Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

Information had no listing for a Ramona or Rowena Basille, but there was a "Basille, R." on 618 South Hauser Street. Right near Park LaBrea.

An older woman's voice answered, "Hello."

"Mrs. Basille?"

"This is Rolanda, who're you?" Scratchy timbre, the midwestern tones I'd grown up with.

"My name's Alex Delaware. I'm a psychologist, consulting to the Los Angeles Police Department-"

"Yes?" Rise in pitch.

"Sorry to be bothering you-"

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Basille. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"About Becky?"

"About someone Becky might have known."

"Who?"

"A friend of Dorsey Hewitt's."

The name made her groan. "What friend? Who? I don't understand."

"A man named Lyle Gritz-"

"What about him? What's going on?"

"Have you ever heard of him?"

"No, never. What's this got to do with Rebecca?"

"Nothing directly, Mrs. Basille, but Gritz may have been involved in some other crimes. He may also have used the names Silk or Merino."

"What kind of crimes? Murders?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand. Why's a psychologist calling- that's what you said you were, right? Psychologist, psychiatrist?"

"Psychologist."

"If there's murders involved, why aren't the police calling?"

"It's not an official investigation, yet."

Pause. "Okay, who are you, buster? Some sleazy tabloid writer? I've already been through that, and let me tell you what you can-"

"I'm not a reporter," I said. "I'm who I said I was, Mrs. Basille. If you'd like to verify it, you can call Detective Milo Sturgis at West L.A. detectives. He gave me your name-"

"Sturgis," she said.

"He handled the investigation of Becky's case."

"Which one was that- oh yeah, the big one… yeah, he tried to be nice. But where does he come off giving you my name? What are you doing, some kind of psychological study ? Want to make me a guinea pig?"

"No, nothing like that-"

"What, then?"

There seemed no choice. "My involvement's a lot more personal, Mrs. Basille. I'm a potential victim."

"A vic- of who, this Gritch?"

"Gritz. Lyle Edward Gritz. Or Silk or-"

"Never heard of any of those."

"There's evidence he's been murdering psychotherapists- several of them over a five-year period."

"Oh, no."

"The latest occurred yesterday, in Santa Barbara. A woman named Katarina de Bosch."

"Yester- oh, goodness." Her voice changed- lower, softer, still perplexed. "And now you think he's out for you ?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He may have a thing against psychotherapists. He leaves a message at the crime scene. The words "bad love'-"

"That's the same thing that scum yelled out!"

"That's why we think there may be a connection. Last week, I received a tape with someone chanting "bad love.' As well as a sample of Hewitt screaming. Shortly after that, I got a crank phone call, then someone snuck onto my property and did damage."

"What are you saying ? That Rebecca was part of something?"

"I really don't know, Mrs. Basille."

"But maybe that's what it was ? Someone else was involved in my Becky's…"

A loud bang percussed in my ear. A few seconds later: "Dropped the phone, you still there?"

"Yes."

"So what're you saying? This Gritz could have been involved in hurting my baby?"

"I wish I could tell you, Mrs. Basille. Gritz and Hewitt were friends, so it's possible Gritz had some influence on Hewitt. But there's no evidence-"

"Bad love," she said. "No one was ever able to explain to me what it meant."

"It's a psychological term coined by Katarina de Bosch's father- Dr. Andres de Bosch."

"Debauch?"

"De Bosch. He was a psychologist who ran a remedial school up in Santa Barbara."

No reaction.

I said, "Lyle Gritz may have been a patient there. For all I know, Hewitt may have been also. Did Rebecca ever mention anything related to any of this?"

"No… God in heaven… I think I'm going to be sick."

"I'm truly sorry, Mrs.-"

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Alex Delaware."

"Give me your phone number."

I did.

"Okay," she said, "I'm calling that Sturgis right now and checking you out."

"He's in Santa Barbara. You can reach him at the police department there." I fished around, retrieved Sarah Grayson's card, and read off the number.

She hung up without comment.

Ten minutes later, my service put her through.

"He wasn't in," she said, "but I spoke to a woman cop who said you're for real. So, okay, I'm sorry for what you're going through- once you been through it you get sorry a lot for other people. Okay, what can I do for you?"

"I was just wondering if Becky ever talked about her work. Said anything that might help find Gritz and clear this up."

"Talked? Yeah, she talked. She loved her… hold on… my stomach… hold on, I thought I was okay, but now I feel like I have to throw up again- let me go do that, and then I'll call you back- no, forget that, I hate the phone. Phone rings now, my heart starts going like it's going to explode- you want to come down and see me it's okay. Let me see what you look like, I hate the phone."

"How about I come to your house?"

"Sure- no, forget it. The place is depressing. I never was a homemaker, now I don't do a darn thing. Why don't you meet me over in Hancock Park? Not the neighborhood, the actual park- know where it is?"

"Over by the tar pits."

"Yeah, meet me on the Sixth Street side, behind the museums. There's a shady area, some benches. What're you gonna wear?"

"Jeans and a white shirt."

"Fine. I'll be wearing- no, this is wrinkled, gotta change it- I'll be wearing a… green blouse. Green with a white collar. Just look for an ugly old woman with a green blouse and a crappy disposition."

• • •

The blouse was grass green. She was sitting under a thatch of mismatched trees, on a bench facing the rolling lawn that separated the County Art Museum from the dinosaur depository George Page had built with Mission Pack money. At the end of the lawn the tar pits were an oily black sump behind wrought iron pickets. Through the fence, plaster mastodons reared and glared at the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. Tar leaked through the entire park, seeping up in random spots, and I just missed stepping in a bubbling pool as I made my way toward Rolanda Basille.

Her back was to Sixth Street, but I had a three-quarter view of her body. Around sixty-five. Her collar was a snowy Peter Pan job, her slacks olive wool, much too heavy for the weather. She had hair dyed as black as the tar, cut in a flapper bob with eyebrow-length bangs. Her face was crinkled and small. Arthritic hands curled in her lap. Red tennis shoes covered her feet, over white socks, folded over once. A big, green plastic purse hung from her shoulder. If she weighed a hundred pounds, it was after Thanksgiving dinner.

The ground was covered with dry leaves and I made noise as I approached. She kept gazing out at the lawn and didn't look back. Children were playing there, mobile dots on an emerald screen, but I wasn't sure she saw them.

The random trees had been trimmed to form a canopy, and the shadows they cast were absolute. Several other benches were scattered nearby, most of them empty. A black man slept on one, a paper bag next to his head. Two women of Rolanda Basille's approximate age sat on another, strumming guitars and singing.

I walked in front of her.

She barely looked up, then slapped the bench.

I sat down. Music drifted over from the two guitarists. Some sort of folk song, a foreign language.

"The Stepne sisters," she said, sticking out her tongue. "They're here all the time. They stink. Did you ever see a picture of my daughter?"