Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Around Hope's age.”

“Then it would have to be the son. Because Big Micky only had one kid. Little Micky. He and Hope were in the same class at Bakersfield High. In fact, he was the boy who won the Brooke-Hastings Award with Hope. Everyone suspected a put-up, but if he became a doctor, maybe he was genuinely smart.”

“Why'd they suspect a put-up?”

“Because Big Micky owned the Brooke-Hastings Company. And the biggest slaughterhouse in town, and packing plants, vending machines, a gas station, farm acreage. All that on top of the clubs. The man just kept buying things up.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Don't know. I stay away from the city, sit right here, and mind my own business.”

She picked up the trophy and tapped it with a fingernail. The plating was cheap and bits of gold flaked off and floated to the ground. “Joe, my husband, was a smoker, four packs a day, so eventually he got emphysema. The day Hope came to visit he was in the rear bedroom on oxygen. After she left I went in and showed him the trophy and the article and he burst out laughing. Wheezing so hard he nearly passed out. I said what's funny and he said, guess who won the boys'? Big Micky's kid. Then he laughed some more and said, guess the tramp worked overtime to help her daughter. It made me feel rotten. Here I was feeling proud of my teaching and he popped a big balloon in my face. But I didn't say anything because how can you argue with a man in that condition? Also, I suspected there might be some truth to it, because I knew what Lottie was like. Still, Hope was gifted and I'll bet she earned it. What kind of doctor did Little Micky become?”

“Gynecologist.”

“Poking women? Guess the apple doesn't fall far. And Hope worked with him? Why?”

“He does fertility work,” I said. “Told us Hope counseled patients.”

“Fertility,” she said. “That is a laugh.”

“Why?”

“Big Micky's son helping get life going. Is he a decent man?”

“I don't know.”

“It would be nice if he was decent. Both he and Hope managing to get past their origins. Helping nurture life instead of ending it the way his father did.”

“Big Micky killed people?”

“That could very well be, but what I'm talking about is the way he finished those girls off spiritually. Just used them up.”

She squeezed her hands together. “And his way with animals. That's always the tip-off. His slaughterhouse was a big gray place with rail tracks running in and out. They'd ride livestock in on one end, crammed into rail cars, thrashing and moaning, and out the other side would come butchered sides hanging from hooks. I saw it personally because Joe was kind enough to drive by there once after we'd gone into town for dinner. His idea of funny. Here we were, just finished a nice meal, and he drives over there.”

She licked her lips as if trying to get rid of a bad taste. “It was late at night but the place was still going full-guns. You could hear it and smell it from a mile away. I was furious, demanded Joe turn right around. He did, but not before telling me about Big Micky and how he liked coming down there personally, around midnight, putting on a rubber apron and boots and grabbing himself a studded baseball bat. The workers would stop the line, hoist up some steers and porkers, and let him have a go at them for as long as he wanted.”

She shuddered. “Joe said it was Big Micky's idea of fun.”

Trudging to the kitchen, she checked the Shih Tzu, again. “Hope and Little Micky, after all these years.”

Smartest boy, smartest girl.

“Hope consulted to a lawyer named Robert Barone.”

“Never heard of him.”

“How about these names: Casey Locking?”

Headshake.

“Amanda or Mandy Wright?”

“No. Who are they?”

“People Hope knew.”

“Being famous, she must have known lots of people.”

“That's part of the problem. Her book was controversial. For all we know she was stalked and killed by a stranger because of it.”

“Controversial in what way?”

I told her.

“And you're saying this was a best-seller?”

“Yes.”

“I'm embarrassed not to know about it.” Bending, she peered into the crate.

I said, “Did Hope talk about anything else the day she visited?”

She'd countered several direct questions by changing the subject and I expected her to do it again. Instead she came back, sat, and looked right at me.

“She told me Lottie tied her up.”

Her lip trembled.

I sat there, shrink-calm. My heart raced.

“When?” I said. “Why?”

“When she was little and Lottie had to leave her alone for long stretches. Also when Lottie brought men home.”

“Tied her up how?”

“In her room. To her bed. The headboard. Remember I said it was a two-room cabin? One was Hope's bedroom, the other, Lottie's. Lottie used a dog leash and a bicycle lock, fastened it to the headboard, locked her in.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Years. I never knew, Hope never complained. Thank God there was never a fire. When Hope told me I was outraged but she kept telling me it was okay, there was no abuse, Lottie always left her plenty of food and drinks, toys, books, a radio, a potty. Later a TV. Hope didn't seem the least bit angry talking about it. Kept telling me it was okay, Lottie had been doing what she thought was best.”

“Then why'd she bring it up?”

“She said she was worried about Lottie. The things Lottie had done to support the two of them. The things Lottie was still allowing men to do to her.”

“Lottie was still bringing men home?”

“Guys she met at the Blue Barn and other places. Regulars, Hope called them. She and Lottie had moved into a nice-sized house in Bakersfield by then, and the arrangement was that Lottie would hang one of those Privacy tags you get at a hotel from her bedroom doorknob when she was working. Hope was always supposed to come in through the kitchen door, check the knob. If the sign was hanging, she had to go straight to her room and stay there til Lottie told her the coast was clear.”

“More confinement.”

She nodded. “Even so, she could sometimes hear what was going on.”

Rubbing her eyes, she said, “And I mean besides sex. Screams. Sometimes there were marks on Lottie.”

“Bruises?”

“And rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Lottie used makeup to cover them but Hope saw them anyway.”

“So Lottie was getting tied up, herself.”

“Can you imagine? That's what I meant by despite her home life.”

“Did Hope talk to her mother about it?”

“She said no, as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course not, Mrs. Campos. She's my mother !' ”

“But she talked about it openly.”

“Yes… but then she cut it off. I think she really wanted to unload all the way, but just couldn't. I never saw her again.” Again, she looked at the cuckoo clock.

“What was her demeanor when she told you all this?” I said.

“Calm, except when she cried about Lottie. Worried about Lottie getting hurt by a… customer. She rationalized what Lottie did by saying she had no education and skills and she was just trying to support the two of them the best way she knew how. So what could I say to that? Face it, child, Momma's a tramp? I knew she had to be hurting. Still, a prisoner in her own home- can you see bringing friends home to a place like that? I tried to get her to talk about her feelings but she wouldn't go for it.”

“Poor kid.”

“Yes, but to look at her you'd never know it. Beautiful, poised, perfect hair, the right amount of makeup. And Lottie was obviously still spending on her clothes. Silk blouse, nice wool suit, nylons, pumps. She could've passed for twenty. A young lady. And she made a point of telling me she was getting straight A's at Bakersfield, honor society every semester.”