Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

We parked, got out, and Milo knocked on the teak door. The wood was highly varnished, like a boat’s deck; with so many coats laid on the thump barely resonated. Ben Dugger opened and said, “You made good time.”

He wore a white shirt under a gray crewneck, wide-wale green cords, brown moccasins with rawhide laces. The sweater showcased dandruff flecks. He’d shaved recently, but not precisely, and dark hairs hyphenated a raw-looking neck. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot and resigned, and when they met mine the pupils expanded.

I smiled. He turned away.

Milo said, “Easy ride. Scenic.”

Dugger said, “Come on in,” and admitted us into an off-white anteroom set up with cream canvas chairs and tables piled with magazines and hung with photos of the ocean in various color phases. An unmarked door at the back took us into a larger space, empty and silent and lined with a white door on each wall. The entrance to the left had been left open, revealing a very small, baby blue room furnished with a single bed draped by an Amish quilt and a plain pine nightstand. Stacks of books on the stand, along with a cup and saucer and a pair of glasses. Dugger continued toward a door to the right, but Milo paused to look into the blue room.

Dugger stopped and raised an eyebrow.

Milo pointed at the blue room. “You’ve got a bed in there. Sleep research?”

Dugger smiled. “Nothing that exotic. It’s a genuine bedroom. Mine. I sleep here when it’s too late to drive back to L.A. Actually, this was my home until I moved.”

“The whole building?”

“Just this room.”

“Kinda cozy.”

“You mean small?” said Dugger, still smiling. “I don’t need much. It sufficed.” He crossed to a closed door and took out a key ring. Double dead bolts, a sign marked PRIVATE. He’d unlatched the first bolt when Milo said, “So how long ago did you move to L.A.?”

The keys lowered. Dugger took a deep breath. “All these questions about me. I thought this was about Lauren’s employment.”

“Just making conversation, Doctor. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Dugger’s lips curled upward, and his long, grave face managed a low, inaudible laugh. “No, it’s fine. I moved a couple of years ago.”

“Newport too quiet?”

Dugger glanced at me. Again I smiled, and again his eyes whipped away. “Not at all. I like Newport very much. But things came up, and I needed to be in L.A. more, so I opened the Brentwood office. It’s not really in full gear yet. When it is, I may have to close this place down.”

“Why’s that?”

“Too much overhead. We’re a small company.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “Things came up.”

“Yes,” said Dugger, releasing the second bolt. “Come, let’s meet the staff.”

On the other side of the door was a large, bright office pool partitioned into workstations. The usual off-white blandness, computers and printers and bracket bookshelves, potted plants and cute calendars, stuffed animals on shelves, the smell of lilac air freshener, Sheryl Crow from a cassette player over the watercooler.

Four women stood by the watercooler, all blandly attractive, ranging from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Each wore a variant of sweater-and-pants, and it came across as a uniform. Dugger rattled off names: Jilda Thornburgh, Sally Patrino, Katie Weissenborn, Ann Buyler. The first three were research assistants. Buyler, the secretary, was already equipped with Lauren’s time cards.

Milo flipped through them, began questioning the women. Yes, they remembered Lauren. No, they didn’t know her well, had no idea who would have wanted to hurt her. The word punctual kept coming up. As they talked to Milo I searched for signs of evasiveness, saw only the discomfiture you’d expect from honest people confronted with murder. Ben Dugger had retreated to a cubicle dominated by a large, framed zoo association poster – koalas, cute and cuddly – and had turned his back to us.

Occasionally, one or more of the women looked his way, as if for support.

The women.

Surrounding himself with females.

Like father, like son?

Milo said, “Dr. Dugger? If you don’t mind, I’d like to see that room – the one where Lauren worked.”

Dugger turned. “Certainly.”

As he walked toward us Milo said, “Oh yeah, one more thing, gang. Shawna Yeager. Anyone by that name ever work here?”

Four headshakes.

“You’re sure?” said Milo. “Not as a subject or a confederate or anything else?”

Dugger said, “Who?”

Milo repeated the name.

“No,” said Dugger, eyes steady. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Ann?”

Buyler said, “I’m sure, but I’ll check.” She pecked at her computer keyboard, called up a screen, manipulated the mouse. “No. No Shawna Yeager.”

“Who is she?” Dugger asked Milo.

“A girl.”

“So I gathered, Detective-”

“Let’s see that room,” said Milo. “Then I don’t need to waste any more of your time.”

BACK IN THE inner lobby Milo said, “So who’re your clients?”

“You’re not thinking of contacting them,” said Dugger.

“Not unless the need arises.”

“It won’t.” Dugger’s voice had grown sharp.

“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

“I am, Detective. But why do I get the feeling you still suspect me of something?”

“Not so, Doctor. Just-”

“Routine?” said Dugger. “I really wish you’d stop wasting your time here and go out looking for Lauren’s killer.”

“Any suggestions where?” said Milo.

“How would I know? I just know you’re wasting your time here. And as far as clients go, in terms of the intimacy study there isn’t one. It’s a long-term interest of mine, goes back to graduate school. Our commercial projects tend to be much shorter – attitudinal focus groups, a specific product, that kind of thing. We work on a contractual basis, the timing’s irregular. When we’re in between projects, I focus back on the intimacy study.”

“And now’s one of those times,” said Milo.

“Yes. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about clients to the staff. I’ve assured the women that their jobs are secure for the time being, but with the move…”

“You may be revamping. So you’re financing the intimacy study on your own?”

“There isn’t much expense,” said Dugger. “That woman you mentioned – Shawna. Was she murdered as well?”

“It’s possible.”

“My God. So this – You’re thinking Lauren could’ve been part of something?”

“Part, sir?”

“A mass murderer – a serial killer, pardon the expression.”

Milo jammed his hands into his pockets. “You don’t like the term, Doctor?”

“It’s a cliché,” said Dugger. “The stuff of bad movies.”

“Doesn’t make it any less real when it happens though, does it, sir?”

“I suppose not – Do you really think that’s what happened to Lauren? Some psychopathic creep?” Dugger’s voice had risen, and he was standing taller. Assertive. Aggressive. Locking eyes with Milo.

Milo said, “Any tips in that regard – speaking as a psychologist?”

“No,” said Dugger. “As I told you before, abnormal psychology’s not my interest. Never has been.”

“How come?”

“I prefer to study normal phenomena. This world – We need to emphasize what’s right, not what’s wrong. Now I’ll show you my room.”

Ten by ten, sand-colored walls, matching acoustical tile ceiling, the same kind of canvas chairs as in front, similar coffee tables but no magazines, no pictures. Dugger peeled back a corner of the carpet and exposed a series of stainless steel slats bolted to a cement floor. Soldered to some of the panels were wires and leads and what looked like integrated circuit boards.