Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

I had my Ventura County Thomas Guide on the passenger seat, but I didn't need it. Signal was a couple of intersections up, and 800 north meant a left turn.

Big trees and small houses, residential lots alternating with olive groves. A drainage ditch paved with fieldstones ran alongside the left side of the street, spanned every few yards by one-stride foot bridges. Wilbert Harrison's address was near the top, one of the last houses before open fields took over.

It was a shingle-roofed wooden cottage painted an odd purplish-red and nearly hidden behind unruly snarls of agave cactus. The purple was vivid and it shone through the agave's sawtooth leaves like a wound. Atop a steep dirt driveway, a Chevy station wagon was parked up against a single garage. Four stone steps led up to the front porch. The screen door was shut, but the wooden one behind it was wide open.

I knocked on the frame while looking into a small, dark living room, plank floored and crowded with old furniture, shawls, throw pillows, an upright piano. A bay window was lined with dusty bottles.

Chamber music came from another room.

I knocked louder.

"One minute." The music turned off and a man appeared from a doorway to the right.

Short. Chubby as in his old picture and white haired. He had on a polyester jumpsuit the same purplish-red as the house. Some of the furniture was upholstered that color, too.

He opened the screen door and gave me a curious but friendly look. His eyes were gray, but they picked up magenta accents from his surroundings. There was a softness to his face, but no weakness.

"Dr. Harrison?"

"Yes, I'm Bert Harrison." His voice was a clear baritone. The jumpsuit was zipped in the front and had large, floppy lapels. Short-sleeved, it exposed white, freckled arms. His face was freckled, too, and I noticed reddish-blond tints in his white hair. He wore a pinkie ring set with a violet cabochon, and a bolo tie with leather thongs held together by a big, shapeless purple rock. Sandals on his feet, no socks.

"My name is Alex Delaware. I'm a clinical psychologist from Los Angeles and I wondered if I could talk to you about Andres de Bosch and "bad love.' "

The eyes didn't change shape or hue, but they became more focused.

He said, "I know you. We've met somewhere."

"Nineteen seventy-nine," I said. "There was a conference at Western Pediatric Medical Center on de Bosch's work. You presented a paper and I was a co-chair, but we never actually met."

"Yes," he said, smiling. "You were there as the hospital's representative, but your heart wasn't in it."

"You remember that?"

"Distinctly. The entire conference had that flavor- ambivalence all around. You were very young- you wore a beard then, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said, amazed.

"The beginnings of old age," he said, still smiling. "Distant memories become clearer, but I can't remember where I put my keys."

"I'm still impressed, doctor."

"I remember the beard vividly, perhaps because I have trouble growing one. And your voice. Full of stress. Just as it is right now. Well, come in, let's take care of it. Coffee or tea?"

• • •

There was a small kitchen beyond the living room and a door that led to a single bedroom. The little I could see of the sleeping chamber was purple and book-lined.

The kitchen table was birch, not more than four feet long. The counters were old white tile trimmed with purple-red bullnoses.

He fixed instant coffee for both of us and we sat. The scale of the table put us close together, elbows nearly touching.

"In answer to your unasked question," he said, whitening his coffee with lots of cream, then adding three spoonfuls of sugar, "it's the only color I can see. A rare genetic condition. Everything else in my world is gray, so I do what I can to brighten it."

"Makes sense," I said.

"Now that that's out of the way, tell me what's on your mind concerning Andres and "bad love'- that was the title of the conference, wasn't it."

"Yes. You don't seem surprised that I just popped in."

"Oh, I am. But I like surprises- anything that breaks up routine has the ability to freshen our lives."

"This may not be a pleasant surprise, Dr. Harrison. You may be in danger."

His expression didn't change. "How so?"

I told him about the "bad love" tape, my revenge theory, the possible links to Dorsey Hewitt and Lyle Gritz.

"And you think one of these men may have been a former patient of Andres's?"

"It's possible. Hewitt was thirty-three when he died, and Gritz is a year older, so either of them could have been his patient as a child. Hewitt killed one psychotherapist, perhaps under Gritz's influence, and Gritz is still out there, possibly still trying to even scores."

"What would he be trying to avenge?"

"Some kind of mistreatment- by de Bosch himself or a disciple. Something had happened at the school."

No response.

I said, "Real or imagined. Hewitt was a paranoid schizophrenic. I don't know Gritz's diagnosis, but he may be delusional, as well. The two of them could have influenced each other's pathology."

"Symbiotic psychosis?"

"Or at least shared delusions- playing on each other's paranoia."

He blinked hard. "Tapes, calls… no, I haven't experienced anything like that. And the name of this person who giggled over the phone was Silk?"

I nodded.

"Hmm. And what role do you think the conference played?"

"It may have triggered something- I really don't know, but it's my only link to de Bosch. I felt an obligation to tell you because one of the other speakers- Dr. Stoumen- was killed last year, and I haven't been able to loca-"

"Grant?" he said, leaning forward close enough for me to smell the mint on his breath. "I heard he died in an auto accident."

"A hit-and-run accident. While attending a conference. He stepped off the curb and was knocked down by a car. It was never solved, Dr. Harrison. The police put it down to Dr. Stoumen's old age- poor vision, faulty hearing."

"A conference," he said. "Poor Grant- he was a nice man."

"Did he ever work at the school?"

"He did occasional consultations. Coming up summers for a week or two, combining vacation with business. Hit-and-run…" He shook his head.

"And as I was saying, I can't locate any of the other speakers or co-chairs."

"You've located me."

"You're the only one, Dr. Harrison."

"Bert, please. Just out of curiosity, how did you find me?"

"From the Directory of Medical Specialists."

"Oh. I suppose I forgot to cancel it." He looked troubled.

"I didn't want to impose on your privacy, but-"

"No, no, that's fine. You're here for my own good… and, to tell the truth, I welcome visitors. After thirty years in practice, it's nice to talk to people rather than just listen."

"Do you know where any of the others are? Katarina de Bosch, Mitchell Lerner, Harvey Rosenblatt."

"Katarina is just up the coast, in Santa Barbara."

"She's still there?"

"I haven't heard that she's moved."

"Do you have her address?"

"And her phone number. Here, let me call it for you."

He reached over, pulled a crimson rotary phone from the counter, and put it on the table. As he dialed I wrote down the number on the phone. Then he held the receiver to his ear for a while, before putting it down.

"No answer," he said.

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

He thought. "I suppose about a year or so. By coincidence. I was in a bookstore in Santa Barbara and ran into her, browsing."

"Psychology?"

He smiled. "No, fiction, actually. She was in the science-fiction section. Would you like her address?"

"Please."

He wrote it down and gave it to me. Shoreline Drive.

"The ocean side," he said, "just up from the marina."