Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Isaac was right; killing your wife and then moving on to strangers was unusual- she’d never heard of anything like that.

On the other hand, what if Kurt had dispatched Marta because of some personal motive, then found out he’d liked it?

Too twisted. She knew she was thinking that way because Doebbler was an eminently unlikable individual.

Then again, bashing six people over the head on the same date, same time, was pretty weird.

Across the room, Isaac continued to study his numbers. Hand on face, concealing the bruise.

The kid had complicated her life. Why couldn’t he have chosen to do his thing at the sheriff’s?

She took a bathroom break, risked more coffee, returned to the June 28 files. Putting Solis aside and reviewing the other non-Hollywood case.

The sailor, Darren Ares Hochenbrenner. On shore leave. According to two other sailors, they’d started out in Hollywood, but Darren had parted ways when they’d gone to a movie at the Egyptian.

The body had been found downtown, on Fourth Street, pockets emptied.

Far from the others, the only black victim, and the pockets made it a probable strong-arm street robbery taken to the extreme. She rechecked the wound dimensions. Perfect match to Marta Doebbler- down to the millimeter.

The listed detective was a DII named Ralph Seacrest. He was still working at Central, sounded tired.

“That one,” he said. “Yeah, I remember it. Kid started off in your neighborhood, ended up in mine.”

“Any idea how he got to yours?” said Petra.

Seacrest said, “I’m thinking he got picked up.”

“By a john?”

“Could be.”

“Hochenbrenner was gay?”

“That never came up,” said Seacrest. “But sailors on leave? Or maybe he got lost. Kid was from the Midwest- Indiana, I think. First time in the city.”

“He was stationed in Port Hueneme.”

“That’s not the city. Why’re you asking about him?”

Petra spun him the usual yarn.

Seacrest said, “Another head-bashing? Your vic get robbed?”

“No.”

“Mine got robbed. This was a kid, got lost, found himself in a real bad neighborhood. Also, he was stoned.”

“On what?”

“Mari-joo-ana, some booze- don’t hold me to that, it’s been a while, but that’s what I remember. Bottom line: He was partying. Probably partied too hardy, got picked up, the rest is history.”

Petra hung up, checked Darren Hochenbrenner’s tox screen, found a blood alcohol of.02 percent. At Hochenbrenner’s body weight, that probably meant one beer. Traces of THC had been found, but minimal, possibly days old, according to the coroner.

Hardly “stoned.” She wondered how hard Detective Ralph Seacrest had worked the case.

A shadow fell across the file and she looked up, expecting to see Isaac.

But the kid was gone from his desk. No briefcase. He’d left without saying a word.

A civilian receptionist from downstairs, a blond, cheerleader type named Kirsten Krebs, newly hired, who’d been hostile from the get-go, handed her a message slip.

Dr. Robert Katzman had returned her call. Half an hour ago.

Krebs was on her way toward the stairs. Petra said, “Why didn’t you put him through?”

Krebs stopped. Turned. Glared. Clamped her hands to her hips. She wore a tight, powder-blue stretch top, tight black cotton pants. V-neck top, it offered a hint of tan, freckled cleave. Pushup bra. Long blond hair. Despite a face too hard to be pretty, a couple of D’s had turned to take in her firm young ass. This was a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.

“Your line was busy. ” Whiny.

Petra aimed a hollow-point smile straight at the girl’s upturned nose. Krebs sniffed and turned on her heel. Eyed Isaac’s desk as she left.

Not much older than Isaac. Half Isaac’s I.Q., but she had other weapons in her armamentarium. Could eat the kid alive.

Listen to me- the surrogate mother.

She got on the phone and called Dr. Katzman. Got his mellow voice on message and left a message of her own.

Not so mellow.

The joke: Richard Jaramillo was fat, so they called him Flaco.

That was back in fourth grade. Then Jaramillo grew up and got skinny and the nickname fit.

Little else about Jaramillo had worked out so neatly.

Isaac had known him back in public school: a jumpy, scared fat kid who wore old-fashioned clothes, sat at the back of the classroom, and never learned how to read. The teacher, faced with fifty kids, half of whom didn’t speak English, assigned Isaac to tutor Flaco.

Flaco had reacted to the assignment distractedly. Isaac concluded, almost immediately, that Flaco’s biggest problem was that he didn’t pay attention. Not long after, he realized Flaco had real problems paying attention.

Flaco hated everything about school, so Isaac figured some kind of reward might work. Since Flaco was fat, he tried food. Mama was overjoyed when he asked her to pack extra sugar-tamales in his lunch bag. Finally, Isaac was starting to eat.

Isaac offered Flaco tamales and Flaco learned to read at the first-grade level. Flaco never got far beyond that. Even with tamales, it was never easy.

“Big deal anyway,” he told Isaac. “I’m passing into fifth same as you.”

Then Flaco Jaramillo’s father went to prison on a manslaughter conviction and the boy stopped showing up at school, period. Isaac found that he missed being the teacher and now he had to figure out what to do with the extra tamales. He wanted to call Flaco, but Mama told him the Jaramillos had moved out of the city in shame.

Which turned out to be a lie; Mrs. Gomez had never liked Isaac hanging out with a bad boy from that family, such a rotten bunch. In truth, the Jaramillos had been evicted from their Union District flat and were crammed into a roach-ridden SRO hotel near Skid Row.

Five years later, the boys ran into each other.

It happened on a hot, polluted Friday, not far from the bus stop.

Half day at Burton because of teacher training seminars. Isaac had spent the afternoon at the Museum of Science and Industry, alone, was returning home, from the bus, when he saw two black-and-white police cars, parked at the corner in careless diagonals, lights flashing. Up on the sidewalk, a few feet away, a small, thin boy in a baggy T-shirt, sagging pants, and expensive running shoes was being rousted by four muscular officers.

They had him in the position: legs spread, arms up, palms pressed against the brick wall.

Isaac kept his distance but stopped to watch. The police questioned the boy, spun him around, got in his face and yelled.

The boy remained impassive.

Then Isaac recognized him. The baby fat was gone but the features were the same, and Isaac felt his own eyes stretch wide as the unspoken “huh?” resonated in his head.

He stepped even farther back, expecting the police to arrest Flaco Jaramillo. But they didn’t, just wagged warning fingers, screamed some more, and shoved the boy around a bit. Then, as if summoned by a silent alarm, all four got in their cars and sped away.

Flaco stepped into the street and flipped off the cops. Noticed Isaac and flipped him off, too. As Isaac turned to leave, he shouted, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, motherfucker?”

His voice had changed, too. Small boy with a deep baritone.

Isaac started walking.

“Yo, motherfucker, you hear me?”

Isaac stopped. The skinny boy was advancing on him. Face dark and scrunched and intent. All that pent-up anger and humiliation ready to blow. Ready to take it out on someone.

Isaac said, “It’s me, Flaco.”

Flaco came within inches. He smelled of weed. “Who the fuck are you?”