Jonathan Kellerman: Obsession

Patty took her hand-cold and teeny and soft-and read the note.

Dear Big Sis,

You said she was a lady.

Maybe with you she can really turn out to be one.

Little Sis

“Not a whodunit,” said Milo. “A did-it-even-happen?”

I said, “You think it’s a waste of time.”

“Don’t you?”

I shrugged. We both drank.

“We’re talking terminal illness, probably went to her brain,” he said. “That’s a mere layman’s theory.”

He pulled his glass closer, churned little viscous waves with his stirrer. We were at a steak house a couple miles west of downtown, facing up to massive T-bones, salads bigger than some people’s lawns, icy Martinis.

One thirty p.m., a cool Wednesday afternoon, celebrating the end of a monthlong lust-murder trial. The defendant, a woman whose artistic pretensions led her to a killing partnership, had surprised everyone by pleading guilty.

When Milo slogged out of the courtroom, I asked him why she’d given up.

“No reason given. Maybe she’s hoping for a shot at parole.”

“Could that ever happen?”

“You’d think not, but if the zeitgeist gets mushy, who the hell knows?”

“Big words this early?” I said.

“Ethos, social ambience, take your pick. What I’m saying is for the last few years everyone’s been big on wiping out crime. Then we do our job too well and John Q. gets complacent. The Times just ran one of their heartrending series about how a life sentence for murder actually means life and ain’t that tragic. More of that and we’re back to the sweet days of easy parole.”

“That assumes people read the paper.”

He huffed.

I’d been subpoenaed as prosecution witness, had spent four weeks on call, three days sitting on a wooden bench in a long, gray corridor of the Criminal Court Building on Temple.

At nine thirty a.m. I’d been working a crossword puzzle when Tanya Bigelow phoned to tell me her mother had died of cancer a month ago and she wanted a session.

It had been years since I’d seen her or her mother. “I’m so sorry, Tanya. I can see you today.”

“Thank you, Dr. Delaware.” Her voice caught.

“Is there anything you want to tell me now?”

“Not really-it’s not about grief. It’s something…I’m sure you’ll think it’s strange.”

I waited. She told me some of it. “You probably think I’m obsessing.”

“Not at all,” I said. Lying in the service of therapy.

“I’m really not, Dr. Delaware. Mommy wouldn’t have-sorry, I have to run to class. Can you see me later this afternoon?”

“How about five thirty?”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Delaware. Mom always respected you.”

Milo sawed along the bone, held up a wedge of meat for inspection. The lighting made his face a gravel yard. “This look like prime to you?”

“Tastes fine,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have told you about the call-confidentiality. But if it turns out to be anything serious, you know I’ll be back.”

The steak disappeared between his lips. His jaws worked and the acne pits on his cheeks became dancing commas. He used his free hand to push a lick of black hair off a mottled forehead. Swallowing, he said, “Sad about Patty.”

“You knew her?”

“Used to see her in the E.R. when I dropped in on Rick. Hi, how’s it going, have a nice day.”

“Did you know she was sick?”

“Only way I’d know was if Rick told me and we’ve got a new rule: No business-talk after hours.”

When cases are open, a homicide detective’s hours never end. Rick Silverman works the E.R. at Cedars for long stretches. The two of them talk about boundaries all the time but their plans die young.

I said, “So you have no idea if she was still working with Rick?”

“Same answer. Confessing some ‘terrible thing’ that she did, huh? Makes no sense, Alex. Why would the kid want to dredge stuff up about her mother?”

Because the kid gets hold of something and doesn’t let go . “Good question.”

“When did you treat her?”

“First time was twelve years ago, she was seven.”

“Twelve on the nose, not approximately,” he said.

“Some cases you remember.”

“Tough case?”

“She did fine.”

“Super-shrink scores again.”

“Lucky,” I said.

He stared at me. Ate more steak. Put his fork down. “This ain’t prime, at most it’s choice.”

We left the restaurant and he returned downtown for a paper-clearing meeting at the D.A.’s office. I took Sixth Street to its western terminus at San Vicente, where a red light gave me time to phone the Cedars-Sinai emergency room. I asked for Dr. Richard Silverman and was still on hold when the light turned green. Hanging up, I continued north to La Cienega, then west on Gracie Allen into the sprawl of the hospital grounds.

Patty Bigelow, dead at fifty-four. She’d always seemed so sturdy.

Parking in a visitors lot, I walked toward the E.R. entrance, trying to recall the last time I’d spoken to Rick professionally since he’d sent Patty and Tanya my way.

Never.

My best friend was a gay homicide detective but that didn’t translate to frequent contact with the man he lived with. In the course of a year, I might chat with Rick half a dozen times when he picked up the phone at their house, the tone always light, neither of us wanting to prolong. Toss in a few dinners at celebratory times-Robin and I laughing and toasting with the two of them-and that was it.

When I reached the sliding glass doors, I put on my best doctor swagger. I’d dressed for court in a blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, yellow tie, shiny shoes. The receptionist barely looked up.

The E.R. was quiet, a few elderly patients languishing on gurneys, no electricity or tragedy in the air. As I approached the triage bay, I spotted Rick walking toward me, flanked by a couple of residents. All three of them wore blood-speckled scrubs, and Rick had on a long white coat. The residents wore badges. Rick didn’t; everyone knows who he is.

When he saw me, he said something to the others that made them depart.

Detouring to a sink, he scrubbed with Betadine, dried off, extended a hand. “Alex.”

I’m always careful not to exert too much pressure on fingers that suture blood vessels. Rick’s grip was the usual combination of firm and tentative.

His long, lean face was capped by tight gray curls. His military mustache held on to some brown but the tips had faded. Smart enough to know better, he still frequents tanning salons. Today’s bronze veneer looked fresh-maybe a noontime bake instead of lunch.

Milo stands between six two and three, depending on how his mood affects his posture. His weight fluctuates between two forty and way too high. Rick’s six feet even but sometimes he appears just as tall as “the Big Guy” because his back’s straight and he never tops one seventy.

Today, I noticed a stoop I’d never seen before.

He said, “What brings you here?”

“I dropped in to see you.”

“Me? What’s up?”

“Patty Bigelow.”

“Patty,” he said, eyeing the exit sign. “I could use some coffee.”

We poured from the doctors’ urn and walked to an empty examining room that smelled of alcohol and methane. Rick sat in the doctor’s chair and I perched on the table.

He noticed that the paper roll on the table needed changing, said, “Scoot up for a sec,” and ripped it free. Wadding and tossing, he washed his hands again. “So Tanya did call you. The last time I saw her was a few days after Patty died. She needed some help getting hold of Patty’s effects, was running into hospital bureaucracy, but even after I helped with that I got the feeling she wanted to talk about something. I asked her if there was anything else, she said no. Then about a week after that, she phoned, asked if you were still in practice or were you doing police work exclusively. I said from what I understood, you were always available to former patients. She thanked me but once again, I got the feeling she was holding back. I didn’t say anything to you in case she didn’t follow through. I’m glad she did. Poor kid.”