Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Kenny,” said the lawyer, “if there's something you need to-”

The boy shot to his feet, waving his fists. “I need privacy!”

“I'm here to safeguard your privacy and your-”

“I mean real privacy, not legal bullshi-”

“Ken!” barked Senior.

“This is a murder, Dad, they can do what they want !”

“Shut up !”

“It's no big deal, Dad! I just want some fucking privacy, okay!”

Bateman said, “Kenny, there are obviously some things you and I need to-”

“No!” shouted the boy. “I'm not saying I killed her or anything crazy like that! I just made a phone call, okay? A fucking phone call but they're gonna find out so can I have some privacy ?”

Silence.

Finally, Senior said, “What the hell did you do, call a whore?”

The boy blanched, sat down heavily, covered his face.

“Great,” said his father. “Great judgment, Kenny.”

The boy began sobbing. Talking between gasps: “All… I… wanted… fucking… pri… vacy.”

Senior ground out his cigar. “With all the diseases going around. Jesus…”

“That's why I didn't want to tell you!”

“Great,” said his father. “Very smart.”

Kenny lowered his hand. His lips trembled.

Senior said, “If you were so concerned about what I'd think, why'd you do it in the first place?”

“I used a skin !”

Senior shook his head.

Milo said, “What you do on your own time doesn't concern me, Kenny. In fact, it could help you. Who exactly did you call?”

“Some service.”

“Name?”

“I don't remember.” Despondent, soft voice.

“Had you used it before?”

Silence.

Senior turned away.

“Kenny?” said Milo.

“Once.”

“Once before?”

Nod.

“But you don't remember the name?”

“Starr Escorts. Two r 's.”

“Where'd you find out about them?”

“The phone book. They're all in the Yellow Pages.”

“What was the girl's name?”

“I don't- Hailey, I think.”

“You think?”

“We didn't exactly talk much.”

“Both times it was Hailey?”

“No, just the second time.”

“Describe her.”

“Mexican, short, long black hair. Not bad face. Good bo… nice-looking.”

“How old?”

“Maybe twenty-five.”

“How much did she charge?”

“Fifty.”

“How'd you pay her?”

“Cash.”

“What time did you call Starr Escorts?”

“Around ten.”

“And what time did Hailey arrive?”

“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”

“How long did she stay?”

“Half hour. Maybe longer. After- she watched some TV with me, we had the last two beers.”

“Then?”

“Then she left and I went to sleep. Next day I turn on the news and they're talking about her- Devane. Saying somebody offed her and I'm thinking, whoa, while she was getting killed, I was…” He looked at his father, sat up straighter. “Right around the time she was dying I was having a good time. Freaky, but kind of… like some kind of revenge, know what I mean?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Can we end this?”

“So I'm covered, right? Alibied?” the boy asked Milo. “She was killed around midnight and I was getting- with Hailey, so I couldn't do it, right?”

He took a deep breath and let the air out. “I'm glad it's out. Big deal, Dad. I didn't kill anybody. Aren't you happy?”

“I'm overjoyed,” said Senior.

“Starr Escorts,” said Milo.

“Look it up in the book. I'll take a fucking lie-detector test, if you want.”

“Shut your mouth!” said his father. “No more gutter talk!” He turned quickly to Milo: “Are you happy, now? Have you squeezed enough blood out of the rock? Why don't you just leave us alone and go out and catch some gang members?”

Milo looked at the boy. “What about Mandy Wright?”

Genuine confusion on the stolid face. “Who?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Lay off!”

“Ken,” said Bateman.

“Ken,” Senior repeated, as if the sound of his own name disgusted him. Pointing his hand to the door, he said, “Out. All of you. This is still my office and I want privacy.”

Back at the unmarked, I said, “Believe him?”

“The hooker thing,” he said, “is exactly what a dumb, lonely kid would do. And he probably isn't smart enough to plan. If I can find the massage girl and she alibis him and I don't get the feeling Daddy's paid her off, there's another one off the list.”

“And he seemed genuinely unfamiliar with Mandy's name.”

He pulled out a cigarillo and looked at it. A warm breeze was drifting from the San Gabriels and the palm trees planted close to the building were doing a line dance.

“So, bye-bye, committee. Hope was probably killed because of something in her private life- those bruises on her arm are bringing me back to Seacrest. And/or Cruvic, 'cause he was probably fooling around with her. Problem is, I can't get close to either of them… and I can't get a clear picture of Hope. Just polarized opinions- she was Womanhood's Great Savior, or she was a man-hating manipulator. Nothing about her… core.”

“One of the problems,” I said, “is that there's no family other than Seacrest. No one to talk about her development- her childhood, what she was like outside of her professional role.”

“All I know about her childhood is she grew up in that aggie town- Higginsville. Parents dead, no sibs. And if she's got distant relatives, they must be damned distant, because after the murder, no one ever stepped forward.”

He got in the car.

“Still,” I said, “no family doesn't mean no family history. I could go up to Higginsville, ask around. In a small town, someone might remember her.”

“Sure,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I'll call the local police and let them know you're coming, see if they can get you access to records. When do you want to go?”

“No reason it can't be tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Dress for the heat, we're talking farmland. Don't they grow artichokes up there, or something?”

That night, Robin and I went out to dinner. By eight, she was soaking in a bath and I was stretched out on a sofa in my office rereading the conduct-committee transcripts. Uncharacteristically, Spike had chosen to stay with me. Probably the lingering smell of steak. Now, his big, knobby head rested in my lap and he snored. The rhythm was soporific and the bitter dialogue began to blur.

I learned nothing, felt myself grow drowsy, knew it was time to stop.

Just as I put the transcripts down, the phone rang. Spike snapped upright, bounded off, and ran to the offending machine, baying.

“Doctor, this is Joyce at your service. There's a woman on the line sounds pretty distraught. A Mary Farney?”

The woman at the Women's Center in Santa Monica. Beaten-down mother of Chenise. “Put her on, please.”

A strident voice said, “Hello?”

“This is Dr. Delaware. What can I do for you, Mrs. Farney?”

“You gave me your card- at the center. Said I could- you're the one with the police, right?”

“Yes. What's the matter, Mrs. Farney?”

“I- I know who did it.”

“Who did what?”

“Who killed her. Dr. Devane.”

I was wide-awake now. “Who?”

“Darrell. And now he's gonna kill Dr. Cruvic, maybe he already did, I dunno, maybe I shoulda called nine-one-one but I- you-”

“Darrell who?”

“Darrell… oh, Jesus, how could I forget his name, he's always over here. He's Chenise's latest- Darrell Ballitser. He did it, I'm sure.”