Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"Good dog," muttered Milo. He looked at his Timex. "Separate cars. What do you make of that?"

"Maybe Tanya's planning on leaving before him. Work obligations, like her sister said."

He thought about that. Nodded. "Leaving him alone to do his thing. Which could be sticking close to base or taking another drive. Maybe he's got stuff stashed here. Buried here. Meaning I can't afford to mess up any of the search rules. Gonna have to coordinate with Malibu sheriffs to keep it kosher… Maybe the best thing is back off, find somewhere to watch the road. See if Tanya leaves, then what he does-if she's not in immediate danger."

"His pattern with his women friends is to wait until they've gotten ill again, minister to them, then take it all the way. Then again, he may have hastened the process along."

"Poison?"

"He'd know how."

"So what are you saying, forget waiting? Waltz right in?"

"Let me think."

I never got around to it.

The door opened yet again and this time Paul Ulrich showed himself. Fit and well-fed, in a white polo shirt, khaki pants, brown loafers, no socks. Muscular arms, ruddy complexion. Mug of something in one hand.

He drank, placed the cup on the ground, took a few steps forward.

Showed us his face.

Two alert, sparkling eyes, a smudge of rosy skin behind flaring mustaches.

Twin propellers of hair so huge, so flamboyant, that despite my attempt to get past them, to seize upon something-the merest grace note of recognition-that would tie his face into one of the photos in Leimert Fusco's file, my brain processed only mustache.

Facial hair could do that.

He retrieved his coffee, strutted around. Flexed a bicep and inspected the bulge of muscle.

Another sip. Big stretch.

So content. Top of the morning.

The mustache made him look like a Keystone Kop. Nothing funny about him.

Milo's hand was square on his gun, ringers white against the walnut grip, scrambling toward the trigger. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, he drew it away. Wiped his hand on his jacket. Rubbed his face. Stared at Ulrich.

Suddenly Ulrich dropped to the ground, as if avoiding gunfire. We watched him peel off fifty lightning pushups. Perfect form. When he bounced back to his feet, he stretched again, showing no signs of exertion.

He ran a hand over his thinning hair, rotated his neck, flexed his arms, worked on the neck some more. Even killers get stiff… all those hours behind the wheel…

Smoothing one mustache, he reached behind and picked at his seat.

Even killers untangle their shorts.

Watching it-the banality-I felt let down. Human. They shouldn't be, but they always are.

Ulrich finished his coffee, placed the mug on the ground once more, walked to his own car. Popped his trunk. Out came something black. Small leather case, the polished surface reflected the filtered sunlight leaking down through the trees.

Doctor's bag. Ulrich stroked it.

I whispered, "There you go."

Milo said, "What the hell does he need that for right now?"

The cabin door opened again. As Tanya stepped outside, Ulrich moved quickly, shifting the bag behind his back, inching toward his car. She took only a few steps, was looking away from him, up at the treetops. Ulrich slipped the bag into the trunk, lowered the lid, sauntered over to Tanya.

Not acknowledging him, she started to turn, was about to reenter the cabin when he reached her. Slipping one hand around her waist, he kissed the back of her neck.

She was rigid, unresponsive.

Ulrich remained behind her, maintained his grip around her waist. Kissed her again and she twisted away from his lips. He stroked her cheek, but his face, unseen by her, bore no affection.

Immobile.

Eyes hard and focused. Face slightly flushed.

Tanya said something, broke away from him, disappeared back into the cabin.

Ulrich stroked his mustache. Spit in the dirt.

Walked back to the car. Quickly. Face still expressionless. Flushed scarlet. He popped the trunk and retrieved the black bag.

Milo said, "Not good."

His hand shot back to his gun and now he was stepping out from behind the tree. He'd barely taken a step when the shot rang out, hard and sharp, like hands clapping once.

From behind Ulrich. Above. The growth of pine at the ridge.

Milo ran back to his hiding spot. Gun out, but no one to shoot at.

Ulrich didn't drop. Not right away. He stood there as the red spot formed on his chest, got redder, larger,.blossoming like a rose captured in time-lapse. Exit wound. Shot from the back. The leather bag remained in his hand, the mustache blocked out expression.

Another hand-clap sounded, then another, two more roses decorated Ulrich's white shirt. Red shirt, hard to believe it had ever been white…

Milo's gun hand was rigid, still, his eyes bounced from Ulrich to the pine ridge.

More applause.

When the fourth shot sheared off the top of Ulrich's head, he let the black bag drop to the ground.

Fell on top of it.

The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.

Screams from inside the house, but no sign of Tanya.

Duchess was barking. Milo's gun was still out, aimed at the silence, the distance, the trees, that big mustache of trees.

IT TOOK A while for the sheriffs to arrive from the Malibu substation, even longer to assemble a squad to travel up to the ridge. A small army of nervous, itchy-fingered men in tan uniforms, each deputy assuming the shooter was still around, wouldn't hesitate to fire.

As we waited for the group to assemble, Milo hung out with the coroner, did his best to let the sheriffs feel they were in charge while managing to inspect everything. He asked me to comfort Tanya Stratton, but I ended up doing nothing of the sort. She shut me out, refused to talk, obtained whatever solace she desired by muttering to her sister over a cell phone and stroking her dog. I watched her from a distance. The deputies had shunted her away from the crime scene and she sat on the ground beneath a silver-dollar tree, knees drawn up, occasionally pummeling herself softly on the jaw. Her sunglasses were back on, so I couldn't read her eyes. The rest of her face said she was shocked, furious, wondering how many other mistakes she'd make over the rest of her life.

While we'd waited for sheriffs, Milo had inspected the cabin. No obvious trophies. Not much of anything in there. A careful search, carried out later in the day, revealed nothing of an evidentiary nature, other than the doctor's bag. Old, burnished leather, gold initials over the clasp: EHM.

Tanya Stratton claimed she'd never seen it. I believed her. Ulrich would have hidden it from her, produced it only when he was ready to use it. A while longer, and she might've lost the opportunity to make any mistakes at all.

Inside the bag were scalpels, scissors, other shiny things; a coil of I.V. tubing, sterile-packed hollow needles in various gauges. Rolls of gauze. Disposable hypodermic injectors, little ampules with small-print labels.

Thiopental. Potassium chloride.

The bag was taken into custody by a sheriff's detective, but he never bothered to ask what the gold initials stood for and Milo didn't volunteer the information. When the search party was ready, he and I rode along, sitting in back of a squad car, listening to nervous-talk from the two deputies in front.

The wounds-the way they'd passed through Ulrich at that distance, the size of the exits-indicated a high-velocity bullet, probably a military rifle, a good-quality scope. Someone who knew what he was doing.

How hard it would be to see the shooter if he'd chosen to barricade himself among the pines.

I knew he hadn't. He'd done his job, no reason to stick around.