Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“Could’ve been successful rehab,” I said. “If so, too bad for society.”

“What do you mean?”

“He got his head clear enough to chop off other people’s.”

Despite Nicholas St. Heubel III’s financial acumen, he’d picked up no clients and Hydro-Worth remained a scheme.

I said, “Superficially charming but maybe when they got to know him, he spooked them like he did the sisters.”

“Too cute for his own good.”

“The game was too much fun.”

“Raul found something he wrote on a hard copy of the prospectus. ‘Time for a frugal lifestyle, funnel in on what’s important.’”

“Getting his priorities straight,” I said.

He said, “Another too bad.”

As we worked on our second round of drinks, Milo ’s phone vibrated on the bar.

Inaudible above the drone of bar-talk and an old football game on ESPN Classic.

He watched it jump like a Mexican bean, chewed his olive, swallowed, picked up.

“Sturgis … you’re up late, Doc… That so? Oh, man… I do appreciate it, anything else? True… I’ll ask him, thanks for letting me know.”

Emptying his glass, he waved for a refill.

I said, “Which doc was that?”

“Steinberg, at the coroner’s. Ol’ Dale’s autopsy was prioritized, orders from the chief.”

“All those bullet holes, an autopsy was necessary?”

“Police-involved shootings must be treated with utmost care,” he pronounced as if talking about someone else.

His drink came. He sipped. Hummed something I couldn’t make out.

I said, “What?”

He placed his glass on the bar, twirled the stem. “Turns out Dale-Nick-Mr. Bizarro had no balls. Literally. Surgically removed, nice neat job all healed over.”

“The Swiss clinic.”

“I hear money buys you anything there.”

“He pays to get castrated,” I said, “takes testosterone to stay masculine.”

“No doubt, you’ve got an explanation based on your training and expertise.”

Above us, on screen, someone made a thirty-yard run for a touchdown. Ancient history but some of the drinkers at the bar got excited.

I said, “I could theorize about the desire for total control. Regulating his dosage, enjoying the fluctuation.”

“But?”

I snagged the bartender’s attention. Pointed at Milo ’s glass.

Mouthed, “Me, too.”

Two days after the rescue of Felicia and Emilio Torres, Milo was called to the chief’s office for what he assumed was a pat on the back.

That morning, we’d both been at the coroner’s and I stayed with him for the short ride to Parker Center.

The forensic pathologist had been asked to conduct a psychological autopsy and wanted my professional opinion on the psychological motivation behind Ansell “Dale” Bright’s self-mutilation, hormonal manipulation, and fascination with “macabre altruism.”

I’d rattled off a bunch of jargon that seemed to make everyone happy.

As Milo pulled into the headquarters staff lot, he said, “Why don’t you come up, His Majesty would probably like to meet you.”

“Probably?”

“He has his moods.”

“Thanks anyway, I’ll catch some air.”

He went inside and I took a walk. Nothing much to see but the fall air was clean for downtown L.A. and the homeless guys I passed seemed tranquil.

Half an hour later, I was back in front of headquarters and Milo was pacing.

“Been here long, Big Guy?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Short meeting,” I said.

“Cuz Jackson’s other claimed bodies have frittered to nothing, the only thing holding Texas back from spiking the bastard is Antoine.” Pointing his finger and beetling his brows. “‘ Do something, Lieutenant.’”

“Not a word about Bright?”

“‘Cross-dressing bastard got what he deserved.’”

Back to the Hollywood Hills.

Watching Wilson Good’s house after dark.

A night of nothing, followed by a day of the same. Hard to find shelter on the high, sunny street but Milo really wasn’t hoping for much.

The second night, I offered to come along.

He said, “Too much free time?”

“Something like that.”

Mr. Dot-com’s executive secretary had phoned this morning, announcing her boss’s “intention to visit his commission” in three days. Robin was working overtime to assemble the mandolin.

She said, “You’re okay with being here?”

“Can I hold your tools?”

“When you get in a certain frame of mind, everything you say sounds suggestive.”

“And the problem is…”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I parked the Seville at the southern edge of Wilson Good’s street. Close enough for a long view of the house and the electric mesh gate that caged its frontage. A couple of low-voltage spots created useless puddles of illumination. Most of the enclosure was dark.

I said, “Where’s the Red Bull?”

Milo said, “Drank coffee all day.”

We settled in for the long haul.

No need to; two minutes later, we both spotted movement behind the mesh.

The man was trapped. Slinking into a corner, he ignored Milo ’s command to show himself, huddled low, trying to look small.

Milo stood out of view, hand on gun. He’d used the weapon more this week than in months previous. “Out, pal. Let’s have a look at you.”

Freeway hum.

“Put your hands on your head and walk backward toward the sound of my voice. Now. ”

The distant, bovine moan of a truck horn.

Milo repeated the order louder.

Nothing.

“Suit yourself, friend. One way or the other you’re coming out.”

Silence.

“You like fire hoses?”

Zoom zoom zoom from miles away.

He called for three Hollywood patrol cars and a locksmith. Five officers arrived under the tutelage of a sergeant who scoped out the situation and said, “Don’t see what we can do.”

The locksmith showed up ten minutes later, squinted at the gate from ten yards away. “He armed?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you expect me to do? That’s electric, anyway, I can’t do anything with it.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Use a tactical nuclear weapon.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Welcome. Can I go now?”

Five more minutes of nothing before Milo called out, “You up for a climb, buddy?”

No answer.

“Pal, one way or the other, you’re busted.”

The sergeant said, “Maybe he’s deaf. Central had a deaf guy last year, got shot, big trouble.”

Milo continued his monologue. Alternating cajoling with threats.

When he said, “Okay, do the tear gas,” a voice from behind the gate said, “I’ll come out.”

A figure stepped out to the center of the enclosure. The moon lit up half his face.

Thin, gaunt black man. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, sagging clothes.

“Hands on your head.”

Scrawny arms shot up fast.

“Turn around and walk toward me. Back up so you’re touching the gate.”

The man said, “I know the drill.”

Milo cuffed both his hands to the mesh gate.

“Thought you wanted me out of here, Officer. I climbed in, could climb out.”

Milo turned to the sergeant. “There should be some kind of manual control over there, near the motor. Anyone in good shape?”

The sergeant said, “Someone feeling like Tarzan?”

A short, stocky female officer said, “I used to do gymnastics.”

“Go for it, Officer Kylie.”

After a couple of false starts, Kylie got a foothold on the mesh. Moments later, she’d scrambled up and over. “Here it is, right on the box.”

Milo told the cuffed man: “Listen carefully: Gate’s gonna swing open, just move with it, don’t panic.”