Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

Last guy in L.A. without a damn cell phone.

I got out of there, drove to a gas station on Verdugo Road, sweat-drenched, collar tight. I parked near the pay phone, composed myself, got out. Other people pumped gas as I tried to look any way other than how I felt.

The killings were in Glendale PD jurisdiction, but to hell with that, I called Milo.

"ANY IDEA WHEN he'll be back?"

"I think he went downtown to do some paperwork," said the clerk, a woman, one I didn't know. "I can transfer you to Detective Korn. He works with Detective Sturgis. Your name, sir?"

"No thanks," I said.

"You're sure?"

She sounded nice so I gave her the ugly details and hung up before she could respond.

I drove back to L.A., hoping for an empty house. Wanting time to breathe, to sort things out.

Repulsed, still shaken. Sweat came gushing out of my pores as the image of the bodies kept smacking me across the brain.

Milo and I had visited Alice Zoghbie five days ago.

No skin sloughing, no maggots, the beginnings of the green tinge… I was no forensic pathologist, but I'd seen enough corpses to guess that not more than a couple of days had passed since the murder. Alice's mail and phone records could clear that up…

Propped, holding hands, a picnic.

Someone canny enough to overpower a big man like Haiselden and a woman who hiked the Himalayas.

Someone they knew. A confederate. Had to be.

The feelings of disgust didn't subside, but a new sensation joined them-strange, juvenile glee.

Not Eric, not Richard. No motive and both their whereabouts were well accounted for during the past two or three days. Same for Donny Salcido.

Propped against a tree. Geometry. Michael Burke's trademarks. Time to give Leimert Fusco's big black book another review.

Time to call Fusco-but Milo deserved to know first.

I was on the 134, driving much too fast, hoping for an empty house, thinking about Haiselden hiding from the civil suit only to encounter something much worse.

He'd probably been hiding out with Alice all along-I recalled the phone call she'd taken when Milo and I had visited. Afterward, she couldn't wait to get rid of us. Probably from her pal, wanting to know if the coast was clear.

The two of them waylaid right there in Alice's house. Someone they knew… someone respectable, trusted. A bright young doctor who'd apprenticed to Mate.

No doubt Glendale police had already been dispatched to the scene. Soon my prints on the gate would be lifted and within days they'd be matched to the Medical Board files in Sacramento.

Milo needed to know soon.

If I couldn't reach him, should I go straight to Fusco? The FBI man had said he was flying up to Seattle. Wanting to check on the unsolveds-something specific about the Seattle unsolveds?

The last Seattle victim-Marissa Bonpaine. Plastic hypodermic found on the forest floor. Cataloged and forgotten.

Not a coincidence. Couldn't be a coincidence.

Fusco had left me his beeper number and his local exchange, but both were back home in the Burke file. I pushed the Seville up to ninety.

I unlocked my front door. Robin's truck was gone- prayers answered. I raced to my office, feeling guilty about being quite so pleased.

I tried Milo again, got no answer, decided sooner was better than later and phoned Fusco's beeper and routing number. No callback from him, either. I was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. After another futile attempt to reach Milo, I punched in FBI headquarters at the Federal Building in Westwood and asked for Special Agent Fusco. The receptionist put me on hold, then transferred me to another woman with the throaty voice of a lounge singer who took my name and number.

"May I tell him what this is about, sir?"

"He'll know."

"He's out of the office. I'll give him the message."

I pulled out the big black accordion file, flung it open, stared at pictures of corpses against trees, geometrical wounds, the parallels inescapable.

All my theories about family breakdown, the Dosses, the Manitows, and it had come down to just another psychopath. I paged through police reports, found the Seattle cases, the data on Marissa Bonpaine, was halfway through the small print when the doorbell rang.

Leaving the file on the desk, I trotted to the front door. The peephole offered a fish-eye view of two people-a man and a woman, white, early thirties, expressionless.

Clean-cut duo. Missionaries? I could use some faith but was in no mood to be preached to.

"Yes?" I said, through the door.

I watched the woman's mouth move. "Dr. Delaware? FBI. May we please speak with you."

Throaty voice of a lounge singer.

Before I could answer, a badge filled the peephole. I opened the door.

The woman's lips were turned upward, but the smile appeared painful. Her badge was still out. "Special Agent Mary Donovan. This is Special Agent Mark Bratz. May we please come in, Dr. Delaware?"

Donovan was five-six or so with short light-brown hair, a strong jaw and a firm, busty, low-waisted body packed into a charcoal gray suit. Rosy complexion, an aura of confidence. Bratz was a half head taller with dark hair starting to thin, sleepy eyes and a round, vulnerable face. The skin around his jowls was raw, and a small Band-Aid was stuck under one ear. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, gray-and-navy tie.

I stepped back to let them enter. They stood in the entry hall, checking out the house, until I invited them to sit.

"Thanks for your time, Doctor," said Donovan, still smiling as she took the most comfortable chair. She carried a huge black cloth purse, which she placed on the floor.

Bratz waited until I'd settled, then positioned himself so the two of them flanked me. I tried to look casual, thinking about the open file on the desk, trying not to think about what I'd just seen in Glendale.

"Nice house," said Bratz. "Bright."

"Thanks. May I ask what this is about?"

"Very nice," said Donovan. "Care to guess, Doctor?"

"Something to do with Agent Fusco."

"Something to do with Mr. Fusco."

"He's not with the FBI?"

"Not any longer," said Bratz. His voice was high, tentative, like that of a bashful kid asking for a date. "Mr. Fusco retired from the Bureau a while back-was asked to retire."

"Because of personal issues," said Donovan. She took a pad and a Sony minirecorder out of her bag, set them on the coffee table. "Mind if I record?"

"Record what?"

"Your impressions of Mr. Fusco, sir."

"You're saying he was mustered out because of personal issues?" I said. "Are we talking criminal issues? Is he dangerous?"

Donovan glanced at Bratz. "May I record, sir?"

"After you tell me what's going on, maybe."

Donovan's fingernails tapped the Sony. Surprisingly long nails. French tips. Her lipstick was subtle. Her expression wasn't. She had no use for civilians who didn't fall in line.

"Sir," she said. "It's in your best interests-"

"I need to know. Is Fusco a criminal suspect?" As in multiple murder.

"At this point, sir, we're simply trying to find him. To help him." Her index finger touched the Sony's REC button.

I shook my head.

"Sir, we could arrange for you to be questioned at Bureau headquarters."

"That would take time, paperwork, and something tells me time's of the essence," I said. "On the other hand, you could tell me what's going on and I could cooperate and we could all try to have something of a weekend."

She looked at Bratz. No signal for him that I saw, but she turned back to me and her expression had softened.

"Here's a summary, Doctor. All you need to know and more: Leimert Fusco was a highly admired member of the Bureau-I assume you've heard of the BSU? The original Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico? Mr. Fusco was a member of the freshman class. Actually, he's Dr. Fusco. Has a PhD in psychology, same as you."