Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Know what you mean,” I said. “I trained at Western Peds.”

“Really?” she said. “I did my training at County but rotated through W.P. Do you know Ruben Eagle?”

“I know him well.”

We exchanged names, places, other petty commonalities, then Hannah Gold’s face turned grave. “The second time I saw Erna was a lot more alarming. It was at night. She burst in here just as I was closing up. The staff had gone home and I was turning off the lights and the door opened and there she was, waving her hands, really out of sorts. Then her eyes got a panicked look and she reached out.”

She shuddered. “She wanted physical comfort. I’m afraid I stepped away from her. She was a big woman, my reflexive response was fear. She gave me this look, just collapsed on the floor in tears. I eased her to her feet, brought her back to my office. She was muscularly rigid and babbling incoherently. I’m not a psychiatrist, I didn’t want to fool with Thorazine or anything else heavy. Calling Emergency Services would have been a betrayal- I no longer felt threatened. She was pathetic, not dangerous.”

She closed the chart. “I gave her an IM injection of Valium and some herb tea, sat there with her for- had to be almost an hour. Finally, she calmed down. If she hadn’t, I would have called the EMTs.”

“Any idea what had upset her?”

“She wouldn’t say. Got extremely quiet- almost mute. Then she apologized for bothering me and insisted on leaving.”

“Almost mute?”

“She answered simple yes-or-no questions about nonthreatening topics. But nothing about what had brought her to the office or her physical problems. I wanted to check her out physically, but she’d have none of that. Yet, she kept apologizing- lucid enough to know she’d been inappropriate. I suggested she return to Dove House. She said that was a dandy idea. Those were her exact words. ‘That’s a dandy idea, Dr. Gold!’ When she said it she was almost… perky. She’d do that, turn cheerful without warning. But it was an upsetting cheerfulness- overwrought. Using phrases that were… too refined for the context.”

“The people at Dove House felt she’d been well educated.”

Hannah Gold thought about that. “Or faking it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you seen psychotics do that? They latch on to phrases and spit them back- like autistic children?”

“Was that your sense of Erna?”

She compressed her lips. “I really can’t claim to have a sense of her.” The down-slanted eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who did this to her?”

“It could be someone she trusted. Someone who used her.”

“Sexually?”

“Was she sexually active?”

“Not in the classic sense,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She licked her lips. “When I examined her, her vaginal area was raw, and she had body lice and old scars- fibrosed lesions. Those are things you expect in a street person. But then I did a pelvic and couldn’t believe what I found. Her hymen was intact. She was still a virgin. Women on the street get used in the worst ways imaginable. Erna was a big woman, but a violent man- a group of men- could’ve subdued her. I find the fact that she was never entered remarkable.”

Unless her companion had no interest in heterosexual intercourse.

“Her genital area was raw,” I said. “She could’ve been assaulted without being penetrated.”

“No,” she said, “this was more like poor hygiene. There were no lacerations, no trauma of any sort. And she didn’t get upset when I checked her out. Just the opposite. Stoic. As if she was totally cut off from that part of her.”

I said, “When she was lucid- refined- what did she talk about?”

“The first time she was here I got her to talk about things she liked, and she started going on about art. How it was the best thing in the world. How artists were gods. She could name painters- French, Flemish, artists I’ve never heard of. For all I know, she made them up. But they sounded authentic.”

“Did she ever mention friends or family?”

“I tried to ask her about her parents, where she was from, where she went to school. She didn’t want to talk about that. The only thing she admitted to was a cousin. A really smart cousin. He liked art, too. She seemed to be proud of that. But that’s all she’d say about him.”

“Him,” I said. “A male cousin.”

“That’s my recollection.” She shook her head. “It’s been a while. You said someone she trusted might’ve abused her. There really is a cousin? I assumed it was all delusion.”

“I haven’t heard of one,” I said. “The police are thinking she might’ve been lured by someone she knew. When did her two visits take place?”

She consulted the chart. Erna Murphy’s first drop-in had been five months ago. The second had taken place on a Thursday, two days before Baby Boy’s murder.

“The cousin,” she said. “She talked about him as if she was really impressed. If I’d known…”

“No reason to know.”

“Spoken like a true psychologist. When I was in med school I dated a psychologist.”

“Nice guy?”

“Terrible guy.” She suppressed a yawn. “Ex cuse me! Sorry, I’m bushed. And that’s really all I can tell you.”

“Kissing cousin,” said Milo, by cell phone.

“Nothing beyond kissing.” I gave him the results of Erna Murphy’s pelvic exam.

“Last virgin in Hollywood. If it wasn’t so pathetic…” He was on his cell, calling from the car, reception fading in and out.

“More like virgin sacrifice,” I said. “She was used and discarded.”

“Used for what?”

“Good question.”

“Theorize.”

“Adoration, submissiveness- listening to his fantasies. Running chores- as in scoping out murder scenes and reporting back. An asexual relationship is consistent with Kevin’s being gay. The interest in art drew them together. Maybe she called him her cousin because he represented her surrogate family. She refused to say a word about her real family.”

“Or,” he said, “Kevin’s really her cousin.”

“That, too,” I said. “Red hair, just like his mother.” I laughed.

“Hey, sometimes it helps not to be too brilliant.”

“How would you know?” I said.

“Pshaw. No luck on Erna’s folks, yet. Stahl’s working with the military. But guess what: Kevin’s Honda showed up. Inglewood PD tow yard. Parked illegally, it got hauled in two days ago.”

“Inglewood,” I said. “Near the airport?”

“Not far. I’m heading there as we speak. Gonna flash Kevin’s picture at the airline desks, see if anyone remembers him.”

“You’re canvassing LAX by yourself?”

“No, me and my baby Ds, but it’s still a needle in the proverbial you-know-what. The Honda’s being transferred to our motor lab, but it’s been pawed over pretty thoroughly. What finding it does, though, is firm up Kev as our bad boy. He did bad things, found out we were asking about him, cut town. There were no trophies in his pad because he took them.” His voice was engulfed by static. “… any ideas about which airline to start with?”

“Check with Passport Control and eliminate foreign flights.”

“My first stop,” he said, “not that it’s gonna be a snap, those guys love paperwork. Let’s assume domestic, though. Where would you begin?”

“Why not Boston?” I said. “He’s been there before. Enjoyed the ballet.”

Eric Stahl spent two days dealing with the various branches of the United States armed forces. Thousands of Donald Murphys in the Social Security files. Military service would winnow it down, but Pentagon pencil pushers weren’t spitting out the information without putting him through the usual.