Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Until Mike got himself into trouble in Seattle.”

Healthy color finally came into the old man's face. A pinkening around the edges of his mouth. Clarity in the eyes- the health benefits of anger?

“Moe-rons! What'd he do, take some stiff and try to get something good outta it?”

“Minor technicality. The stiff wasn't dead.”

“What, no brain waves and it's ready to get up and do the fucking mamba ? Bullshit! It was dead as your dick- they do it every day- what do you think they give the medical students to practice on? Their fucking girlfriends? Stiffs they give 'em! They got hundreds of 'em stored, pickled like pigs' feet. They take 'em apart, throw out the crap they don't want, like garbage. So what was Mike's crime? Not filling out the right forms? Big fucking deal. It was a put-up job. They didn't like him from day one 'cause he was too smart for them, showed them up all the time, pointed out their mistakes. I wanted to go up there, tell 'em they better cut out the bullshit but Mike said no, he was sick of 'em anyway, fuck 'em.”

“So he left and spent a year with the Brooke-Hastings program.”

“Fuck you, it was a program. Those kids were starving junkies in the Tenderloin, getting butt-fucked in the alley by perverts and niggers. We cleaned 'em up, got 'em medical care- Mike's a goddamn fine doctor.”

“Vocational training,” said Milo. “So they could get fucked by perverts who paid you .”

The old man made another unsuccessful attempt to spit. “You know everything, moe-ron- if they were being abused how come the city never charged us with nothing? Because the city knew we got 'em off the welfare rolls. Those with talent we encouraged to go onstage. So what? Others we sent to school- I musta sent fifteen, twenty girls to college, secretarial school. What the fuck did you ever do for society?”

“Nothing,” said Milo, exaggerating a grimace. “Just a civil-servant leech.”

“You got that right.”

“Why'd Mike switch from surgery to gynecology?” I said.

“He liked delivering babies- he delivered hundreds of 'em. How many lives you ever brought into the world?”

“Deliveries and abortions,” I said. “And sterilizations.”

“So what? You don't believe a lady's got a right to choose?”

“Where'd he go after the residency at Fidelity hospital?” Milo said.

“Back to me. Helping me with the business, taking care of the girls and building up a practice. Then, when I got sick, he concentrated on taking care of me. I tried to talk him outta it, said Mike, you got your own life, let me be. He said, Dad, I got plenty of life aheada me. I'm gonna take care of you .”

Another quick turn toward the pool.

“Fuck you,” the old man said. Softly, almost genially. “Fuck you, fuck your drug paper, fuck your life. You got no right to come in here under bullshit pretenses, insult my family.”

“Talk about gratitude,” said Milo.

“So what? You're telling me the scumbag walks.”

“If Mike has a history of stealing people's organs he sure does.”

“Mike's a better man than you'll- Mike's dirty diaper when he was a baby had more class than you'll ever have. You say stealing. I say bullshit. Experts cut me up twice, put in kidneys that were worth shit. I was on the fucking machine, no veins left, listening to myself pee all day. One day I pass out, wake up, Mike tells me I don't need to be on the machine anymore.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“What did Hope have to do with it?”

“Who says anything?”

“She visit you after the operation?”

“Why not?”

“Casey, too?”

“Why not?”

“What did Casey have to do with the operation?”

“Who says anything- and that's all I'm putting up with from you, so fuck off.”

Waving a hand.

“Where's Mike hiding out?”

No answer.

“The old country?”

Nothing.

“He planning on ever coming back?”

No answer.

The old man closed his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” said Milo, getting up. “But you still got a problem.”

The old man kept his eyes shut. Smiled. “Problems can be solved.”

Back home I wondered how the case would resolve.

The D.A.'s office thought the casting-office thing was cute but maybe meaningless, because all it proved was that Muscadine had a scar on his back. The wheels of a bicycle found in Muscadine's garage fit the tracks at the murder scene but it was a common tire. Muscadine's assault upon Paige Bandura was fortunate because it gave them something to hold him on while the search for more evidence continued.

Would he walk on four murders?

Rape, too. Because the more I thought about Tessa Bowlby's terror and mental deterioration the surer I was that he'd done something to her.

Hope had been there for her.

No one was now.

Had she withdrawn her complaint at the hearing? Because Muscadine terrorized her further?

I'd called her parents' home several times yesterday and today. No one had picked up and I'd also left messages with Dr. Emerson. He couldn't talk about his patient, but I had facts for him…

The phone rang.

“Dr. Delaware? My name is Ronald Oster. I'm the public defender representing Mr. Reed Muscadine.”

“Okay.”

“Mr. Muscadine has requested to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Muscadine understands that you consulted to the police on this case and, in that capacity, you've already interviewed him. He believes your psychological knowledge will help the court understand his motivation.”

“You want me to help him develop a diminished-capacity defense?”

Pause. “Not necessarily, Doctor.”

“But you're looking for some kind of psychological excuse for what he did.”

“Not an excuse, Dr. Delaware. Motivation. And after what was perpetrated upon Mr. Muscadine, mental anguish would be significant, wouldn't you say?”

So Oster knew about the kidney theft. Milo'd said the D.A. was holding back, waiting to see how the case shaped up, what would be used as evidence and have to be turned over under the discovery rules.

Meaning Muscadine had told his lawyer about the surgery. But Muscadine still had no idea who the recipient was, and if the D.A. chose not to use the information, keeping the old man under wraps, and if Oster didn't ask the right questions, the details might never come out.

But the defense's problem could be turned back on the prosecution, too. Because if Muscadine didn't confess openly, direct proof of his guilt was lacking: no weapons, no witnesses, no physical evidence.

How much to use, how much to hide?

Leah Schwartz, the assistant D.A., was still going around with it. Still talking plea bargain or even dismissal. Forty-eight hours to file or release Muscadine on bail.

Did Oster's call mean he didn't yet appreciate the weakness of the case against his client?

He said, “So will you see him, Dr. Delaware?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why?”

“Conflict of interest.”

He'd expected the answer and his response was rich with malicious joy. “Okay, Dr. Delaware, then I seriously suggest you think about this: If I subpoena you as an expert witness, you'll get paid. If I subpoena you and you don't cooperate, I still get you deposed and in court, but as a regular witness, and you don't receive one thin dime.”

“Sounds like you're threatening me.”

“No, just laying out the contingencies. For your sake.”

“It's good to know someone's looking after my interests,” I said. “Have a nice day.”