Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"Does Gritz hang out here?"

He didn't hear me, was looking at the tooth, fascinated. I repeated the question. He kept staring, finally dropped the tooth into his pocket.

"Not no more," he said.

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Dunno."

"Days? Weeks?"

"Dunno."

He reached out to touch the sleeve of my jacket. Fifteen-year-old Harris Tweed. The cuffs were starting to fuzz.

I stepped back.

"Wool?" he said.

"Yeah."

He licked his lips.

"What do you know about Gritz?"

"Nuthin'."

"But you definitely know him?"

"I seen him around."

"When's the last time you saw him around?"

He closed his eyes. Opened them. "A week."

"A week definitely, or a week maybe?"

"I think- I dunno, man."

"Any idea where he is now?"

"To get rich."

"To get rich?"

"Yeah, that's what he said- he was drinking and partying, you know. And singing- sometimes he liked to sing- and he was singing about hey, man, I'm gonna get rich soon. Gonna get me a car and a boat- that kind of shit."

"Did he say how he was going to get rich?"

"Nah." A hint of threat sharpened his eyes. Fatigue wiped it out. He slumped.

"He didn't say how?" I repeated.

"No, man. He wuz partying and singing- he was nuts. That's it, man."

"Is Gritz a first name or a last name?"

"Dunno, man." He coughed, hit his chest, wheezed, "Fuck."

"If I told you to see a doctor, you'd shine me on, wouldn't you?"

Gap-toothed grin. "You gonna pay me to go?"

"What if you had a disease you could give to her- or the baby?"

"Gimme more money." Holding out a hand again.

"The baby needs to see a doctor."

"Gimme more money."

"Who'd Gritz hang out with?"

"No one."

"No one at all?"

"I dunno, man. Gimme more money."

"What about a guy named Hewitt?"

"Huh?"

"A guy named Dorsey Hewitt? Ever see Gritz with him?"

I described Hewitt. The boy stared- not that much blanker than his general demeanor, but enough to tell me his ignorance was real.

"Hewitt," I repeated.

"Don' know the dude."

"How long have you been hanging out here?"

"Hunerd years." Phlegmy laugh.

"Hewitt killed a woman. It was on the news."

"Don't got cable."

"A social worker named Rebecca Basille- at the Westside Mental Health Center?"

"Yeah, I heard something."

"What?"

Grin. "Music. In my head." He tapped one ear and smiled. "It's like rock and soul, man. The def cool no-fool."

I sighed involuntarily.

He brightened, latching on to my frustration like a buzzard on carrion. "Gimme money, man." Cough. "Gimme."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"Yeah."

Tapping one foot. Waiting for the straight man.

"What?" I said.

"The baby's mine." Smile. His remaining teeth were pink with fresh blood.

"Congratulations."

"Got a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke."

"Then gimme money. I aks around for you, man. You come back and I tell you everything I aksed."

I counted what I had in my wallet.

Two twenties and three singles. Gave him all of it. The jacket, too.

He scrambled back through the fence and disappeared. I hung around until his footsteps died, then walked back to the car. The air had cooled- sudden shifts were becoming the rule this autumn- and a soft wind from the east was nudging scraps of garbage off the sidewalk.

I gassed up the Seville at a station on Olympic and used the pay phone to get the number of the nearest Social Services office. After being put on hold several times and transferred from bureaucrat to bureaucrat, I managed to reach a supervisor and tell her about the infant living under the freeway.

"Was the baby being mistreated, sir?"

"No."

"Did the baby look malnourished?"

"Actually, no, but-"

"Were there bruises or scars anywhere visible on the baby's body or other signs of abuse?"

"Nothing," I said. "The mother was caring for the baby, but they're living in filthy conditions out there. And the boy who might be the baby's father has a cough that sounds tubercular."

"Was the baby coughing?"

"Not yet."

"For a tuberculosis investigation, you'd have to call public health. Ask for a communicable disease officer."

"There's nothing you can do?"

"Doesn't sound like there's anything we should be doing, sir."

"How 'bout getting the baby some shelter?"

"They'd have to ask, sir."

"The baby would?"

"The legal guardians. We don't just go out looking for people."

Click.

The dial tone was as loud as the freeway. I felt nuts. How did the certifiable psychotics handle it?

I wanted to call Robin. Then I realized I hadn't memorized my new phone number, didn't even know the name of the house's owner. I called Milo. He was at his desk and gave me the seven digits, then said, "Before you hang up, I just got through with Myra Paprock's file. She wasn't a therapist. Real estate agent, killed on the job. Showing a house and somebody cut her, robbed her, raped her, and wrote "bad love' on the wall with her lipstick."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Yeah. In the photos, the lipstick looks like blood."

"Real estate agent," I said. "That's sometimes a second career. Maybe she worked as some kind of therapist first."

"If she did it's not down here in the file, and the Van Nuys guys seem to have done a pretty thorough job. Plus Shipler- the beating victim- wasn't a shrink, either, so I don't see any obvious mental health connection here."

"What did he do?"

"Janitor. Night custodian at Jefferson High. I haven't gotten his file yet, but I had a records clerk over at Central give me the basics."

"Was he killed on the job, too?"

"Nope, in the comfort of his own home."

"Where'd he live?"

"Budlong Avenue- South L.A."

"Black?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to him?"

"Pounded to mush and the house was trashed."

"Robbery?"

"Doubtful. His stereo, TV, and some jewelry were left behind."

"What, then? Someone looking for something?"

"Or someone got really angry. I want to read the whole file- got a call in for it."

"Real estate agent and janitor," I said. "Doesn't make any sense. Any connection between them?"

"Other than "bad love' on the wall, there doesn't seem to be any. Nothing matches. She was thirty-five, he was sixty-one. He was killed early morning- right after he finished work on the nightshift- and she got it in the middle of the day. She was stabbed, he was clubbed. There were even differences in what the killer used to write "bad love.' Shipler's was done in molasses from his fridge."

"In both cases the killer was opportunistic- used something of the victim's."

"Weapons, too," he said. "She was killed with a kitchen knife from the house she was showing, Shipler with a fireplace poker that was identified as his. So?"

"I don't know, maybe it indicates some kind of power thing- dominance over the victims- turning the victims against themselves. Like using my tree branch on the koi. Were there any bondage or S &M overtones to either murder?"

"Paprock's bra was wrapped around her neck, but the coroner said it was done when she was already dead. Far as I can tell there were no sexual overtones at all to Shipler."

"Still," I said, "the message was important. It must mean something to the killer."

"I'm sure it does," he said, without enthusiasm.

"Did Shipler live alone?"

"Yeah, divorced."

"What about Paprock?"

"No match there, either. Married, two kids."

"If nothing was taken from Shipler's house," I said, "what was the assumed motive?"

"A gang thing- there was lots of activity in Shipler's neighborhood, even back then. Lots more, now. Like you said before, a trashed house could mean someone looking for something. Central figured dope. Figured Shipler was involved on some level and "bad love' was some sort of gangbanger slogan they hadn't heard of yet. They checked it out with the CRASH detail and they hadn't heard of it, but new stuff comes up all the time."