Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Did you know Pierce had been a detective?"

"Marge told me," he said. "Soon after Pierce moved in. I believe it was at the theater, as a matter of fact. Out in the lobby, during intermission. She introduced me, and we began chatting about a crime story in the newspaper- something down your way, bank robbers, a shoot-out, the criminals had escaped. Marge said something along the lines of 'If Pierce were still on the force, he'd solve it.' "

"How'd Pierce react to that?"

"If I recall correctly, un reactive. Didn't say much of anything. That's the way he usually was. Reserved."

Milo had described Schwinn as verbally aggressive, prone to sermonizing. Lots had changed over twenty years.

I said, "Marge told us Pierce had grown serene."

"She'd know best… so Pierce was Milo's partner. How interesting. The world grows smaller yet."

"The way he died," I said. "Falling off that horse. Any thoughts about that?"

He uncrossed his leg, tapped a rosy cheek, and allowed his hand to brush against an ornate concertina. "You suspect something other than an accident? Why, Alex?"

"Because that's the way my mind works."

"Ah," he said.

I could hear Milo laughing.

"Small world," he repeated. "That's about all I can tell you… can I fix you some tea, Alex? Wait- you're a guitarist, aren't you? I've got something in back that might interest you. A turn-of-the-century Knutsen Hawaiian harp-guitar. Perhaps you can tell me how to tune the drone strings."

His spare bedroom was filled with instruments and antique music stands, and I hung around for a while watching him fiddle and tinker, listened to him expound on music and rhythm and culture. He began to reminisce about his time in Chile. Ethnographic research in Indonesia, a summer of musicology in Salzburg, ministering to Israeli kibbutz children who'd been traumatized by terrorism.

No mention of his Santa Barbara days- the years he'd spent at a school for troubled kids, just a few miles away. The kind of place someone like Caroline Cossack might easily have ended up. That high-priced travesty had caused more problems than it had solved.

Bert had a selective memory for the positive. Perhaps that's why he'd seemed reluctant to imagine a young girl evincing brutality.

He stopped narrating and threw up his hands. "I'm such a bore- you've probably begun wondering if I'm going senile."

"I haven't at all, Bert." Though I had thought: He seems distracted .

"The truth is, I have lost some short-term memory. But nothing beyond my age norms."

"Your memory seems fine to me," I said.

"That's kind of you to say…" He gestured around the room. "All this- all these toys, Alex, they're a wonderful distraction. A boy needs a hobby." Pudgy fingers took hold of my forearm. His grip was forceful. "We both know that, don't we?"

I stuck around for tea, finally told him I needed to get back to L.A.

As he walked me to my car, he said, "That girl. So monstrous, if it's true."

"You seem skeptical."

He nodded. "I do find it hard to believe that a young female would be capable of such savagery."

"I'm not saying she acted alone, Bert, or even initiated the murder. But she could've lured the victims, and either receded into the background or participated."

"Any theories about the main perpetrator?"

"The girl had a boyfriend, six years older, with a criminal history, including murder."

"Sexual murder?"

"No, an ambush killing."

"I see," he said. "Any particular reason you didn't mention him, initially?"

"The cover-up's more likely related to the girl."

"This fellow wasn't wealthy."

"Young black street pusher."

"I see- and what became of this murderous young felon?"

"He vanished, too."

"A girl and a young man," he said. "That would change things. Psychosocially."

"A killing team," I said. "One scenario is the two of them picked up the victims at the party and took them somewhere to be raped and murdered."

"A Svengali-Trilby situation," he said. "Dominant male, submissive female… because that's what it usually takes to get an impressionable young female involved in extremely violent behavior. Nearly all sexual violence seems to emanate from the Y chromosome, doesn't it? What else do you know about this boyfriend?"

"Apart from being a junkie and a pusher, he was manipulative enough to get a street-smart bail bondsman to forgo a bond. And calculated enough to ambush the bondsman- that's the homicide he's wanted for. Still wanted. Another of Milo's open cases."

"Sad convergence for Milo," he said. "A junkie in the strict sense- heroin?"

"Heroin was his first choice, but he was eclectic."

"Hmm… then I suppose that would explain it."

"Explain what?" I said.

"With sexual sadists, one usually thinks of alcohol or marijuana as the drugs of choice, correct? Something mild enough to take the edge off inhibition, but not sufficiently incapacitating to blunt the libido. Other drugs- amphetamines, cocaine- can foster violence, but that's usually more of a paranoid reaction. But heroin?" He shook his head. "Opiates as the great pacifiers. Take away the necessity to steal in order to obtain heroin and no place would be safer than a city full of addicts. I've certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner."

"Not while high," I said. "But a heroin addict in need of a fix wouldn't be good company."

"I suppose." He scratched an ear. "Even then, Alex, wouldn't the violence be impulsive- born of frustration? An addict would be interested in the needle, not luring and raping and cutting up young girls. Just garnering the concentration would be difficult, wouldn't you say? At least that's the way it was years ago when I worked with addicts."

"When was that?"

"During my internship, I rotated through the Federal hospital in Lexington."

"Where haven't you been, Bert?"

"Oh, lots of places… do forgive my rambling, Alex. What do I know about crime? You're the expert."

As I got in the Seville, he said, "What I told you before about Robin. I didn't mean to presume to instruct you how to live your life. I've presumed an awful lot, today, haven't I?"

"I didn't take it that way, Bert."

He sighed. "I'm an old man, Alex. Most of the time I feel young- sometimes I wake up in the morning ready to dash to the lecture hall and take notes. Then I look in the mirror… the life cycle. One regresses. Loses one's sense of propriety. Forgive me."

Tears welled in the gray eyes.

"There's nothing to forgive-"

"You're kind to say that."

I placed a hand on his shoulder. Beneath the purple polyester he was soft and frail and small. "Is everything okay, Bert?"

"Everything is as it should be." He reached up and patted my hand. "Lovely seeing you, son. Don't give up."

"On the case?"

"On anything that matters."

I drove down the hill, paused to look through the rearview mirror. He remained standing in the driveway. Waved. A tired wave.

Definitely distracted, I thought as I drove away. And the sudden mood swings- the tears. A different Bert from the buoyant man I'd known.

The allusions to senility.

Nothing beyond my age norms.

As if he'd tested himself. Maybe he had.

An impressive man, afraid…

He called me son several times. I realized that for all his travels and adventures, the first-time mention of being married, he'd never spoken of having children.

Alone, in a house full of toys.

If I reached his age, how would I be living?

I got home just before dark, with a head full of road glare and lungs teeming with smog. No numeral blinked on my phone machine, but two messages had been left with my service: someone wanting to sell me earthquake insurance and a request to call Dr. Allison Gwynn.