Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“No sex life?”

“Nonexistent sex life and social life, according to her. She said she preferred it that way. Was that true or merely rationalization? I don’t know. In fact, I can’t say anything about her with confidence because I never got to see her long enough to break through the resistance. In the end, it didn’t matter: She got what she wanted. That’s the world we’re living in, Alex. Genuinely sick people encounter the likes of Vita who block their treatment and big money’s doled out for exaggerated claims because it’s cheaper to settle.”

“What’s the name of the lawyer who represented her?”

“I asked for official documents but never got them, had to work from a case summary provided by the casualty insurers.”

“Why all the hush-hush?”

“Their position was I needed to be viewed as objective in case my conclusions were called into question.”

The regretful look in his eyes deepened. “Looking back, sure, I was used. I’ll never repeat the experience.”

“What kind of personal information did Vita give you?”

“Not much, taking a history was an ordeal,” he said. “I did get her to grudgingly admit to a difficult childhood. But once again, can we be sure Vita didn’t bring some of that upon herself?”

“Cranky kid.”

“I’ve come to appreciate the importance of temperament. We’re all dealt set hands, the key is how we play them. After observing Vita Berlin as a middle-aged woman it’s hard to imagine her as a sweet, cheerful child. But I could be wrong. Perhaps something turned her sour.”

“Was she ever married?”

“She admitted to an early marriage but refused to talk about it. There was one sibling, a sister, they grew up near Chicago. Vita moved to L.A. ten years ago because she hated the weather in the Midwest. But she hated L.A., too. Everyone was stupid, superficial. Anything else-oh, yes, she never had children, detested kids, called them wastes of sperm and eggs-her phrasing. So how long have you worked for the police?”

“I’m not on payroll, more of an independent contractor.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Shacker. “Seeing the dark side and all that. Though I’m not sure I could handle it. To tell the truth, I’m really not that curious about horrible things. All those terrible dyssynchronies.”

“Me, neither,” I lied. “It’s the solution that’s gratifying.”

“My impression is that profiling has turned out to be quite a dud.”

“Cookbooking never works. Could I ask you a few more questions about Vita?”

“Such as?”

“Did she have friends or outside interests?”

“My impression is she was somewhat of a homebody.”

“Did you pick up any signs of substance abuse?”

“No. Why?”

“The police found a couple of bulk-sized whiskey bottles in her apartment. Hidden.”

“Did they? Well, that’s humbling, Alex, I never caught that. Not that I could be expected to, given her resistance.” He looked at his watch. “If there’s nothing else-”

“How many sessions did she have?”

“A few-six, seven.”

“Do you have her chart here?”

“The insurance company took possession of all records.”

His desk phone rang. He went over and picked it up. “Dr. Shacker… oh, hi… well, I could squeeze you in today if that would work… yes, of course, it’s my pleasure, we’ll go over all of that once you’re here.”

Hanging up, he said, “There’s one more thing, Alex. I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but I will. She mentioned the name of one of the people who’d harassed her. Samantha, no last name. Might that help?”

“It might. Thanks.”

“No problem. Now back to doing what we were trained for, eh? Nice to meet you, Alex.”

Walking to the Seville, I thought about the question mark in the pizza box. An old case I’d forgotten.

Milo had assumed a taunt but maybe a question really had been posed. I called his office. He said, “You get an appointment with that shrink?”

“Just finished meeting with him.” I summed up.

“Post-traumatic hoohah and a bully named Samantha? It’s a start, thank you, Doctor.”

“Unfortunately, Shacker’s bound by a confidentiality clause, couldn’t tell me what company Vita worked for.”

He said, “Well-Start Health Management and Assurance. ‘Your well-being is where we start.’ ”

“Oh.”

“Found some of her papers tucked in a kitchen cabinet, including five years of tax returns. She spent two of them at Well-Start, did temp office jobs before that, averaged around thirty G a year. Last year she deposited five hundred eighty-three G in a brokerage account, which threw me, but now it makes sense: a fat, onetime settlement. The money’s been sitting in preferred stock paying around six percent interest. A little over thirty-three G a year, so she was getting paid more not to work.”

I said, “It sounds like a job she could’ve enjoyed.”

He said, “The chance to torment people every day? Fits what we know about her. I’m gonna try and find this Samantha, work my way through everyone Vita accused of harassing her. Meanwhile Reed and Binchy are visiting every damn pizza joint in a ten-mile radius, see if they can find someone who uses those boxes. I put in a call to the manufacturer, maybe they ship to private parties as well and I’ll get lucky and they’ll find some weirdo put in an order. Any other insights?”

“That question mark,” I said. “I’m not sure it was a taunt.”

“What then?”

“Maybe our bad guy was referring to himself: I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“The mysteries of the human body.”

“A do-it-yourself anatomy lesson? Seemed more to me like abusing the victim.”

“Could be.”

“You really see this as mining for gore?”

“The way everything was ordered, the meticulous cleanup reminded me of a patient I saw years ago, when I was a postdoc. Ten-year-old boy, extremely bright, polite, well behaved. No problems at all other than some pretty freaky cruelty to animals. Sadistic psychopaths often start by torturing small critters but this kid didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from dominance or inflicting pain. He’d capture mice and squirrels in humane traps, hold gasoline-soaked rags over their noses till they died, make sure never to bruise them. ‘I hold them just hard enough,’ he told me. ‘I never hurt them, that would be wrong.’ Their death throes bothered him. He shuddered when I asked him about it. But he viewed his hobby as a legitimate science experiment. He dissected meticulously, removed every organ, studied, sketched. Both parents worked full-time, had no idea. His babysitter found him conducting surgery behind the garage and freaked out. As did Mom and Dad. The adult reactions frightened him and he refused to talk about anything he’d done so they sent him to Langley Porter and I got the case. Eventually I got him to talk, but it took months. He really didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He’d been taught that curiosity was a good thing and he was curious about what made animals ‘work.’ Dad was a physicist, Mom a microbiologist, science was the family religion, how was he any different from them? The truth was, both parents had odd personalities-what would now be called Asperger spectrum-and Kevin really wasn’t much different.”

“What’d you do with him?”

“I arranged for anatomy lessons from one of the pathology fellows, had his parents buy him books on the subject, and got him to pledge to limit his interest to reading. He agreed reluctantly but let me know that once he was old enough to take biology with a lab he’d be doing the same exact thing and everyone would think he was smart.”