Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Using the bone-knife to slit the wrapper on a copy of The Journal of Applied Behavioral Analysis, he opened to the table of contents, scanned, and put the magazine down. Picking up another journal, he flipped pages, frowning.

“My wife’s an amazing woman,” he said, reaching for a third journal. “One of the finest minds of her generation. M.D. and Ph.D. by the age of twenty-five. You’ll never find a more skillful clinician, or one more dedicated.”

Wondering if he was trying to make up for the way he’d just treated her, I said, “Impressive.”

“Extraordinary.” He put the third journal aside. Smiled. “After that, what else could I do but marry her?”

Before I’d figured out how to react to that, he said, “We like to joke that she’s a paradox.” Chuckling. Stopping abruptly, he unsnapped one shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum.

“Spearmint?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

He unwrapped a stick and got to work on it, weak chin rising and falling with oil-pump regularity. “Poor Mrs. Ramp. At this stage of her treatment she’s not equipped to be out there. My wife called me the moment she realized something was wrong- we keep a ranch up in Santa Ynez. Unfortunately, I had little to offer by way of wisdom- who could expect such a thing? What on earth could have happened?”

“Good question.”

He shook his head. “Very distressing. I did want to be down here in case something developed. Abandoned my duties and zipped down.”

His clothes looked pressed and clean. I wondered what his duties were. Remembering his soft hands, I said, “Do you ride?”

“A bit,” he said, chewing. “Though I don’t have a passion for it. I’d never have bought the beasts in the first place, but they came with the property. It was the space I wanted. The place I settled on included twenty acres. I’ve been thinking about planting Chardonnay grapes.” His mouth was still for a moment. I could see the gum wadded up inside one cheek, like a plug of tobacco. “Do you think a behaviorist is capable of producing a first-rate wine?”

“They say great wine is the result of intangibles.”

He smiled. “No such thing,” he said. “Only incomplete data.”

“Maybe so. Good luck.”

He sat back and rested his hands on his belly. The shirt billowed around them.

“The air,” he said between chews, “is what really draws me up there. Unfortunately my wife can’t enjoy it. Allergies. Horses, grasses, tree-pollens, all sorts of things that never bothered her back in Boston. So she concentrates on clinical work and leaves me free to experiment.”

It wasn’t the conversation I’d have imagined having with the great Leo Gabney. Back in the days when I used to imagine things like that. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me in.

Perhaps sensing that, he said, “Alex Delaware. I’ve followed all your work, not just the sleep studies. “Multimodal Treatment of Self Damaging Obsessions in Children.’ “The Psychosocial Aspects of Chronic Disease and Prolonged Hospitalization in Children.’ “Disease-Related Communication and Family Coping Style.’ Et cetera. A solid output, clean writing.”

“Thank you.”

“You haven’t published in several years.”

“I’m working on something currently. For the most part I’ve been doing other things.”

“Private practice?”

“Forensic work.”

“What kind of forensic work?”

“Trauma and injury-related cases. Some child custody.”

“Ugly stuff, custody,” he said. “What’s your opinion about joint custody?”

“It can work in some situations.”

He smiled. “Nice hedge. I suppose that’s adaptive when dealing with the legal system. Actually, parents should be strongly reinforced for making it work. If they fail repeatedly, the parent with the best child-rearing skills should be selected as primary custodian, regardless of gender. Don’t you agree?”

“I think the best interests of the child are what counts.”

“Everyone thinks that, Doctor. The challenge is how to operationalize good intentions. If I had my way, no decisions about custody would be made until trained observers actually lived with the family for several weeks, keeping careful records using structured, valid, and reliable behavioral scales and reporting their results to a panel of psychological specialists. What do you think of that notion?”

“Sounds good, theoretically. In practical terms-”

“No, no,” he said, chewing furiously. “I speak from practical experience. My first wife set out to murder me legally- this was years ago, when the courts wouldn’t even hear what a father had to say. She was a drinker and a smoker and irresponsible to the core. But to the idiot judge that heard the case, the crucial factor was that she had ovaries. He gave her everything- my house, my son, sixty percent of the paltry estate I’d accumulated as an untenured lecturer. A year later, she was smoking in bed, dead-drunk. The house burned down and I lost my son forever.”

Saying it matter-of-factly, the bass voice flat as a foghorn.

Resting his elbows on the desk, he placed the fingertips of both hands together, creating a diamond-shaped space that he peered through.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a terrible time for me.” Chewing slowly. “For a while it seemed as if nothing would ever have reinforcement value again. But I ended up with Ursula, so I suppose there’s a silver lining.”

Heat in the blue eyes. Unmistakable passion.

I thought of the way she’d obeyed him. The way he’d looked at her rear. Wondered if what turned him on was her ability to be both wife and child.

He lowered his hands. “Soon after the tragedy I married again. Before Ursula. Another error in judgment, but at least there were no children. When I met Ursula, she was an undergraduate applying for graduate school and I was a full professor at the university and the medical school as well as the first non-M.D. associate dean the medical school had ever appointed. I saw her potential, set out to help her realize it. Most satisfying accomplishment of my life. Are you married?”

“No.”

“A wonderful convention if the proper confluence can be achieved. My first two were failures because I allowed myself to be swayed by intangibles. Ignored my training. Don’t segregate your scholarship from your life, my young friend. Your knowledge of human behavior gives you great advantage over common, bumbling homo incompetens. ”

He smiled again. “Enough lecturing. What’s your take on this whole thing- poor Mrs. Ramp?”

“I don’t have a take, Dr. Gabney. I came here to learn.”

“This McCloskey thing- very distressing to think such a man is roaming free. How did you find out?”

I told him.

“Ah, the daughter. Managing her own anxiety by attempting to control her mother’s behavior. Would that she’d shared her information. What else do you know about this McCloskey?”

“Just the basic facts of the assault. No one seems to know why he did it.”

“Yes,” he said. “An atypically close-mouthed psychopath- usually those types love to brag about their misdeeds. I suppose it would have been nice to know from the beginning. In terms of defining variables. But in the end, I don’t feel the treatment plan suffered. The key is to cut through all the talk and get them to change their behavior. Mrs. Ramp has been doing very well. I hope it hasn’t all been for naught.”

I said, “Maybe her disappearance is related to her progress- enjoying her freedom and deciding to grab a bigger chunk.”

“An interesting theory, but we discourage breaks in schedule.”

“Patients have been known to do their own thing.”