Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"From sculpture to insurance," I said. "Must have been an interesting switch."

He crushed out the cigarillo. "There's art in everything. Anyway, I'm sorry I can't be more helpful. As I say, it was a foolish year."

"Do you have any idea how I can locate the other Fellows? Not Joachim Sprentzel, of course. He's dead."

He scratched his neck. "Really? Poor chap. How?"

"Suicide. His obituary said he'd been ill for a long time."

"AIDS?"

"Was he gay?"

"As springtime. Not a bad sort. Kept to himself, writing music all day- no piano or violin, just scratching away at that funny lined paper."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

"Such as?"

"Personality characteristics that might be interesting in a book?"

"Personality," he said, touching the side of his nose. "Quiet. Withdrawn. A bit gloomy, perhaps. Probably because there were no boys to play with. And, of course, being German… That's about it. He didn't socialize much- none of us did. Buck gave us each a little cabin and told us to "wax brilliant.' Isolation was encouraged. It wasn't a sociable place."

"I've heard the grand opening party was pretty interesting."

"So have I- wine, women, song, music, all sorts of fun. One damned bit of ha-ha the whole year, and I was having my appendix out. Bit of bad luck, eh? When I healed up and got back, the old man wouldn't talk to me. Punishment for not being there. As if I'd defied him by bursting my bloody appendix. A few months later, I was out on my arse."

Removing the celery stick from his glass, he nibbled the edge.

"Gawd, this takes me back. You really think you've got a book in it?"

"I hope so."

"Send me a copy if it ever gets published."

"Absolutely. Speaking of getting published, I can't find anything on the two writing Fellows, Terrence Trafficant and Denton Mellors. Trafficant had a best-seller, then faded from view, and Mellors just seems to have disappeared without publishing anything."

"Terry the Pirate and Denny… This is a hoot, haven't thought about them in ages. Well, Terry's probably in jail somewhere. I have no idea about Denny."

"You think Trafficant got into trouble again?"

"I wouldn't doubt it. Trouble was his art. Fancied himself a bad guy, bloody Wild West outlaw. Bloody criminal is what he was, used to walk around with a big hunting knife in his belt, take it out during mealtime, pick his teeth, clean his nails. He put it by his plate when he ate, protecting his food with one arm, as if we were out to steal it. He really gave poor Sprentzel a hard time. Removing his shirt, asking Sprentzel if he thought he was pretty. Imitating Sprentzel's accent, calling him a faggot and worse. Threatening him."

"What kinds of threats?"

" 'Make you my wife, faggot.' That kind of rubbish. The rest of us were scared witless, but Lowell always stood up for Terry. A bloody pet- one big cheery family we were. Where else could Trafficant be other than jail?"

"Still, it's odd," I said. "Achieving all that success and reverting back to his old ways."

"A criminal," he said, with some passion. His forehead was shiny and he licked his lips. "He was never anything but."

"What about Mellors?"

"Another charmer- very bright actually. Well-spoken, educated, but a bit of an arse-licker."

"Lowell's ass?"

"And Terry's. He got on with Terry better than the rest of us. Not as cherished as Terry, though. Number-two man on the ladder."

"Sounds like there was a hierarchy."

"Definitely. Terry first, then Denny. Then Sprentzel and me, vying for low rung. I'd have to say Sprentzel was at rock bottom because he was gay. Buck had no tolerance for that- man's man and all that, raw meat for breakfast."

"But he chose Sprentzel as a Fellow."

"He didn't know when he chose him. Sprentzel wasn't one of those nelly-fairy types, flouncing around. In fact, I'm not sure how we all found out about him. Probably from Terry. Terry always made a big point of it." He looked downward. "All that bluster. That knife… Yes, poor Sprentzel was definitely low man."

"Was Mellors a tough guy, too?"

"No, not really- university type. Devious, but not nasty."

Trying to figure out how to ask what he looked like, I said, "I've seen pictures of Trafficant, but none of Mellors."

"Yes, Terry became quite a celebrity for a while. The book."

"What about Mellors? Did he ever publish his book?"

"I have no idea." Shrug. "As I said, Buck encouraged isolation."

"What did he look like- just to help me form a mental picture."

"Big. Muscular. Light for his race."

"He was black?"

"Tan," he said. "What the South Africans call "colored.' Black features but tan skin. Blond hair. Nice-looking fellow, actually."

"Facial hair?"

"I think so. It's been a long time."

"A beard?"

"A mustache, I believe. He didn't like being thought of as black. Didn't like to talk about race. One time Sprentzel brought it up- all that German guilt- and Mellors just walked away. Then Terry showed up with his knife and went into his little fag routine. It was really a boring place."

"Why were Trafficant and Mellors high-status?"

"Denny because he went around telling everyone what a genius Buck was. With Terry it was something else- almost as if Buck looked up to him. As if he represented something Buck admired."

"Such as?"

"Who knows?"

"Hatred of women?"

He stared at me. "Hatred of everything, I suppose. The two of them would drink together, get pissed, and take walks in the woods singing filthy songs."

"Did Trafficant ever get into any trouble while up there?"

He ran his fingernails over the ridges of the celery stalk. "Other than playing with that knife and making our lives miserable, I never saw anything. Why?"

"Trying to flesh him out," I said. "I still think it's strange the way he vanished."

"As I said, check the jails. Or the cemeteries. He had a very nasty temper. Anything could set him off. Person like that, the chance of leading a long, peaceful life goes down. That's my business now: risk assessment. Figuring out who'll make it and who won't. Anyway, I must be going. It's been fun, but time to get back to reality."

Milo's exhaustion saturated his phone voice.

"Task-force blues?" I said.

"Nothing-accomplished blues. The coroner gave us zero on Nicolette Verdugo. Our copycat's being obsessive-compulsive."

"What about the feces on the corpse?"

"The feces, " he said, "are of the canine variety. Another one of those charming details we're withholding from the media."

"Do any of the Bogettes have a dog?"

"They have a goddamn pack of dogs, but try getting hold of a single turd. They're holed up at some dirt ranch out past Pacoima, belongs to one of Shwandt's death penalty lawyers. Mangy mutts and cats and horses behind chain link and barbed wire."

"A commune? At least having them all in one place should make surveillance easier."

"Not really. There's no real cover. Too much open space. Girls come out the front door wearing skimpies and flipping us off. The investigation has not progressed apace, sir. How's Lucy?"

"Haven't seen her today, she's out driving with Ken. And someone else took a drive last night." I repeated what the boys had told me about Doris leaving with Tom Shea.

"They also said she loves to gamble. So if there was some sort of payoff, that could explain why the Sheas live well and she doesn't."

"You said she didn't seem to like the Sheas. Now Tom picks her up?"

"If she's taking a temporary vacation because my questions shook things up, Tom and Gwen could be looking over shoulders, too. They might help her split 'cause it's in their best interests."