Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"That might not be an exact quote, but it's pretty damn close. He also got into this whole racist rap- said the kid in the truck was black. "A savage, Meredith. A jungle native. Why would you want to imitate the savages when there's a world of civilization out there?' On top of everything else, he's a racist, too. Even without the rap, you could tell. The looks he gave the minority kids."

"Were there a lot of minority kids?"

She shook her head. "Just a few. Tokens, probably- part of the public image. In public he was Mr. Liberal- pictures of Martin Luther King and Gandhi and the Kennedys all over the place. Like I said, it's all acting- the world is a fucking stage."

She placed her hands flat on the table, looking ready to get up again.

"A couple more names," I said. "Silk."

Headshake.

"Merino."

"What is this, a fabric show? Uh-uh."

"Lyle Gritz?"

"Grits and toast," she said. "Nope. How many people have gotten bumped off, anyway?"

"Lots. I'm on the list, too."

Her eyes rounded. "You? Why?"

"I co-chaired a symposium on de Bosch's work. At Western Peds."

"Why?" she said coldly. "Were you a fan?"

"No. Actually, your father requested it of me."

"Requested it, huh? What approach did he take? Squeezing your balls or kissing your ass?"

"Squeezing. He did it as a favor to Katarina."

"Symposium, huh? Gee thanks, Dad. The man tortures me, so you throw him a party- when did this take place?"

"Seventy-nine."

She thought. "Seventy-nine- I was in Boston in seventy-nine. Catholic girls' school, even though we weren't Catholic… a symposium." She laughed.

"You never told your parents anything that happened at the Corrective School?"

"Nothing- I was too numb, and they wouldn't have listened, anyway. After that summer, I didn't talk to anyone, just went along, like some robot. They handed Botch a naughty acting-out girl and got back this compliant little zombie. They thought it was a miracle cure. Years later, they were still saying it was the best decision they ever made. I'd just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside."

The pale eyes were wet.

"How long did you stay that way?" I said softly.

"I don't know- months, years- like I said, it blurs. All I know is it took a real long time to get back to my true self, get smart enough to mess around and cover my tracks. No sticky stains on the clothes."

She licked her lips and grinned. A tear dripped down one cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

"When I was eighteen, I told them "fuck you' and left- ran away with a guy who came to unclog the toilet."

"Sounds like you've done pretty well since."

"How kind of you to say so, dear- oh yeah, it's been a blast. PR's a bullshit business, so I'm perfect for it. Throwing parties, setting up promos. Feeding rumors to the idiot press. Well, the show must go on. Ciao. It was real, stud."

She stood and nearly ran out of the restaurant.

I put money on the table and followed her, caught up as she was getting into a red Mustang convertible. The car looked new, but there were dings and dents all along the driver's side.

"Uh-uh, no more," she said, starting the engine. "You get a quickie mind-fuck for your ten bucks, and that's it."

"Just wanted to thank you," I said.

"Polite, too," she said. "I really don't like you."

Robin said, "Bad love. The hypocrisy."

"The bastard coins a phrase to describe poor child rearing, but has his own private meaning for it."

"Victimizing little kids." Her hands tightened around the handle of a wood rasp. The blade caught on a piece of rosewood, and she pulled it free and put it down.

"And," I said, "if this woman's experience was typical, the victimization was perfectly legal. De Bosch didn't sexually molest anyone, and none of the physical things he did would fall under any child-abuse statutes but Sweden's."

"Not the poking and slapping?"

"No bruises, no case, and usually you need deep wounds and broken bones to get anywhere legally. Corporal punishment's still allowed in many schools. Back then, it was accepted procedure. And there's never been any law against mind control or psychological abuse- how can you pin down the criteria? Basically, de Bosch behaved like a really rotten parent, and that's no crime."

She shook her head. "And no one ever said anything."

"Maybe some of the children did, but I doubt anyone believed them. These were problem kids. Their credibility was low and their parents were angry. In some cases de Bosch was probably the court of last resort. This woman came back to her family traumatized but perfectly compliant. They never suspected the summer at the school was anything but successful."

"Some success."

"We're talking ultrahigh levels of parental frustration, Rob. Even if what de Bosch did had come to light and some parents had pulled their kids out, I'll bet you others would have rushed to enroll theirs. De Bosch's victims never had any legal recourse. Now, one of them's evening the score his own way."

"The same old chain," she said. "Victims and victimizers."

"The thing that bothers me, though, is why the killer didn't strike out against de Bosch, only the disciples. Unless de Bosch died before the killer was old enough- or assertive enough- to put together a revenge plot."

"Or crazy enough."

"That, too. If I'm right about the killer being directly traumatized by Delmar Parker's accident, we're talking about someone who was a student at the school in 1973. De Bosch died seven years later, so the killer may still have been a kid. Felons that young rarely commit carefully planned crimes. They're more into impulsive stuff. Another thing that could have stopped him from getting de Bosch was being locked up. Jail or a mental institution. That fits with our Mr. Gritz- the ten years unaccounted for between his leaving Georgia and getting arrested here."

"More frustration," she said.

"Exactly. Not being able to punish de Bosch directly could have heated him up even further. The first murder occurred five years ago. Myra Paprock. Maybe that was the year he was released. Myra would have been a good target for him. A trusted disciple, dictatorial."

"Makes sense," she said, looking down at her workbench and arranging some files, "if de Bosch really killed himself. But what if he was murdered and made to look like a suicide?"

"I don't think so," I said. "His death was too peaceful- overdose of medication. Why would the killer butcher subordinates and allow the boss to get off so easy? And a ritual approach- one that fulfilled a psychological need- would have meant leaving the best for last, not starting with de Bosch first and working backwards."

"Best for last," she said, in a tremulous voice. "So where do you fit in?"

"The only thing I can think of is that damned symposium."

She started to switch off her tools. The dog tagged after her, stopping each time she did, looking up, as if seeking approval.

"Alex," she said, removing her apron, "if de Bosch did commit suicide, do you think it could have been due to remorse? It doesn't mean much, but it would be nice to think of him having some self-doubts."

"The woman asked me the same thing. I'd have liked to say yes- she'd have loved to hear it, but she wouldn't have bought it. The man she described didn't sound very conscience laden. My guess is his motivation was just what the papers printed: despondence over ill health. The slides his daughter flashed at the symposium showed a physical wreck."

"A wrecker," she said.

"Yeah. Who knows how many kids he messed up over the years?"

The dog heard the tension in my voice and cocked his head. I petted him and said, "So who's the higher life-form, anyway, bub?"