Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“We are, Beth.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, anyone who had conflict with Gavin.”

“Anson didn’t have conflict- please, don’t go there- don’t draw Anson into this. He’d never hurt Gavin, or anyone else. He’s not like that.”

“Easygoing?” said Milo.

“Mature. Disciplined. Anson knows how to control himself.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“Work?” said Gallegos.

“His job.”

“You’re actually going to talk to him?”

“We have to, ma’am.”

Beth Gallegos placed her face in her hands and kept it there for several moments. When she revealed herself again, she’d gone pale. “I’m so, so sorry Gavin got killed. But I really can’t stand any more of this. When Gavin had his trial I was subpoenaed; it was horrible.”

“Testifying was rough.”

“ Being there was rough. The people you see in the halls. The smells, the waiting. I waited an entire day and never was called to testify. Thank God. It really wasn’t much of a trial, Gavin admitted what he’d done. Later, he and his parents walked right past me and his mother looked at me as if I was the guilty one. I didn’t even tell Anson I was going, didn’t want him to lose a day’s work.” Her attention shifted to the left. She bit her lip. “No, that’s not the real reason. I didn’t want the case to… pollute my relationship. I want Anson to see me as someone strong. Please let us be.”

Milo said, “Beth, I have no interest in adding stress to your life. And there’s no reason to believe you- or Anson- will be involved any further. But this is a homicide investigation, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk to him.”

“Okay,” Gallegos said, barely audible. “I understand… stuff happens.”

“What’s Anson’s address?”

“We live together. At his place. Ogden Drive, near Beverly. But he won’t be there, he’s working.”

“Where?”

“He teaches martial arts,” she said. “Karate, tae kwan do, kickboxing. He was a regional kickboxing champ back in Florida, just got hired by a dojo near where we live. Wilshire near Crescent Heights. He also does youth work. On Sunday, for a ministry in Bell Gardens. We’re both Christians, met at a church mixer. We’re getting married in September.”

“Congratulations.”

“He’s a great guy,” said Gallegos. “He loves me and gives me my space.”

Idrove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

“At least he saw it that way.”

“If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit- those karate dances-”

“Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

“You make it to black belt?”

“Brown.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Not angry enough.”

“I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

“Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

“Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

“Police? What about?”

“Gavin Quick.”

“Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

“Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

“Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it- kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”

Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

Milo said, “Why’s that?”

“Because the idea of my killing anyone- hurting anyone- is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

“Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.

“That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

“The Army?” said Milo.

“Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden stare off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

Conniff smiled. “I guess I’m just not very death-oriented.”

“As opposed to?”

“People who are.”

“You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

Conniff motioned around the dojo. “This? It’s a job.”

Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

“Not killing Gavin Quick.” Conniff relaxed his posture.

“In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

“How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Conniff tightened his black belt and widened the space between his feet. “I mourn Gavin Quick in the sense that I mourn the loss of any human life, but I’m not going to tell you I cared for him. He put Beth through incredible misery. But Beth insisted on dealing with it in her own way, and she was right. The stalking stopped. I had no reason to want to hurt him.”

“Her own way,” said Milo.

“Avoiding him,” said Conniff. “Going through the legal system. I wanted to confront Gavin- on a verbal level. I thought a man-to-man talk might convince him. Beth said no, and I respected her wishes.”

“Man-to-man.”

Conniff rubbed his palms along the sides of his tunic. His hands were small and callused. “Yes, I can get protective. I love Beth. But I didn’t hurt Gavin Quick. I’d have no reason to.”