Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“I’m Patty.”

“May we come in?”

“Why?”

“This is about a recent crime in the neighborhood.”

One slender hand drummed the other. “What,” she said, “another mugging in Rancho Park?”

“Something more serious, ma’am. And I’m afraid the victim’s someone you know.”

“Her,” said Patty Gull. Her voice had gone deeper, and any trace of distraction had vanished. Her hands separated, dropped, clamped on her hips. Her lower jaw slung forward. As fine-featured and aquiline as she was, her face took on a mastiff scowl.

“Sure, come in,” she said.

The living room was wood-shuttered and paneled in oak stained so dark it was nearly black. The decor looked as if it had been assembled in one day by someone with respect for convention, a tight deadline, and a nervous budget: middling antique copies, equine prints under glass, the kind of still-life paintings you can pick up at sidewalk sales. Further stabs at re-creating manor living were accomplished by a riot of floral chintz, too-shiny brass gewgaws, and artificially distressed surfaces. Just beyond the room was a hallway filled with toys and other child clutter.

Patty Gull perched on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, and we faced her from matching wing chairs. She took hold of a tasseled cushion, held it over her abdomen, like a hot-water bottle.

Milo said, “I noticed your bumper sticker. Someone a Lakers fan?”

“Me,” she said. “I used to be a Lakers Girl. Back when I was young and cute.”

“Not that long ago-”

“Don’t stroke me,” said Patty Gull. “I like to think I’ve held up pretty well, but I’m going to be forty in two years, and I screwed up my body giving my husband two gorgeous children. He pays me back by fucking other women whenever he can.”

We said nothing.

She said, “He’s a pussy hound, Detective. For that, I could’ve hooked up with a basketball player. Even one on the bench.” Her laughter was brittle. “I was a good Lakers Girl, went home after the games, didn’t party, held on to my morals. Nice Catholic girl, told to marry well. I married a psychologist, figured I’d be getting some stability.” She punched the tasseled pillow. Flung it to one side and hugged herself.

“Mrs. Gull-”

“Patty. I’ve had it, he’s history.”

“You’re getting divorced?”

“Maybe,” she said. “You take stock of your life, and say ‘This is what I have to do,’ and it seems so obvious. Then you step back and all the complications rain down on you. Kids, money- it’s always the woman who gets screwed moneywise. I’ve stayed out of Franco’s business affairs. He could hide everything, and I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer?”

“Not officially. I have a friend who’s a lawyer. She was a Lakers Girl, too, but unlike me, she was smart enough to go all the way with her education. I always wanted to get an MBA, do something in the corporate world. Maybe in sports, I love sports. Instead…” She threw up her hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re here about her.”

“Dr. Koppel.”

“ Dr. Mary Lou fuck-another-woman’s-husband Koppel. You think Franco killed her?”

Patty Gull examined her fingernails.

“Should I think that, Mrs. Gull?”

“Probably not. The papers said she was shot, and Franco doesn’t own a gun, wouldn’t have a clue how to use one. Also, he wasn’t with her that night. I know because I got up in the middle of the night and drove by her house looking for his car, and it wasn’t there.”

“What time was this, ma’am?”

“Must’ve been close to two in the morning. I went to bed at ten, like I always do. Big swinging life and all that. Franco came in before I could fall asleep and we had another fight and he left and I went to sleep. When I woke up and he wasn’t there and it was nearly two, I really lost it.”

“Because he hadn’t come home.”

“Because,” said Patty Gull, “he wasn’t being penitent . You’re having serious problems and you claim you’re penitent and then you have another fight. What do you do? You approach your wife on bended knees and beg her forgiveness. That’s the constructive thing to do. The caring, giving thing. Franco would tell a patient to do that. What does he do? Stalk out, turn off his car phone, and stay away.”

“So you went looking for him.”

“Damn straight.”

“Figuring Dr. Gull would be with Dr. Koppel.”

“Doctor this, Doctor that. You’re making it sound like a medical convention. He was fucking her. I found them together before.” She grabbed for the same pillow, snatched it up, bounced it on a bony knee. “Bastard and bitch didn’t even try to be subtle. We live four blocks apart. I mean, rent a room for God’s sake, don’t soil your own nest.”

“You found them at her house.”

“You bet.”

“When?”

“A month ago. This is after Franco promised he’d finally deal with his problem.”

“Being a pussy hound.”

Hearing her own words repeated seemed to shock her. She said, “Uh, yes. He’s always been… it’s always been difficult. I’ve been more patient than Mother Teresa, they should canonize me. And then I find him with her - that was too much- she wasn’t even attractive. Now we’re talking another level of shoving it in my face.”

“How’d you find them?” said Milo.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” said Patty Gull. “This is great. Franco gave me the old b.s. about working late. Then he had his answering service call me just before nine to let me know he was still tied up, it would be even later. I knew right away something was up. Franco doesn’t see emergency patients. Most of what he does is hand-hold bored Beverly Hills bitches. So I decided to drive over to the office and confront him. Enough is enough, right? So I tell Maria to watch the kids and I start driving to the office and something, I still don’t know what it was, makes me take McConnell. ’Cause it’s north, it’s basically on the way. And I pass her house, and there’s his car. Parked in front, parked right in front . Is that gall, or what?”

“Pretty blatant.”

“I parked, ran up those stairs all the way to her backyard, and there they were in the back room. She’s got this big-screen TV and on it was a porn video and apparently the bitch and the bastard were feeling playful, decided to imitate whatever filth they were watching.”

“Wow,” said Milo.

“Wow, indeed. They didn’t even bother to lock the door, and I just walked in, walked right past them and they were so into what they were doing that they didn’t even hear me. It wasn’t until I switched off the TV that they opened their eyes.”

She closed her own. Remembering.

“That was delicious,” she said. “The expressions on their faces. The way they looked at me.”

“Shock,” said Milo.

“Beyond shock.” Patty Gull smiled. “It was like someone from another planet- another galaxy- had landed a UFO in that room. And I just stood there, let them know with my stare that they were busted scum and there was nothing they could do to change that. Then I walked out and drove back home. Twenty minutes later, Franco showed up, looking like he had cancer. I bolted the door and didn’t let him in and told him if he tried to trespass, I’d call the police. He left, I knew he would, he always leaves. I didn’t see him until the next day. He went to work and was a good little psychologist and came home and tried to talk to me using his psychologist voice. The only reason I let him in was by that time I’d spoken to my friend the lawyer, and she’d slowed me down.”