Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Helga Gemein tugged at her wig. “I am comfortable.”

“To me it feels hot. I’d think that thing would make it worse for you.”

“What thing?”

“The hairpiece. Dynel doesn’t breathe.”

“This,” she said, “is genuine hair. From India.” He smiled. “So you’re not a hothead.” Helga snorted and turned away.

Milo said, “No, I mean that seriously. It’s clear to me that you rely on reason, not impulse.”

Maria Thomas leaned forward. “Yes, yes, go for it.”

Helga Gemein said, “Should I not rely on reason?”

“Of course you should,” said Milo. “We all should. But sometimes being spontaneous-”

“Spontaneity is an excuse for poor planning.”

“You’re into planning.”

No answer.

Maria Thomas was at the edge of her chair. “Easy, now.” Milo said, “Being an architect, I imagine you’d favor blueprints.” Helga turned to face him. “Without blueprints, Policeman, even chaos doesn’t work.”

“Even chaos?”

Up came the pedantic finger. “There is chaos that emanates from stupidity. Think of flatfooted policemen in brass-buttoned tunics and tall hats tripping over themselves. Then, there is corrective chaos. And that must be planned.”

“Burning those twigs didn’t result from stupidity,” said Milo. “You considered every detail.”

“I always do,” said Helga.

“Always?”

“Always.”

Maria Thomas punched her fist. “Yes!”

Helga Gemein sniffed. “This room smells like a toilet.”

“It does get a little stale,” said Milo.

“How often do you bring prostitutes here?”

“Pardon?”

“For your policeman after-hour parties.”

“Must’ve missed those.”

“Oh, please,” said Helga. “It is common knowledge what policemen do with women they’ve dominated. Down on the knees, the man feels so big.”

Boxmeister said, “I must work in the wrong division.”

Maria Thomas shot him a sharp look. He shrugged.

Milo said, “The cops do that in Switzerland?”

Helga said, “If you are interested in Switzerland, buy a plane ticket. Good-bye, Policeman. You have bored me enough, I am going.”

But she made no attempt to stand.

Milo said, “Going?”

“Twigs? Brush clearing? What is that, a penalty? I will pay you.”

“Out of that cash in your purse?”

“Since when is it a crime to have money? America worships money.”

“No crime at all. But six thousand’s a lot of cash to be carrying around.”

Helga smirked.

Thomas said, “That was pure rich kid. This one’s never been told no.”

Helga said, “What is the amount of my fine?”

Milo said, “I’m not sure of the penal code on twigs yet. We’re still checking.”

“Well, do it quickly.”

“Soon as the district attorney lets me know, I’ll get the paperwork going. Meanwhile, let’s go over this act of cleansing.”

“Not again, no, I will not.”

“I just want to make sure I understand.”

“If you do not understand by this time, you are hopelessly defective.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Milo. He shuffled papers, knitted his brows, stuck out a tongue, hummed a low tune. “You’re sure you don’t want more water?”

“I still have.” Eyeing the cup he’d brought her five minutes in.

Boxmeister said, “Garsh, Gomer, when you gonna call for a hayseed and a spittoon?”

Milo said, “Okay, you can drink that.”

Helga Gemein picked up the cup, sipped it empty. Power of suggestion.

Turning point in the interview.

She put the cup down. Eyes still on his notes, he said, “So… you planned and burned the twigs all by yourself. Tell me how you did it.”

“The fine is insufficient penance?” said Helga, smirking again. “In America, money fixes everything.”

“Even so, ma’am. We like to have all the facts.”

“The facts are: As an architect with a strong background in structural engineering, I have a thorough understanding of structural vulnerability. I located the inherent structural defects of that garbage heap, set devices precisely, operated a remote timer, and watched as everything turned to dust.”

“So you were right there.”

“Close enough to bathe in heat and light.”

“A few houses down?”

“I didn’t count.”

“But you parked the motorcycle three blocks away.”

Blue eyes sparked. “How do you know I drive a motorcycle?”

“It was spotted and reported.”

“So you know the answer to your question. So do not waste my time.”

“Like I said, we need to verify,” said Milo. “For our report, so we can let you go and be done with all this.”

“Proper procedure,” said Helga. “Enabling you to pretend competence.”

“You know about procedure.”

Helga arched an eyebrow.

Milo said, “That old joke? Hell is the place where the Italians establish procedure and the Swiss are in charge of design?”

“Hell, Policeman, is the place Americans gorge themselves to unconsciousness and delude themselves to mindless optimism.”

“Never heard that version,” said Milo. “But you have to admit, the Swiss are darn good at design-who makes the best watches? Speaking of which, let’s talk about those timers. Where’d you get them?”

“From Des.”

The quick reply caught him off-guard. He covered with a prolonged nod. “Des Backer.”

“No, Des Hitler-yes, Des Backer . I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”

“Soon,” said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”

“Everything.”

“Meaning-”

“You have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”

“The fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was…”

“He claimed to be an anarchist.”

“Claimed? You think he was faking?”

“Des indulged himself.”

“Des and women.”

“He was not a serious person.”

Milo said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention-guess that’s kind of an oxymoron, huh?”

Helga said, “In a chat room.”

“Which one?”

“Shards.net.”

“As in broken glass?”

“As in broken universe,” she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not good at self-perpetuation.”

“Poor organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.

“So you met online… Des being an architect must’ve made it seem perfect. Though the combination is kind of odd. Building up and destroying.”

“There is no contradiction.”

“Why’s that?”

“As I told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I do not join movements.”

“So you’re a…”

“I am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”

Milo fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman truth squad… So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”

“I decided.”

“He was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”

Silence.

“Nice shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses-fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the real source of all that money, your father?”

No response.

“The road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to another.”

Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I would like some water.”

Milo collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint under the hem and poking around.