Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He sat at a sidewalk table in front of a gourmet sandwich shop named Lauren’s. Four blocks east of where I’d met Karen Jackson.

Lauren was Bernstein’s wife, a pretty brunette twenty years his junior. She owned the place and worked the counter with a young Latin guy. Bernstein was here because her car was in the shop and he’d quit work early to drive her home.

“Wild Bill beckons, you obey,” Milo had explained. “He’s got no patience for bullshit or anything else.”

Bernstein acknowledged both of us with what would’ve been a minimal nod if he were in the mood to burn calories. A tall beer and a pressed sandwich sat in front of him. Impressive creation, the sandwich, a twelve-inch roll teeming with meat and cheese, pickles and peppers. Half eaten, but Bernstein hadn’t unfolded his napkin. His black suit, white shirt, and red tie were spotless.

He looked at me and said, “The psychologist,” turned to Milo and said, “You.”

Milo eyed the sandwich. “Cuban?”

“Cuban expatriate, it started as a Florida thing, feeding the cigar rollers. She’s taken it to a new level, this is her upgrade of mixto, veal instead of ham, sliced sweetbreads instead of tongue. Fifteen bucks. Buy one, it’s worth it.”

Milo said, “Sure,” and went to comply.

Bernstein cocked an eyebrow at me.

I said, “Just had lunch.”

“Your loss.” He got up, told the counter-boy something, returned, took two surgical bites, and said, “She’s a genius.”

Seconds after Milo’s return, the counter-boy hurried over with his sandwich, glancing nervously at Bernstein. Bernstein ignored him, Milo said, “Thanks,” and the kid scurried off.

“New hire,” said the pathologist. “We’ll see.” To Milo: “Eat.”

Wild Bill commands, you ingest.

As Milo got to work chomping, Bernstein finished his food and his beer, flicked the napkin open the way a magician unfurls a silk handkerchief, and set about dabbing his mouth for no apparent purpose.

Milo put down his sandwich.

“Don’t stop on my account,” said Bernstein. “Knowing you, you’ll probably want another.” His smile was stingy, knowing, sour. “No discounts for bulk purchase. Heh.”

Refolding the napkin into a square as equilateral as his glasses, he said, “Colchicine. Get your pad out, I’ll spell it for you.”

As Milo copied, the counter-boy came over. “Is everything—”

Bill Bernstein waved him away. “Just as I thought, an alkali, plant-based, extracted from meadow saffron. It shows up in herbal medicines, can also be used for gout and other inflammation, but if my toes hurt, I’d sure as hell take something else. Victim Chase didn’t look like a candidate for gout but you never know, so I checked. Negative. Do you have any knowledge of her self-administering herbals?”

Milo turned to me.

I said, “With her mental status, anything’s possible.”

Bernstein said, “Talk about a politician’s answer.”

“I was wondering about pica. She had a history of trespassing in strangers’ yards so she could’ve eaten something in the garden.”

“You know her to have a history?”

“No, but if she ate dirt—”

“Irrelevant, colchicine’s not in dirt, she’d have to eat the plant. It happens: Back-to-nature morons spot something that looks like a yummy onion, go home and stir-fry it with tofu or organic dandelions or whatever.” He ran a finger across his throat. “You can landscape with the darn thing, it’s also called autumn crocus, has a flower if you’re into flowers. Like oleander — a killer. But they still use it for hedges. All sorts of nasty stuff looks nice.”

Milo said, “There were flower beds but I have no idea if saffron was included.”

“Not saffron, that’s an edible spice, from a different type of crocus. Meadow saffron. Col-chi-cine, write it down.”

“I already have.”

“Then go ask the owner if she’s growing it and if she doesn’t know, look up a picture of the darn thing and go see for yourself.”

“Will do,” said Milo. “Though there was no sign of disturbance in the garden.”

“My C.I. told me it’s a huge backyard.”

“More like an estate.”

“My point,” said Bernstein. “You’re telling me you covered every inch?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought,” said Bernstein. “Well, my job’s done. Cause of death is colchicine poisoning, whether manner is suicide or an accident is likely to remain undetermined unless you do your job and produce evidence.”

The door to the restaurant opened and Lauren Bernstein danced out, lively, light-footed, smiling. “Hi, guys.” She kissed the top of her husband’s head and rested a hand on his shoulder.

He said, “Lieutenant Sturgis is going to have another sandwich.”

Her eyes widened.

So did Milo’s. He said, “First one was great, I’ll doggie-bag and have something for later.”

“Everyone blames gluttony on their dogs,” said Bernstein. “Easy targets, they’re stupid and can’t talk back.”

“Oh, honey,” said Lauren. “Sure, Lieutenant, coming up.”

Bernstein watched her walk away, muttering “Love her,” as if pressured to admit it. Removing his glasses, he said, “Here’s something else to chew on, pun intended: Victim Chase’s time of death is between two and six hours before the body was discovered. If she ingested a heavy dose, death could’ve been relatively quick, as in within that time frame. But it can also be a drawn-out process. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea that can go on for days and then your organ systems fail. Basically, you fall apart, it’s an unpleasant death, that’s why she had that rictus on her face. In her case, the process could’ve sped up because apart from the candy bar, which was incompletely digested, her stomach was empty. But, still, a homeless psychotic thrashing around in your backyard, you’d think the homeowner would notice.”

“The homeowner was away, in the desert.”

“Working on a melanoma?” said Bernstein. “Okay, so much for that. Anyway, this wasn’t easy for Victim Chase but she probably did it to herself, wittingly or otherwise. FDA can’t get it together to regulate herbals, all kinds of garbage finds its way in. I had a poisoned DB turn up near the court building on Hill and Washington. You know the one, spillover from downtown, not a decent restaurant in sight.”

Milo said, “Mostly warehouses.”

Bernstein said, “Whoever put a court there is a moron. One time I thought of taking a walk, waiting to be called to testify. Idiot gang types lolling around, so much for exercise. Anyone, someone thought it would be a great idea to dump a body there after hours. COD turned out to be a toxic alkaloid, which is what got me thinking about Victim Chase.”

Milo said, “The same poi—”

“Did I say that? Totally different poison. Last one before that, couple years ago, I had a fourteen-year-old girl, stupid parents pay a fortune for private school tuition and go buy her a headache remedy from a moron on Venice Beach. Turns out that particular shipment contained arsenic way above what was needed to kill their kid.”

He shook his head. “Maybe they have a dog to blame it on.”

We left Bernstein standing next to his wife, looking awestruck as she whispered in his ear.

Milo said, “One of a kind.”

I said, “Patients who don’t talk back, he can get away with it.”

He chuckled, turned serious. “What he said about her suffering. That was hard to hear.”

Fools write books about madness being an elevated mental state or an alternative form of creativity. It’s not, it’s anguish.

I said nothing and we walked to our cars.