Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Pinching the rat,” I said. “Gloating. Sounds like he's into control in some unpleasant ways.”

“Yes. I definitely see him as highly dominant. One of those people who won't have anything to do with a situation unless he can control it. But he is bright. Very bright.”

“How do you know?”

“During the first three years of classes, he always scored high, and I remember someone saying he was at the top of his class at Berkeley.”

“But no interest in clinical issues.”

“Just the opposite. He used to disparage clinical work, said psychology was presumptuous because it hadn't laid enough scientific groundwork to be able to help people. That point of view goes over pretty well with lots of the department biggies, so he'll probably end up a full professor. Heck, with his brains and his dominance needs, he'll probably end up a department chairman .”

“Chairman in black leather?”

“I'm sure it's a stage,” she said. “Maybe next year it'll be tweeds and elbow patches.”

I sat thinking about the rat suffering between Locking's fingers. Mr. Skull Ring.

Hope's gift.

Another Berkeley grad.

The Northern California connection… Big Micky moving up to San Francisco because you could get away with more there.

How many connecting threads? How far back did it go?

I tiptoed into the bedroom, determined not to wake Robin. Eased into bed, careful not to rock the mattress.

But she said, “Honey?” and reached out to me.

I wrapped my arms around her.

Next morning my mind was a gun scope with Locking centered in the crosshairs.

I started phoning at nine, in my bathrobe. No answer at his home or his campus office. Down in the basement with his rats?

I had no home address because his file was missing. Had he pulled it himself? Hiding something?

Dialing the Psych department, I filled my voice with annoyed authority and told the secretary, “This is Dr. Delaware. I need to locate a grad student on a research matter. Casey Locking. Your file on him's missing and you gave me his number but I need an address.”

“One second, Doctor.” Click out, click in. “I have an address for him on 1391 Londonderry Place.”

After she read it off, I said, “What about his lab? Is there an extension there?”

“Hold on… No, there's nothing here.”

“Thanks. Is there a zip code for Londonderry Place?”

“L.A. 90069.”

Hollywood Hills, north of Sunset Strip. Nice address for a grad student. Thanking her again, I got dressed.

I drove Sunset through Beverly Hills and into West Hollywood, cruising by talent agencies, high-ticket defense attorneys, glass boxes filled with used Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Past the Roxy, the House of Blues, the Snake Pit, what used to be Gazzarri's before it burned to the ground. At Holloway I spied a magenta-and-brass thing that said CLUB NONE over a neon highball glass and stirrer.

So Locking lived close to the place where Mandy had plied her trade, maybe with the ultimate bad john.

Next came Sunset Plaza with its Oscar-party fashion boutiques and sidewalk cafes crowded with would-be actresses and the poorly shaved vultures who wait for them to get rich or die. If any of the women found screen work, chances are it would be with their clothes off. One way or another the men would be watching.

Londonderry Place was a block beyond the last cafe, just past Ben Franks's twenty-four-hour coffee shop, a steep, skinny, aerobic hike above the traffic. High, canted lawns, good-sized houses, most with less architecture than a bus stop.

Locking's was two blocks up, one story, white, unmodified since its fifties birthdate. This high up there was bound to be a city view but the house had low, slatted windows. Arrow plants and yuccas and gazania crowned the sloping frontage. Concrete steps led to the front door and an alarm-company sign was staked at the top.

I walked up a very long driveway that continued past the house. Space for half a dozen vehicles but only one was parked there: black BMW 530i. Through an open wooden gate I saw a blue pool and concrete decking, an outdoor lounge chair. Thick, low-hanging ficus trees cast black shade.

Nothing luxurious but, still, the rent had to be two thousand a month.

I climbed the steps to the door. No mail piled up but it was too early for today's delivery. The car said Locking might be home.

I rang the bell and waited. Music or something like it came through the door. Loud, pounding music. Screaming vocals.

Thrash metal. Locking's choice of background as he tormented the rat.

I knocked louder, rang again, still no response. Descending to the driveway, I looked back at the street. No neighbors out. In L.A., they rarely are.

I slid past the BMW, and walked along the side of the house. More slatted windows.

The pool was fifties-big, an oval that took up ninety percent of the backyard. The rest was a hill of ivy disappearing under the gloom of the ficus trees- two of them, sixty feet tall and nearly as wide, with thick roots that had worked their way under the pool decking, cracking it, lifting it up. The lounge chair was rusted, as were two others just like it. Not far away were a gas barbecue and an unfurled garden hose, kinked so badly it was useless.

The music much louder from back here.

A fiberglass roof darkened sliding-glass doors left an inch ajar.

I went over and looked in. The room looked to be a den. Well-stocked wet bar, pub mirrors with ale trademarks, hanging glasses, big plastic ashtrays. Lights out except for green numbers dancing on a black face. Six-foot stereo stack. The CD player going. The music at steam-drill level.

Trying to ignore it, I put my hand against the glass and squinted. Alarm panel in a corner. Another green light: unarmed.

The gray carpeting was grubby. Black leather couches, black-lacquer tables, Lucite sculpture of a nude woman bending submissively. One wall was taken up by a huge chrome-framed litho of a melon-breasted, rouged woman in leather tights. Motorcycle cap pulled down over one of her eyes. The other winked. Opposite stood a free-form gray-granite fireplace with ragged edges. No logs. Black beanbag chairs. A single CD case on one.

Panic-attack drumbeat, tortured bass, jet-engine guitars. Brain-scraping vocals, over and over.

No sign of Locking.

I slid the door open a few inches wider, stuck my head in. “Hello!”

Cigarettes, butts and ashes on the carpet. On one of the tables were piles of magazines.

I took a few steps closer, shouted another “Hello?”

The magazines were a mix of psychology journals I recognized and things you didn't need a Ph.D. to understand.

Full-color covers: nipple-pink, lip-red, coif-blond, pubic-hair-umber. The oyster glisten of fresh ejaculate.

The Journal of Clinical Practice and that.

Locking's idea of homework?

On another table stood a popped can of cola, a nearly empty bottle of Bacardi, and a glass filled with something diluted, barely tinted amber. Melted ice cubes, the drink poured hours ago.

One glass. Party for one.

Maybe Locking had rum-and-Coked himself into a deep enough stupor not to hear the noise.

I shouted again.

No answer.

I tried once more. The room stank of nicotine and a durable relationship with takeout food. The big black ashtrays on the bar were overflowing. Vegas casino logo on the rim of one, the place Ted Barnaby had worked.

The CD on the chair from a band called Sepultura.

Spanish for “grave.”

Cute. The image.

I turned off the music.

Silence. No protest.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Not the time to explore further: Half the people in L.A. own guns and Locking's connection to Cruvic plus the tough- punk image made him likely to be one of them. If he'd managed to sleep through the racket, waking him could be dangerous. At the very least, I was guilty of criminal trespass.