Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, boy,” said Barnes, wiping clay from her hands. “Do me a favor, we ever meet again, call me CoCo, not ‘ma’am.’ You’re making me feel paleolithic.”

Milo phoned Petra and reached her out in the Valley. When he asked if we could hit the shelter without her, she said fine.

“What’s she doing?” I said.

“Keeping an eye on Kevin’s folks’ house. Stahl’s still watching the apartment, but that’s looking pretty useless.”

I turned the car around, noticed my gas gauge was near empty.

“All the back-and-forth,” he said. “I’ll pay to fill it up.”

“Spring for dinner instead.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere expensive.”

“Double date?” he said.

“Sure.” I pulled into a gas station on Lincoln.

He jumped out, used his credit card to activate the pump, hooked up the nozzle, bounced his eyes around, ever the detective. I felt like stretching, so I wiped the windows.

“So how’s Allison?” he said.

“She’s in Boulder.”

“Skiing?”

“Psych convention.”

“Oh… okay, all filled up.” He replaced the hose. “When’s she getting back?”

“Few days. Why?”

“We need to wait for her,” he said. “To schedule the double date.”

Dove House occupied a run-down, cloud-colored apartment building on Cherokee, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. No sign or identifying marks. The front door was open, and the ground-floor unit to the left was labeled OFFICE.

The director was a young, clean-shaven black man named Daryl Witherspoon, working alone at a battered desk. Cornrows lined his skull. A silver crucifix swung as he got up and walked toward us. His gray sweats smelled freshly laundered.

Milo showed him the picture, and he placed a palm against his cheek. “Oh, my. Poor Erna.”

“Erna who?”

“Ernadine,” said Witherspoon. “Ernadine Murphy.”

“E. Murphy,” I said.

Witherspoon regarded me curiously. “What happened to her?”

Milo said, “I called here about a week ago, spoke to a woman who thought she knew Ms. Murphy.”

“That was probably Diane Pirello, my assistant. Was Erna- did this happen a week ago?”

“Last night. What can you tell us about her?”

Witherspoon said, “Let’s sit down.”

Milo and I perched on a thrift shop sofa that stank of tobacco. Witherspoon offered us coffee from a bubbling machine, but we declined. Footsteps sounded from above. The room was painted a bright yellow that seared the eyes. Inspirational messages taped to the plaster were the art du jour.

Witherspoon pulled up a chair and said, “Are you able to tell me what happened?”

“That’s still unclear,” said Milo. “She was found in an alley just a few blocks away. Behind the Pentecostal church.”

“The church… she wasn’t religious,” said Witherspoon. “That’s one thing I can tell you.”

“Resistant?” I said.

He nodded. “Very. Not that we lean hard on them. But we do try to get through to them. Ernie had no desire to embrace the Lord. She really wasn’t one of our regulars, just checked in from time to time when things got bad for her. We never turn anyone away unless they’re violent.”

“Was she ever violent?”

“No, never.”

Milo said, “What made things go bad for her?”

“It all came down to alcohol. She was drinking herself to death. We’ve known her off and on for the last couple of years, and lately, we could see significant deterioration.”

“Such as?”

“Health problems- persistent cough, skin lesions, stomach problems. One time she slept here and the next morning her sheets were splotched with blood. At first we figured it was… you know, the time of the month. There’s no shortage of tampons here, but some of the women forget. As it turned out, Erna was bleeding from…” Witherspoon flinched… “her rear end. Internally. We called in one of our volunteer doctors and finally convinced Erna to be examined. She said it was nothing critical, but that Ernie did have some fissures that should be looked into. She also said there were probably intestinal problems that should be looked into. We offered to send Erna to a specialist, but she left and didn’t return for months. That was her pattern. In and out. For a lot of them, we’re a depot.”

“What about mental problems?” said Milo.

“That goes without saying,” said Witherspoon. “For most of our people, that’s a given.”

“What kind of specific mental problems did Ernadine Murphy have?”

“As I said, it all came down to drink. I figured she finally went too far- organic brain syndrome they call it. Going dull. And when she’d sleep here, she’d sometimes wake up and hallucinate. Korsakoff’s syndrome, it’s a vitamin B deficiency they get.” He frowned. “Folks joke about pink elephants, but there’s nothing funny about it.”

I said, “What was she like before she deteriorated?”

“Hmm… I can’t say she was ever really… normal. I’m not saying she was stupid. She wasn’t. Once in a while, when we could dry her out long enough and she talked, you could see she had a good vocabulary- our sense was she’d once been educated. But when we tried to ask her about it, she’d clam up. Lately, those dry periods were few and far between. For the last year or so she was still pretty dysfunctional.”

“Aggressive?” said Milo.

“Just the opposite- passive, spaced-out, slurred speech, trouble focusing. Her motor skills were affected, too. She’d stumble, trip- is that what happened to her? Did she fall and hit her head?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Milo.

“Someone did this to her.”

“We don’t know yet, sir.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Witherspoon.

Milo took out his pad. “Who’s the doctor who evaluated her when she bled on the sheets?”

“We use several, all volunteers. I think this time it was Hannah Gold. She’s got an office on Highland. It was only one time, she never established a relationship with Erna. No one did. We could never reach her.”

Witherspoon’s shoulders rose and fell. “God gives and takes away, but there’s plenty we humans do in the interim that affects the journey.”

“What do you know about Ms. Murphy’s family history?”

“Nothing,” said Witherspoon. “She never opened up.”

I said, “Did she have any friends? Connect with any of the other residents?”

“Not that I saw. To be honest, most of the other women were afraid of her. She was large, could come across threatening if you didn’t know.”

“How so?”

“Lurching around,” said Witherspoon. “Mumbling to herself. Seeing things.”

“What did she see?” said Milo.

“She never put it into words, but from the way she behaved- standing there and pointing and moving her lips- you could tell she was frightened. Was seeing something that frightened her. But she wouldn’t accept comfort.”

“So the other women were afraid of her.”

“Maybe I overspoke,” said Witherspoon. “More nervous than afraid. She never caused a problem. Sometimes she’d go off in a corner, get agitated, start mumbling and shaking her fist. When she did that, everyone gave her space. But she never aggressed against anyone. Sometimes she’d punch her own chest, rap her head with her knuckles. Nothing serious, but you can see how that would be scary. A woman of her size.”

“Those lucid periods,” I said. “What made you think she was well educated?”

“Her vocabulary,” said Witherspoon. “The way she used words. I wish I could remember a specific example but I can’t. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”