Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

A knowing look, rich with triumph.

Moments later, he was lying at Allison’s feet, nibbling on his second chew stick in as many minutes, damning my approach with a jaundiced eye.

Some guys have all the luck.

Mary Lou Koppel’s murder had shaken Allison, and that seemed to be why she’d dropped by. As I made coffee for both of us, she pressed for details.

I told her the little I knew.

“So it could be a patient,” she said.

“At this point anything’s possible.”

Her hands were tight around her mug.

I said, “You’re upset.”

“Not on a personal level.” She took a sip. “I have had patients- mostly husbands of patients- who made me uneasy. But that was mostly years ago, when I was taking more referrals from agencies… I guess Mary Lou’s death hits close to home. Thinking we know what we’re doing and maybe we get overconfident. It’s not just me. I’ve gotten calls from three other psychologists who just wanted to talk about it.”

“People who knew Mary Lou?”

“People who know I’m seeing you and thought they could get some inside information. Don’t worry, I was discreet.”

“What was on their minds?”

“Our line of work, the unpredictablity of human beings. I guess they want to convince themselves that Mary Lou was different, and that’s why it happened to her.”

I said, “They’re hoping she ticked off some talk-show nut, and it had nothing to do with her practice.”

“Bingo. But from what you’re telling me, it could be a patient. Someone who met the Quick boy in the waiting room.”

“Given the Quick boy’s impulsiveness- his behavior with women- the suspect pool has grown beyond the waiting room.”

“But Mary Lou’s murder,” she said. “It has to be something related to her work.”

“Any idea about gaining access to her patient files?” I said. “I can’t figure out a way to get around confidentiality.”

She thought about that. “Not without some kind of clear and present danger- documentation of a threat.”

“There was nothing like that in Gavin’s chart. And if she was threatened by anyone, she didn’t let on to me or Milo. We’ve got a meeting with her partners tomorrow.”

“Gull and Larsen.”

“Know them?” I said.

“I’ve said hi to both of them but nothing more.”

“Any impressions?”

“Gull comes across very smooth- very much the Beverly Hills shrink. Larsen’s more the academic type.”

“Gull was Gavin’s initial therapist,” I said. “It didn’t work out, and Gavin was transferred to Koppel. Now that Gavin’s dead, maybe he can tell us why.”

“What a troubled kid,” she said. “The stalking, putting the make on his aunt.”

“If the aunt’s to be believed, the family’s beyond dysfunctional.”

She drank more coffee, took my hand and held it. “At least you and I will never be out of work.”

“Neither will Milo.”

Spike rolled on his back and began pumping his stumpy legs.

“He looks like an upended turtle,” she said. “What are you doing, cutie? Practicing for the upside-down bike race?”

“That’s the signal to scratch his belly,” I said.

She grinned and complied. “Thanks for decoding, I’m not fluent in dog.”

She stopped scratching and made a move for her coffee mug. Spike protested, and she bent down again.

I said, “One-trial learning. Consider yourself conditioned.”

She laughed, took the mug, managed to sip and rub. Spike burped, then purred like a cat. Allison cracked up. “He’s a sound effects machine.”

“He’s got all sorts of talents.”

“How long’s he staying?”

“Couple of days.” I told her about Robin’s call.

“That was very nice of you.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said. “It was supposed to be joint custody, but he voted against it.”

“Well, that was foolish on his part. I’m sure you were a great father.” She sat up and touched my face and ran a finger over my lips.

Spike sprang to his feet and barked.

“Here we go,” I said. To Spike: “Cool it, clown.”

“Ooh, stern,” said Allison. “You do stern pretty well, my love. I’ve never seen it before.”

“He brings it out in me.”

“I always wanted a dog,” she said. “You know my mother. Way too neat for hair on the carpet. And Dad was always away on business. I did have a salamander once. It crawled out of its tank and hid under my bed and dried up. When I found it, it looked like a piece of beef jerky.”

“Poor neglected child,” I said.

“Yes, it was a tragic childhood- though, to be honest, I wasn’t very attached to Sally. Wet and slimy discourages bonding, don’t you think? But something like this.” She rubbed Spike’s head. “This I could see.”

“It gets complicated,” I said.

“How so?”

“I’ll show you.”

I got up, stood behind her, rubbed her neck and kissed it. Waited for Spike to go bonkers.

He stared. Defiant. Did nothing.

Her top was V-necked and I slipped my hand under it. She said, “Umm. As long as I’m here…”

“So you didn’t just come to talk about Mary Lou.”

“I did, but so what?” she said. I pinched her nipple lightly, and she leaned back in her chair and sucked in her breath and let it out in a soft laugh. She reached behind and ran her hand along my flank. “You have time?”

I glanced over at Spike. Impassive.

I took Allison by the hand, walked her to the bedroom. Spike trotted ten steps behind us. I closed the door. Silence. Back when it was Robin and me, he’d complained incessantly.

I drew the drapes, undressed Allison, got out of my own clothes. We stood belly to belly, blood rushing, cool flesh warming. I cupped Allison’s rear. Her hands were all over me.

Still no complaints from the other side of the door as I carried her to the bed.

We embraced and touched and kissed and I forgot about anything but Allison.

It wasn’t till I entered her that the scratching and mewling began.

Allison heard it right away. Lying there, her hands on my arms, her legs propped high on my back, she opened her blue eyes wide.

We began moving together.

The commotion on the other side of the door got louder.

“Oh,” she said, still rocking. “See… what… you… mean.”

I didn’t stop, and neither did she.

Spike kept it up.

To no avail.

When I awoke the next morning at 6 A.M., Allison was next to me, and Spike lay curled on the floor, at the foot of the bed. She’d let him in. For the next two days, he wouldn’t even be faking civil.

I left her sleeping and took him outside to do his business. The morning was moist and gray and oddly fragrant. Mustaches of haze coiled down from the mountains. The trees were black sentries. Too early for the birds.

I watched him waddle around the yard, sniffing and searching. He nuzzled a garden snail, decided escargot was an element of his Gallic heritage that he preferred to forget, and disappeared behind a bush. As I stood there in my bathrobe, shivering, head clearing, I wondered who’d been threatened to the point of murder by Gavin Quick and Mary Lou Koppel. Or maybe there was no threat at all, and this was all about pleasure killing.

Then I recalled Gavin’s journalistic fantasies, and my questions took off in a different direction.

At breakfast, I said nothing about the murders to Allison. By eight-thirty she’d left for her office, and I was doing some work around the house. Spike remained still in front of the cold TV. He’s always been a devotee of the blank screen; maybe he’s got something there. I headed for my office and cleared paper. Spike padded in and stared until I got up, went to the kitchen, and fetched him a scrap of turkey. That kept him happy for the rest of the morning, and by 10 A.M. he was sleeping in the kitchen.