Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

Milo said, “Was he a good tenant?”

Donna Nourzadeh thought about that. “We never heard any complaints from him and he paid six months up front.”

“How much was that?”

“Twenty-four thousand.”

Milo eyed the keys.

Donna Nourzadeh said, “He did something?”

“Quite likely.”

“You don’t need a warrant?”

“Like I said, if Dr. Shacker left prematurely, you control the premises and all I need is your permission.”

“Hmm.”

“Call your boss,” said Milo. “Please.”

She complied, spoke in Farsi, selected a key, and moved toward the lock. Milo stilled her with a big index finger atop a small wrist. “Better I do it.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Other business.”

He took the key. She hurried away.

The tiny white waiting room was unchanged from the time I’d seen it. Same trio of chairs, identical magazines.

Same new-age music, some sort of digitalized harp solo streaming at low volume.

The red light on the two-bulb panel was lit. In session.

Milo freed his 9mm, approached the door to the inner office and knocked.

No answer. He rapped again, tried the doorknob. It rotated with a squeal.

Stepping to the left of the door, he called out, “Doctor?”

No answer.

Louder: “Dr. Shacker?”

The music switched to flute, a nasal arpeggio, vibrating with the subtlety of a human voice.

An unhappy human, keening, whining.

Milo nudged the door another inch with his toe. Waited. Afforded himself another half inch and peeked through.

Cherry-sized lumps sprouted along his jawline. His teeth clicked as he holstered his gun.

He motioned me to follow him in.

Drapes were drawn on the window overlooking Bedford Drive. Low-voltage light from a desk lamp turned the pale aqua walls grayish blue.

The walnut desk was bare. The same diplomas remained affixed to the walls.

He had no further need for them, had moved on to another role.

In reduced light, the cubist print of fruit and bread looked drab and cheap. The Scandinavian chairs had been nudged closer together, set for an intimate chat.

One chair was bare.

Something occupied its mate.

Milo flicked on the ceiling light and we had a look.

A mason jar filled with clear, greasy liquid was propped against the chair-back.

Floating inside were two grayish round things.

Milo gloved up, kneeled, lifted the jar. One of the orbs shifted, exposing additional color: pale blue dot centered by a black sphere. Pinkish strands streamed like tiny worms from the other side.

He shifted the jar again and the second orb bounced and turned, showed the same decoration, the same fuzzy pink filaments.

A pair of eyeballs. Human. Oversized pearl onions bobbing in a horrific cocktail.

Milo put the jar where it had originally sat, called for a crime scene crew, priority.

As he radioed the others, I noticed a discordant detail across the room.

The largest diploma, placed dead center behind the desk chair, had been altered. When I’d seen it, it had verified Bernhard Shacker’s doctorate from the University of Louvain.

Now a sheet of white paper blocked that boast.

I walked over.

Glue marks were evident at the periphery of the glass, bubbling the underside of the sheet.

Blank, white rectangle, but for a single message:?

A coroner’s investigator named Rubenfeld took possession of the jar.

“Never seen that before,” he said. “Always a first time.”

Milo said, “Any way to tell how long they’ve been in there?”

Rubenfeld squinted. “If the fluid was real old I’d expect more discoloration, but can’t really say.” He bobbled the jar gently. “The severed ends are a little faded out-that’s small blood vessels you’re seeing, look like feathers… the eyes themselves seem a little rubbery, no? That could mean they’ve been preserved for a while, could be lab specimens.”

“They’re specimens all right,” said Milo, “but not from a lab.”

Rubenfeld licked his lips. “Giving time estimates of body parts really isn’t my pay grade, Lieutenant. Maybe Dr. Jernigan will be able to tell you.” He glanced back at the chair. “One thing you can be pretty sure of. That blue in the irises, your victim’s probably Caucasian.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Milo. Well before the crime scene crew arrived, he’d obtained a readout of Dr. Louis Wainright’s last recorded California driver’s license. Blue eyes, no need for corrective lenses.

Rubenfeld swung the carrier gently. “Least I don’t need a gurney.”

Milo got the cleaning schedule from Donna Nourzadeh. The suites were tended to weekly by a crew of five, but this week there’d been a delay and no office had been touched for three nights.

“Scheduling issues,” she said. “Now, if you don’t need me…”

Milo let her go, turned to me. “Sometime during the last seventy-two hours, the bastard planted the jar.”

I thought: He’d displayed the eyes, expecting to be discovered. Left the question mark behind to confirm his connection to the murders.

Boasting. Unworried; because he was on to a new phase?

Whatever his intentions, the man who called himself Shacker had cleaned up with care, vacuuming the rugs so thoroughly that the crime scene techs pulled up only a few crumbs. Hard surfaces had been wiped free of prints, including in places where you’d expect to find them.

The crime scene crew began to lose energy as it went through the final motions.

Then one of the techs said, “Hey!” and brandished a tape she’d pulled off the glass fronting one of the diplomas.

Shacker’s date-altered psychology license, positioned to the left of the papered-over diploma, Photoshopped on good-quality paper. Even up close, the forgery was convincing.

The tech held the tape up to the light. Nice clear pattern of ridges and swirls lifted from the upper right-hand corner of the pane.

“Looks like a thumb and a finger,” said the tech. “Like someone leaned on it.”

I pointed to the page with the question mark. “Maybe to catch his balance while gluing that.”

“Or it’s just from the cleaning crew,” said Milo.

“Aw c’mon, Lieutenant,” the tech said. “Think positive.”

“Okay,” he said. “How’s this: I’ve got a pension plan, might live long enough to use some of it.”

The AFIS match to the latent came back at seven thirteen p.m. Hand-delivered by Sean Binchy to Milo as he presided over a tableful of food at Cafe Moghul. Petra, Moe Reed, Raul Biro, and I sat around the table. Everyone was hungry in a frustrated, miserably compulsive way, putting away lamb and rice and lentils and vegetables without tasting much.

Milo read the report, bared his teeth, passed it on.

James Pittson Harrie, male Caucasian, forty-six, had been fingerprinted upon joining the staff of Ventura State Hospital a little over twenty-five years ago.

Harrie’s five-year-old DMV shot featured the smiling visage of the elfin-faced, rosy-cheeked man I’d met. Slightly longer hair made for a less artful comb-over. Five six, one forty.

One of the few who didn’t bother to fib about his stats. Honor among fiends?

Harrie’s listed address was a P.O.B. in Oxnard.

Sean said, “Already checked and it’s a parcel shipping outlet in a strip mall. They’re still in business but they haven’t had boxes for five years, well before Harrie used it. I’m thinking he lived in or around that general area, lied to stay off the grid.”

I said, “Oxnard’s one town north of Camarillo and one below Ventura, where he also lied about living as Loyal Steward.”