Jonathan Kellerman: Obsession

Another hostile reception.

I drove away.

Address three was a quick drive: Fourth Street off La Jolla. Tanya had returned to my office just after leaving there for Culver City.

The house turned out to be a Spanish Revival duplex on a pleasant leafy street of matching structures. The only distinguishing feature of the building where the Bigelows had lived was a concrete pad in lieu of a lawn. The only vehicle in sight was a deep red Austin Mini with vanity plates that read PLOTGRL .

Solidly middle-class, respectable, but a whole different planet after Hudson Avenue. Maybe Patty had wanted more room than rented mansion space afforded.

My final stop was a solid forty-minute drive in thick traffic to a grubby stretch of Culver Boulevard just west of Sepulveda and the 405 overpass.

The lot bore six identical gray-framed, tar-roofed boxes that ringed the crumbled remains of a plaster fountain. Two brown-skinned preschoolers played in the dirt, unattended.

Classic L.A. bungalow court. Classic refuge of transients, has-beens, almost-weres.

These bungalows weren’t much bigger than sheds. The property had been neglected to the point of peeling paint and curling roof shingles and sagging foundations. Traffic roared by. Pothole-axle encounters lent a syncopated conga beat to the engine concerto.

Maybe it had been spiffier in Patty’s day, but this part of town had never been fashionable.

Climbing the residential ladder, then down to this. Patty had come across solid and stable. Her housing pattern seemed anything but.

Perhaps it came down to thrift. Saving up cash for a down payment on her own place. Within two years, she’d pulled it off, snagging a duplex near Beverlywood on a nurse’s salary.

Even so, there had to be better choices than moving Tanya to another “sketchy neighborhood.”

Then another possibility hit me: That kind of jumping around was what you saw in habitual gamblers and others whose habits roller-coastered their finances.

Patty had achieved Westside homeownership, a trust fund, and two life insurance policies for Tanya on a nurse’s salary.

Impressive.

Remarkable, really. Maybe she’d been a savvy stock-market player.

Or had acquired an additional source of revenue.

A hospital nurse with too much money led to an obvious what-if: drug pilferage and resale. Stealthy dope dealer didn’t sync with what I knew about Patty but how well did I really know her?

But if she had a secret criminal life, why stir up the pot with a deathbed confession and chance Tanya finding out?

People with secrets parcel out what they want you to know.

Until something shattered their inhibitions. Had Patty’s proclamation been the agonized product of a disease-addled mind? An illness-fueled stab at confession and expiation?

I sat in the car and tossed that around. No way, too ugly. It just didn’t sit right.

Sounds like you’re a bit involved in this one.

“So what,” I said to no one.

A muscular guy in a ski cap pulled down to his eyebrows skulked by with an unleashed, pink-nosed white pit bull. The dog stopped, circled back, pressed its snout against my passenger window, created a little pink, pulsating rosebud. No smiling for this canine. A low-pitched growl thrummed the glass.

Ski-cap was staring, too.

My day for warm welcomes. I pulled away slowly enough so the dog wouldn’t lose balance.

No one thanked me.

The encounter with the pit made me appreciate Blanche. As soon as I got home, I took her down to the garden for a puppy stroll, made sure her curiosity didn’t land her in the fishpond.

One message at my service: Dr. Tziporah Ganz.

I called back, told her I was Tanya Bigelow’s therapist and had some questions about Patty’s mental status during her final days.

“Tanya’s having psychological problems?” she said. Her voice was soft, slightly accented-Middle Europe.

“No,” I said. “Just the typical adjustments, it’s a tough situation.”

“Tragic situation. Why is Tanya concerned about dementia?”

“She isn’t, I am. Patty charged Tanya with taking care of lots of details that could turn burdensome. I’m wondering if Patty’s intent needs to be taken literally.”

“Details? I don’t understand.”

“Postmortem instructions that Patty thought would benefit Tanya. Tanya goes to school full-time, holds down a part-time job, and is faced with living alone. She was devoted to her mother and right now her personality won’t allow her to deviate from Patty’s wishes. Nor would I try to convince her otherwise. But I am looking for an out in case she gets overwhelmed.”

“The dying person reaches out for one last burst of control,” she said. “I’ve seen that. And Patty was an exacting person. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a clear answer about her mental status. Strictly speaking, there were no clinical reasons for the disease to affect her thinking-no brain lesion, no obvious neuropathy. But any severe illness and its effects-dehydration, jaundice, electrolytic imbalance-can affect cognition, and Patty was a very sick woman. If you choose to tell Tanya that Patty was impaired, I wouldn’t contradict you. However, I won’t be comfortable being quoted as a primary source.”

“I understand.”

“Dr. Delaware, I don’t want to tell you your business, but my experience has been that survivors don’t want to give up responsibilities even when they are burdensome.”

“Mine as well,” I said. “In what way was Patty exacting?”

“She attempted to control every aspect of her hospitalization. Not that I blame her.”

“Were there compliance issues?”

“No, because there was no treatment. Her decision.”

“Did you agree?”

“It’s always hard to stand back and watch someone die, but, honestly, there was nothing I could do for her. The goal became making her last days as comfortable as possible. Even there, she opted for less.”

“Resisting the morphine drip, despite the anesthesiologist’s best efforts.”

“The anesthesiologist is my husband,” she said. “Obviously I’m biased but there’s no one better than Joseph. And yes, Patty resisted him. Still, I’m not judging. This was a relatively young woman who learned suddenly that she was going to die.”

“Did she ever talk about that?”

“Infrequently and in a detached manner. As if she was describing a patient. I guess she needed to depersonalize a horrible situation. Is Tanya really doing okay? She seemed mature for her age, but that can be a problem, too.”

“I’m keeping my eyes open. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“About Patty? How about this: Last year my brother ended up in the E.R. Auto accident, pretty nasty. He’s a dentist, was worried about a compression injury of one of his hands. Patty was on the night Gil came in and took care of him. Gil was sufficiently impressed enough to write a letter to Nursing Administration. He told me she was cool under pressure-absolutely unflappable, nothing got past her. When she was referred to me, I remembered her name, felt extremely sad. I wish I could’ve done more for her.”

“You gave her what she needed,” I said.

“That’s kind of you to say.” Small, edgy laugh. “Good luck with Tanya.”

Petra answered her cell phone. “Detective Connor.”

I filled her in.

She said, “Exactly where on Cherokee did this woman live?”

I gave her the address.

“I think I know it. Kind of raw sienna on the outside, not exactly posh?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ve made busts pretty close to there but nothing in that building specifically. Back then, Cherokee was a tough hood. According to all the old-timers who delight in telling me The Way It Was. Not the best place to raise a daughter.”