Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

Someone like Richard.

And his son. I thought of how the boy had pulverized six figures' worth of treasure.

It kept coming back to Eric.

Dispirited, I headed west on Beverly and considered how Eric might've lured Mate to Mulholland. Wanting to talk about his mother? To talk about what he'd done to his mother-for his mother. Claiming to Mate that he'd been inspired by the death doctor. The appeal to Mate's vanity might have worked.

But if Eric had been the one in that motel room, why butcher Mate? Covering for himself? Thin. So perhaps Mate had been involved. And Eric, knowing of his father's hatred for the death doctor, perhaps even knowing about the failed contract with Quentin Goad, had taken it upon himself to act.

Blood orgy to please the old man.

Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard. The phrasing had an adolescent flavor to it. I could hear the sentence tumbling from Eric's lips.

But if Eric had slaughtered Mate, why was he now striking out against his father? Had he finally come to grips with what he'd done? Turned his anger on Richard-blaming, just as the old man was wont to do?

Father and son rolling, wrestling, snorting on the floor. Tearing at each other, only to embrace. Ambivalence. Apparent reconciliation.

But if what I suspected was true, the boy was unpredictable and dangerous. Joe Safer had sensed that, asked my opinion. I'd avoided an answer, claiming I needed to focus upon Stacy, but also wanting to avoid additional complications. Now I had to wonder if Eric's presence in the house put Stacy-and Richard-in danger.

I'd call Safer as soon as I got home. Hold back my suspicions and keep my comments general-Eric's bad temper, the effects of stress, the need to be careful.

The afternoon traffic had sludged to chrome cholesterol, cars lurching forward in fits and starts, tempers flaring. I allowed myself to be drawn into it, oblivious to petty resentments, thinking about real rage: Eric and Mate on Mulholland. Blunt-force injury to Mate's head. As in baseball bat.

Perhaps the boy had gotten Mate up there with a simple lie: misrepresenting himself as a terminally ill patient pining for the love bite of the Humanitron.

A young, male traveler. Mate, defensive about too many females, those nasty feminist jibes about his sexuality, would have liked that.

The meet, the kill, then weeks later Eric sneaks into Mate's apartment and hides the stethoscope.

Out of business, Doc.

High intelligence, savage anger. The boy had plenty of both.

And sneaking out in the middle of the night was Eric's habit, he'd done it for years.

Helen, the dog…

A look at the boy's phone records and credit-card log would be instructive. Had he booked a flight from Palo Alto to L.A. on or around the day of Mate's murder? Made a second trip to pull off the break-in?

Taking all those risks simply to taunt Mate's ghosts.

Or was it the cops he was out to humiliate? Because, after shedding blood, he learned that he liked it?

The juxtaposition of blood and pleasure. That's the way it had started for Michael Burke. That's the way it always started.

Someone that young and smart warping so severely. Terrifying.

I wanted to bounce it all off Milo. Intriguing, he'd say, but all theory.

And theory was where it would freeze because I couldn't-didn't want to-probe further.

A horn honked. Someone screeched to a stop. Someone cursed. The air outside looked heavy and milky and poisonous. I sat in my steel box, one among thousands, pretending to navigate.

FOUR P.M. CORNED-BEEF sandwiches and beer in the fridge, a note from Robin pinned to a carton of coleslaw. She and Spike had gone to A &M Studios to sit in on a recording session. The bassist was debuting an eight-string she'd created. Rhythm-and-blues tracks; Spike loved that kind of thing.

The studio was on La Brea near Sunset; I'd been only a few blocks away. Ships passing…

Mail was piled up on the dining room table; from the looks of it, mostly bills, and hucksters promising immortality. I phoned Safer. He was in court, unavailable, so I tried the Dosses.

Richard answered. "Doctor. So you got the packet."

"What packet?"

Pause. "Doesn't matter… What can I do for you?"

"I was calling to see how you're doing."

"Stacy's fine. Went to school. She's staying away for the weekend." His voice dropped. "I suppose that's best."

"And Eric?"

"On his way back to Stanford. I got him a plane out of VanNuys."

"You think he's ready for that?"

"Why not?"

"Last night-"

"Last night was an aberration, Doctor. With all he's gone through, he should've blown a long time ago. Tell the truth, I'm glad he finally did. It's just pottery, I'm fully insured. We'll tell the carrier it was an accident- the bolts on the cases came loose."

"Is he going to get some help at Stanford?

We discussed that," he said. "He's considering it.

I think you should be more directive-

Look, Doctor, I appreciate all you've done, but frankly Eric doesn't… he doesn't feel comfortable with you. Not your fault, everyone relates differently, you're fine for Stacy, not Eric. Probably all for the best, avoiding sibling rivalry. So why don't you concentrate on Stacy and I'll handle Eric."

"I think he needs help, Richard.

Your opinion has been duly noted.

What about you, Richard? How are you doing?

I'm alone. Guess I'd better get used to that.

Anything I can do?"

"No, I'm fine-no thanks to your buddy the detective. He keeps trying to search every square inch I own. And hounding Safer, asking for an 'interview.' Talk about euphemism. But that's okay, everyone has to do their job. Safer tells me I'll be free of all this crap soon enough. Gotta go, Doctor, call coming in on the other line. If Stacy needs you, I'll be in touch.

She doesn't want an appointment?

I'll ask her. Thanks. Bye."

I found "the packet" in the middle of the mail stack. Courier-delivered envelope, the return address, RTD Properties. Folded into a sheet of RTD stationery was a check written on RTD business account IV. Fifteen thousand dollars. A typed note:

Mr. D. thanks you for your time. He trusts this will cover everything to date.

Terri, Accounting

I'll be in touch.

Not likely. I knew severance pay when I saw it.

I couldn't talk to Milo, so I called Petra to let her know my impressions of Donny Salcido Mate. She was at her desk, courteous enough, but she sounded busy and I asked her if it was a bad time.

"It's fine," she said. "I just have to run over to Hollywood Pres in a few minutes, start some paper on a new one. Boy meets girl, boy beds girl, boy kills girl, then tries to kill himself. Guy's hooked up to life support, some people can't do anything right. What's up?"

I summarized my bedside chat with Donny.

She said, "Is this guy dangerous?"

"If he doesn't get medicated, maybe. I can't promise you he didn't kill his father, but I wouldn't bet on it."

I explained my reasoning.

She said, "Makes sense. I'll pass it on, see if Milo wants me to hold him on anything… Listen, I know I'm a pest about Billy, but kid care isn't my thing, I'm the youngest in my family. Tomorrow when I see him, I was thinking of bringing him some books. Anything in particular you'd suggest?"

"He's always liked history."

"I've already gotten him plenty of history books. I thought fiction might be a nice switch-maybe the classics? Do you see him as able to handle Les Mis-erablest Or The Count of Monte Cristo, something like that?"

"Sure," I said. "Either."

"Good, I wasn't sure. Because of the themes- abandonment, poverty. You don't think it's too close to home?"

"No, he'll be fine with it, Petra. I can see books like that appealing to his moral core."