Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Victims, not murderers," he said. "And all the more likely to be dead."

"Those two photos preceding Janie's death shot. A dead black guy and a mangled white female mental patient. Maybe whoever sent the book was trying to tell you about two other db's."

"Except, as you pointed out, the dead black guy was in his forties, which would be Burns's age now, not twenty years ago." He took hold of the door handle. "I need to develop a few migraines over this. Ciao."

"That's it?"

"What?" he said.

"You go your way, I go mine?" I said. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

His half second hesitation belied his answer. "I wish I had something not to tell, Alex- look, I appreciate your effort but we can go over theories till the Second Coming, and it won't move me any closer to solving Janie."

"What will?"

"Like I said, I need to do some thinking."

"Alone."

"Sometimes," he said, "alone helps."

I drove away wondering what he was keeping from me, peeved at being shut out. Thinking about what didn't await me at home turned irritation to dread, and before I knew it I was hunched over the wheel, driving too fast- going nowhere fast.

Nothing worse than a big house when you're alone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I'd screwed things up, royally, despite Bert Harrison's wise counsel. Like most expert therapists, the old man wasn't one for offering unsolicited advice, but during my visit he'd made a point of warning me off the paranoia trail when it came to Robin.

"Sounds like small things have been amplified… this is the girl for you."

Had he sensed something- sniffed out nuances of my impending stupidity? Why the hell hadn't I listened to him?

A blast of honks jolted me. I'd been sitting at the green light at Walden and Sunset for who knew how long and the cute young woman in the VW Golf behind me thought that justified a snarl and a stiff finger.

I waved at her and sped off. She passed me, stopped talking on her cell phone long enough to flip me off again, nearly collided with the curb as her VW struggled with the winding road.

I wished her well and returned to thoughts of Bert Harrison. The other opinions the old man voiced that day- outwardly casual remarks tossed out at the tail end of my visit.

Coincidence or the old therapist's trick of harnessing the power of the parting word? I'd used it myself hundreds of times.

Bert's parting shot had been to bring up Caroline Cossack. Out of context- well after we'd stopped discussing the Ingalls case.

"That girl. So monstrous, Alex. If it's true."

"You seem skeptical."

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

Then Bert had gone on to express doubts about Willie Burns as a lust murderer.

"A junkie in the strict sense? Heroin? Opiates are the great pacifiers… I've certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner."

Now it looked as if Bert had been right on.

Was all that the intuition of an exceptionally insightful man?

Or did Bert know ?

Had Schwinn continued to work the Ingalls case for years after leaving the department? Had he told Bert about what he'd unearthed?

Bert had admitted knowing Schwinn but claimed the relationship was casual. Chance meetings in theater lobbies.

What if it was anything but casual?

Schwinn had fought his way out of drug addiction, and perhaps he'd done so on his own. But that kind of progress would've been helped along by treatment, and Bert Harrison had trained in addiction treatment at the Federal hospital in Lexington.

Schwinn as Bert's patient.

Psychotherapy. Where all kinds of secrets tumbled out.

If any of that was true, Bert had lied to me. And that could explain all those apologies he'd tendered. His contrition- so puzzling at the time that I'd wondered about Bert's deteriorating mental state.

Bert had encouraged my suspicions: "One regresses. Loses one's sense of propriety. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive-"

I remembered how he'd wiped away tears.

"Is everything okay, Bert?"

"Everything is as it should be."

Seeking forgiveness because he knew he had to lie to me? Protecting Schwinn because of patient confidentiality?

But Schwinn had been buried seven months ago and any privilege had died along with his body. Perhaps Bert held himself to higher standards.

Or maybe he was protecting a living patient.

In drug treatment- the kind of intensive treatment Bert would've prescribed for a long-term addict like Schwinn- family members were included. And Marge was all the family Schwinn had had left.

Bert shielding Marge. It made sense. I strained to recall anything in our conversation that pointed to that and came up with one quickly: Bert had deflected any suggestion Marge could've mailed the murder book.

Protecting her, or had Bert been the messenger? A doctor honoring his patient's last wishes.

What if Janie's murder had eaten at Schwinn- corroded his late-in-life serenity- to the point where he felt impelled to stir up the ashes? Because even though the department had booted him out, and outwardly he'd made major life changes, Pierce Schwinn had held on to a detective's bulldog sensibilities.

Janie wasn't only a cold case, she'd been Schwinn's last case. One massive overdose of unfinished business. Perhaps Schwinn had connected the unsolved murder with his breakdown.

Bert would have wanted to help him with that.

The more I thought about it, the better it fit. Schwinn came to trust Bert, showed Bert the murder book, eventually bequeathed the album to his psychiatrist. Knowing Bert would do the right thing.

Bert's involvement would also explain why the blue-bound horror had been mailed to me. He'd met Milo a couple of times, but he knew me much better and was well aware of my relationship with Milo. For Bert, my handing over the book to Milo would have been a certainty.

Fingerprints wiped clean. I could see the old man doing that.

What I couldn't see was him driving down to L.A., stealing Rick's Porsche, and returning the car with the original Ingalls file on the front seat. The GTA combined with the HIV detective rumor and that weird encounter with the man who called himself Paris Bartlett had Big Blue written all over it.

Someone in the department. Or once associated with the department. Maybe even the cop buddy I'd hypothesized, stepping in once the wheels had begun to turn.

Theories…

Bert had just called to let me know he was leaving town. A few days ago, he'd mentioned nothing about travel plans.

Escaping because of my visit? Bert and I weren't everyday acquaintances, there'd be no reason for him to notify me of his itinerary. Unless he was trying to distance himself from the fallout.

Or call me off.

By the time I made it to the bridle path that leads to my property, my head ached with conjecture. I pulled up in front of my house… our house. The damn thing looked cold, white… foreign. I sat in the Seville with the engine running. Turned the car around and drove back toward the Glen.

You could go home again, but what was the point?

My nerves were exposed wire sizzling with impulse. Maybe a long, pretty drive would help cool them down.

Alone.

Milo was right about that.

Milo drove out of Beverly Hills, mulling over the interview with Nicholas Hansen.

The guy was pathetic, a momma's boy and a drunk, no big challenge browbeating him into spilling. But would Hansen change his story once he had time to stew, maybe call an attorney? Even if he did hold fast, his tale amounted to third-party hearsay.