about “Entitlement.” She purred. “Nice to see my charm transcends gender.”

I said, “She’s a happy girl. Had lamb chop leftovers last night.”

“Don’t gloat, Dr. De Sade.” He foraged some more, returned with a half pint of cottage cheese and a bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce that he glurped directly into the container, concocting a melange that evoked something you’d find at a shotgun homicide.

Three tablespoons later: “Got the DNA results on everything. Nothing in the old bones, too degraded, but plenty in the new bones: The baby’s mommy had some African American heritage so Flower Dress wasn’t her. So much for the mother-child-bad-daddy theory. Any suggestions?”

“Nothing that would make you feel better.”

“Try me.”

“Take away the family angle and you could have an offender who murders all kinds of people for motives you won’t understand until you catch him.”

“A pleasure killer,” he said. “Gets off on amateur taxidermy. I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, knew you would.” His eyes dropped to the cottage cheese container. He downed another spoonful of clotted red soup. First time I’d seen him grimace after ingesting anything.

Dumping the mixture in the trash, he drank water from the tap. “So what’s my plan, just wait and hope this nutcase screws up on the next one?”

“You could put the park under surveillance.”