Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

Gull mopped his neck.

I said, “Then there are all your good works. In addition to all the required clinical hours for your doctorate, you volunteered your services at a home for abused kids. The same year you were writing your dissertation. That’s impressive. How’d you find the time?”

Gull said, “You do the job.”

“You did more than the job, Franco. Lots more. And your research-’Reactions of Latency-aged Girls from Divorced Homes to a Personal Space Challenge.’ Good stuff, you got it published in Clinical and Consulting Psych, no mean feat for a student. After you graduated, you didn’t pursue it. Pity. Your findings were provocative.”

Gull said, “Ancient history.” He crossed his legs, forced a smile at Wimmer. “Is there a point to this, Myrna?”

Wimmer touched her platinum watch and shrugged.

I said, “Your postdoc supervisor, Dr. Ryan, also remembers you as bright and industrious. That entire year, you never came close to any ethical breach. The odd thing is that she remembers you as exceptionally respectful of women.”

Gull’s lips clamped shut.

I kept silent.

He said, “I still am.”

I said, “The year you graduated, academic jobs were tight, and the offers you received were all in the Midwest. Is that why you opted for private practice? How can you keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen Beverly Hills?”

Gull said, “Ever been to Kansas?” He shifted the hankie to his other hand. “I graduated with serious debt. No one gave me a damn thing for free.”

“No need to apologize for going into practice,” I said. “Who says academics accomplish that much for society?”

“True.”

“Take Albin Larsen, for example. Academic appointments on two continents, travels all over the world, touting ideals. But we both know where most of his money comes from.”

Gull said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I said, “Okay, then, back to this thing with you and women. The promiscuity- the compulsive skirt-chasing. When exactly did it start, Franco? Were you able to fool Dr. Ryan, or was it something that you latched onto when you realized how much power you had as a therapist?”

Gull reddened. “Screw you,” he said, wrapping big fingers around the hankie. “Myrna, let’s end this.”

“Absolutely,” said Wimmer. “Gentlemen, we’re through.”

“No prob,” said Milo, genially.

“That was beyond rude,” said Gull, getting to his feet.

“It certainly was,” said Wimmer.

We remained seated.

She said, “Gentlemen, I’ve got a busy calendar.”

“I understand, ma’am,” said Milo. He stood, removed some folded white papers from his pocket. “I’ll be as quick as possible enforcing this arrest warrant on Dr. Gull.”

Gull had been fooling with the neck of his sweater. His hand dropped as if scalded, and his head snapped back. “What!”

Milo stepped closer to him. “Doctor, this is an arrest war-”

Wimmer said, “What’s the charge, Lieutenant?”

“Char- ges, ” said Milo. “Multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud. A few other things. Your client should be-”

Gull’s eyes were wild. “What the hell are you talking-”

Wimmer said, “Let me handle this, Franco.” To Milo: “Give me that.”

Milo handed her the warrant. He’d trolled the D.A.’s Office for an Assistant D.A. willing to issue the paper. Gull’s fingerprints all over Mary Lou Koppel’s house had helped, as had a call from State Fraud Investigator Dwight Zevonsky. The finishing touch had been a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet pressed into the palm of a sixty-year-old hardnose ADA, Eben Marovitch, two months from retirement, whose wife had left him for a psychiatrist.

“Proud of me?” Milo had asked, as we ascended the elevator to Wimmer’s office. “Applied psychology and all that.”

As Wimmer read the particulars of the warrant, Franco Gull retreated from Milo, keeping his back to the glass. Behind him were gorgeous blue sky and the coppery contours of a sunlit downtown. He stood as still as a piece of sculpture. Life-size sculpture. California Terror with Panoramic View.

Wimmer finished reading, returned to the first page, reviewed. Her mouth tightened.

“What, what?” said Franco Gull.

No answer.

“Myrna-”

“Shh, let me finish.”

“Finish what? It’s ridiculous, it’s-”

Wimmer silenced him with an air-chop, completed her perusal, refolded the warrant. “It’s patently ridiculous, Franco, but apparently valid.”

“What does that mean, Myrna? What the fuck does that mean ?” The handkerchief was wadded tightly in his hand, and his knuckles were ivory knobs. Sweat trickled from his hairline, but he made no attempt to swab. “Myrna?”

Milo took out his cuffs. The metallic sound made Gull jump.

Myrna Wimmer said, “Oh, please.”

Milo said, “You read the charges.”

Gull said, “Myrna-”

Wimmer said, “What it means, Franco, is that you’ll have to go with them.” Disapproval in her voice. As if Gull had disappointed her. “Where will you be booking him, Lieutenant?”

“Charges like these?” said Milo. “Gotta be the main jail.”

Gull said, “Jail? Oh, God, no.”

Wimmer smiled at Milo. “Could you do me a favor and book him at West L.A.? Save me the drive?”

“ Book him?” said Gull. “Myrna, how can you just-”

Milo said, “No can do, Counselor, sorry.”

Wimmer looked ready to spit.

Gull’s eyes had filled with tears. “Myrna, I can’t do this.”

She said, “Does your wife have access to your finances? If so, I’ll call her and we’ll get to work on bail. If not-”

“Bail? Myrna, this is insane -”

“Is that an official diagnosis, Doctor?” said Milo.

“Please,” said Gull, backing off some more and pressing against the glass. “You don’t know what you’re doing, I’ve never done any of what you say I’ve done. Please.” Sucking in breath. “Please.”

Milo said, “Turn and place your hands on Ms. Wimmer’s desk, Doctor. If you’re carrying any weapons or illicit substances, now would be the time to tell me.”

“Murder?” Gull was shouting. “What the hell are you talking about? Murder? Are you insane ?” He opened his hand and the hankie fluttered to the carpet. As he watched it fall, his knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright.

Myrna Wimmer said, “Calm down, Franc-”

“Calm down? Easy for you to say, you’re not the one-”

“As your advocate, Franco, I advise you not to say anything-”

“All I’m saying is I never did anything, what’s wrong with saying I never did anything?”

Milo said, “Hands on the desk, please.” He began walking toward Gull. “Franco Gull, you have the right to remain silent-”

Gull’s powerful physique tensed. He doubled over, began to weep. “Oh, God, how can this be happening !”

Myrna Wimmer shot me a hope-you’re-happy glare.

Milo jangled the cuffs. Gull stepped forward, placed his hands on the desk. Wept some more.

Milo bent one of Gull’s arms behind his back and cuffed it. Gull cried out.

“Are you hurting my client?” demanded Wimmer.

“Maybe psychologically,” said Milo. “Not too tight, is it, Doctor?”

“God, God,” said Gull. “What can I do to fix this?”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Why are you saying I killed someone? Who? Mary? That’s crazy, Mary was my friend, we were- I never would’ve-”