Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Nothing like an anatomy lesson.”

He grinned. Turned serious. “So after three p.m. tomorrow, she’s gone and unprotected. Wish I could say I’m surprised. I’m in my last year, thinking of getting an MBA or an MPH and working as a consultant, maybe doing some public policy work.”

I said, “Better the hammer than the nail?”

“Better something that actually has efficacy.” He tried another bite of burrito, grimaced and pushed it farther away. A couple of other residents passed by, bleary-eyed; Nehru’s eyes were getting there. “I didn’t become a physician to be a jailer but let’s face it, some people need protection from themselves. The night Ms. Chase came in was hectic, patients I’d already admitted were acting out, and then what’s-her-name comes to me and says she’s got a solution and shows me all these letters from NIMH. The facilities really are okay?”

“For a couple of days under proper supervision.”

“One patient in a skeleton facility. Weird,” said Mike Nehru. “So should we go get that chart?”

As he searched his office computer, I said, “When Dr. Sherman began seeing Zelda, he wasn’t clear about her diagnosis. Did his notes clarify that?”

“Nope, but given the meds I figured he was concentrating on anxiety rather than bipolar... okay, here it is, let me print.”

A single sheet slid out of his printer. Zelda’s name, no phone number, just an address long outdated, plus the fact that she had an eight-year-old child once evaluated by me. The final sentence a legalistic-sounding statement that he could no longer assume medical responsibility for the patient and hoped she’d follow through on his advice to enter treatment with someone at the U. Including resumption of her medication. Haldol replaced by Ativan.

Resumption meant she’d stopped, probably against his advice. His mention of the first drug made me wonder if he thought she might need it again.

Sometimes Haldol’s the drug of choice when extreme confusion looms.

No sign she’d ever followed through on his advice. The only reason she’d ended up at the U. was proximity to Bel Air.

Mike Nehru said, “That address, Sunset Boulevard, Beverly Hills. Those houses are huge and she sure doesn’t look like she’s got dough.”

I said, “The Beverly Hills Hotel. She was living in a bungalow there.”

“You’re kidding. So once upon a time she was rich. Amazing, I thought it was a misprint because she came across homeless.”

“She probably is now. How was she identified?”

“The cops I.D.’d her by her fingerprints and gave us her name. Once we had it, we looked through our records and found the report.”

“Her son’s mentioned. Did she say anything about him?”

“Nope, she just screamed at being restrained. Like they all do. Then I got the Ativan in her and she quieted down. But some of the others didn’t. It was some night.”

Back home, I beelined for my office, found my notes on Ovid, got the name of his preschool and his teacher — Jeanette Robaire — and called.

She still worked there and I was lucky to catch her on break. She had no idea who I was but her voice took on warmth when I said I’d been Ovid Chase’s psychologist.

“Ovid. Sure I remember him — the bright ones stay with you. Why would you call me now?”

“I’m looking for him.” I gave her the basics, describing Zelda as having emotional problems I couldn’t go into.

She said, “Problems. I guess that doesn’t shock me, Dr. Delaware. She only came to the school a few times but when I saw her I got the feeling she was trying to be... okay. But it didn’t quite work — if that makes sense?”

“Working too hard at it.”

“And ending up nervous. As if she wasn’t quite sure she’d pulled it off. Someone said she was an actress.”

“She was.”

“Well, her performance with me wasn’t convincing. Not that there was anything threatening about her, just the opposite. Fragile. A beautiful fragile woman. Are you saying they took Ovid away from her? If that’s the case, why would you be looking for him?”

“I don’t know what happened to him other than he’s not with Zelda. And she’s in no condition to tell me.”

“Oh,” said Jeanette Robaire. “That sounds like more than just emotional problems.”

“Shortly after I saw Ovid, Zelda lost her job. Did she keep him in your school for the rest of the year?”

“I’m pretty sure she did. But I can’t tell you what happened when he left us and went to first grade. That’s the thing with my job. You lose contact.”

“Do you feed to any specific schools?”

“Not really. We get kids from all over and they spread out. Private and public. If they have younger sibs who enroll with us, we sometimes get progress reports from parents. Zelda’s problems, are you worried they could’ve led to abuse?”

“There’s no sign of that.”

“No sign,” said Jeanette Robaire. “I wish you just would’ve said, ‘No way.’ ”

Next try: HGK Babysitting and Child Care. No phone listing, nothing on the Internet. That was L.A.: no shelf life.

Phoning scores of schools and lying was an unpleasant prospect with no likelihood of paying off. Time to turn to a higher power.

—

Milo was away from his desk at West L.A. substation. I reached him at his cell.

“Hey, Alex.”

“I need your help.”

“That’s a switch. What about?”

“Can we get together?”

“That level of help, huh? I’m free in a couple of hours. My office okay?”

“Perfect.”

No questions asked.

Friend in need.

Milo’s situation at LAPD is one of those blips that slides off the screen to everyone’s benefit.

Years ago, he’d cut a deal with a police chief nearing retirement, a smooth, political man with plastic ethics. The barter was simple: Milo’s discretion in exchange for promotion to lieutenant. The rank usually means desk work. Milo got the higher salary and pension allotment and a mandate to keep working murders.

A new chief, autocratic and reflexively hostile, tolerated the arrangement as long as Milo’s solve rate remained nearly perfect.

Different situation from anyone else’s, but it’s always been different for my friend.

Back in his rookie days, homosexual officers were “nonexistent” in the department and Milo’s colleagues were busting heads at gay bars. Self-preservation mandated keeping your private life private and he buttoned himself up in psychosocial exile.

When social norms budged a bit, he kept up the low profile but stopped pretending and soon enough everyone knew. That period was the toughest — the sneers and stares and avoidance, the occasional overt ugliness.

Nowadays, the department has rules against discrimination of any sort and gay officers are on the job. Milo still keeps to himself and I believe it would be that way if he were straight.

Part of the deal with the corrupt chief was getting “creative” work space. The other detectives at West L.A. work out of a big room with lockers and coffee machines, a clamorous environment that bustles with work ethic and frustration and gallows humor.

Milo operates from a windowless former supply closet, a cramped domain behind an unmarked door, set at the end of a utility corridor near interview rooms where people sweat and deny and confess.

Meager square footage for a man who takes up plenty. He’s six two or three, depending on posture, with a gourmand gut and the bulk of a lineman gone sedentary.

Stretch too exuberantly and his knuckles brush the walls.

I’d go nuts working there. He loves it.

When I arrived, his door was wide open and he was at his computer, hunting-and-pecking like a studious rhino. Stacks of paper covered his desk, continued onto the floor and the spare chair. Without turning, he swiped at the chair, snowed the linoleum with paper.