Jonathan Kellerman - [Alex Delaware 01] Read online

  “Dr. Delaware? Will Towle.”

  “Alex.”

  I stood and we shook hands. His grip was firm and dry. The fingers that clasped mine were enormous and I was conscious of abundant strength behind them.

  “Please, sit.”

  He took his place behind the desk, swiveled back and threw his feet up on top, resting on a year’s back issues of the Journal of Pediatrics.

  I responded to his question.

  “It is a beautiful shot. Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest?”

  “Washington state. Olympic National Forest. We were vacationing there in fifty-one. I was a resident. That was my wife and son. I lost them a month later. In a car crash.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes.” A distant, sleepy look came on his face; it was a moment before he shook himself out of it and came back into focus.

  “I know you by reputation, Alex, so it’s a pleasure to get to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “I’ve followed your work, because I have a strong interest in behavioral pediatrics. I was particularly interested in your work with those children who’d been victimized by Stuart Hickle. Several of them were in the practice. The parents spoke highly of your work.”

  “Thank you.” I felt as if I was expected to say more but that was one subject that was closed. “I do remember sending consent forms to you.”

  “Yes, yes. Delighted to cooperate.”

  Neither of us spoke, then we both spoke at the same time.

  “What I’d like to—” I said.

  “What can I do for—” he said.

  It came out a garbled mess. We laughed, good old boys at the University Club. I deferred to him. Despite the graciousness I sensed an enormous ego lurking behind that white forelock.

  “You’re here about the Quinn child. What can I do for you?”

  I filled him in on as few details as possible, stressing the importance of Melody Quinn as a witness and the benign nature of the hypnotic intervention. I ended by requesting that he allow her to go off Ritalin for one week.

  “You really think this child will be able to give you information of substance?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve asked the same question. But she’s all the police have got.”

  “And your role in all of this?”

  I thought up a quicky title.

  “I’m a special consultant. They call me in sometimes when there are children involved.”

  “I see.”

  He played with his hands, constructing ten-legged spiders and killing them.

  “I don’t know, Alex. When we start to remove a patient from what has been determined to be an optimal dosage we sometimes upset the entire pattern of biochemical response.”

  “You think she needs to be on medication constantly.”

  “Of course I do. Why else would I prescribe it for her?” He wasn’t angry or defensive. He smiled calmly and with great forbearance. The message was clear: Only an idiot would doubt him.

  “There’d be no way to reduce the dosage?”

  “Oh, that’s certainly possible, but it creates the same type of problem. I don’t like to tamper with a winning combination.”

  “I see.” I hesitated, then continued. “She must have posed quite a problem to merit sixty mgs.”

  Towle placed a pair of reading glasses low on his nose, picked up the chart and flipped through it.

  “Let me see. Ah, yes. Hmm. ’Mother complains of severe behavioral problems.’” After thumbing through a few more pages: “‘Teachers report failure to complete school assignments. Difficulty in maintaining attention span for more than brief periods.’ Ah—here’s a later notation—’Child struck mother during argument about keeping room clean’ And here’s a note of mine: ’Poor peer relations, few friends.’”

  I was certain that the argument had something to do with giving away the giant walrus, Fatso. The gift from Daddy. And as for friends—it was easy to see that M and M Properties wouldn’t truck with that kind of nonsense.

  “That sounds pretty severe to me, don’t you think?”

  What I thought was that it was horseshit. There’d been nothing resembling a thorough psychological evaluation. Nothing beyond taking the mother at her word. I looked at Towle and saw a quack. A nice-looking, white-haired quack with lots of connections and the right pieces of paper on his wall. I longed to tell him so, but that would do nobody—Melody, Milo—any good.

  So I hedged.

  “I can’t say. You’re her doc.” Faking the comradely grin was an exercise in moral self-control.

  “That’s right, Alex. I am.” He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Will Towle is a pill pusher. Stimulants are just another form of child abuse.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  He waved away my objection.

  “No, no, I know. And I don’t hold it against you. Your training is behavioral and you see things behaviorally. We all do it, settle into professional tunnel vision. The surgeons want to cut everything out. We prescribe and you fellows like to analyze it to death.”

  It was starting to sound like a lecture.

  “Granted, drugs have risks. But it’s a matter of cost-risk analysis. Let’s consider a child like the little Quinn girl. What does she start out with? Inferior genes—both parents somewhat limited intellectually.” He made the word limited sound very cruel. “Lousy genes and poverty, and a broken marriage. Absent father—although in some of these cases the children are better off without the kind of role models the fathers provide. Bad genes, bad environment. The child’s got two strikes against her before she leaves the womb.

  “Is it any wonder then that soon we’re seeing all the telltale signs—antisocial behavior, noncompliance, poor school performance, unsatisfactory impulse control?”

  I felt a sudden urge to defend little Melody. Her genial doctor was describing her as some kind of total misfit. I kept silent.

  “Now a child like this—” he took off his glasses and put down the chart—“is going to have to do moderately well in school in order to achieve some semblance of a decent life for herself. Otherwise it’s another generation of P.P.P.”

  Piss-poor protoplasm. One of the quaint expressions dreamed up by the medical profession to describe especially unfortunate patients.

  Playing straight man to Towle wasn’t my idea of a fun afternoon. But I had a hunch it was some kind of ritual, that if I held out and let him smilingly browbeat me he might give me what I came for.

  “But there is no way a child like this can achieve with her genes and her environment working against her. Not without help. And that’s where stimulant medication comes in. Those pills allow her to sit still long enough and pay attention long enough to be able to learn something. They control her behavior to the point where she no longer alienates everyone around her.”

  “I got the impression that the mother was using the medication in a haphazard way—giving her an extra pill on days when there were lots of visitors at the apartment complex.”

  “I’ll have to check that.” He didn’t sound concerned. “You have to remember, Alex, that this child does not exist in a vacuum. There’s a social context here. If there’s nowhere for her mother and her to live, that isn’t exactly therapeutic, is it?”

  I listened, certain there was more. Sure enough: “Now you may ask, what about psychotherapy? What about behavior modification? My answer is: What about them? There is no chance of this particular mother developing the capacity for insight to successfully benefit from psychotherapy. And she lacks the ability to even comply with a stable system of rules and regulations necessary for behavior mod. What she can deal with is administering three pills a day to her child. Pills that work. And I don’t mind telling you, I don’t feel a damn bit guilty about prescribing them, because I think they’re this child’s only hope.”

  It was a great ending. No doubt it made a big hit at the Western P
ediatric Ladies Auxiliary Tea. But basically it was all crap. Pseudo-scientific gibberish mixed in with a lot of condescending fascism. Dope up the Untermenschen to make them good citizens.

  He had worked himself up a bit. But now he was perfectly composed, as handsome and in control as ever.

  “I haven’t convinced you, have I?” He smiled.

  “It’s not a matter of that. You raise some interesting points. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “That’s always a good idea, thinking things over.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, back to what you came for—and please forgive my little diatribe. You really think that taking this child off stimulants will make her more susceptible to hypnosis.”

  “I do.”

  “Despite the fact that her concentration will be poorer?”

  “Despite that. I’ve got inductions that are especially suited for children with short attention spans.”

  The snowy eyebrows rose.

  “Oh, really? I’ll have to find out about those. You know, I did some hypnosis, too. In the Army, for pain control. I know it works.”

  “I can send you some recent publications.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” He rose and it was clear that my time was up.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Alex.” Another handshake.

  “The pleasure is mine, Will.” This was getting sickening.

  The unasked question hung in the air. Towle snagged it.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, smiling ever faintly.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to think about it.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, I’ll think it over. Call me in a couple of days.”

  “I’ll do that, Will.” And may your hair and teeth fall out overnight, you sanctimonious bastard.

  On the way out Edna glared and Sandi smiled at me. I ignored them both and rescued Milo from the trio of munchkins that was climbing over him as if he were playground equipment. We made our way through the now-boiling mob of children and mothers and reached the car safely.

  5

  I TOLD Milo about the encounter with Towle as we drove back to my place.

  “Power play.” His forehead creased and cherry-sized lumps appeared just above his jawline.

  “That and something else that I can’t quite figure. He’s a strange guy. Comes across very courtly—almost obsequious—then you realize he’s playing games.”

  “Why’d he have you come all the way out there for something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a puzzle, his taking time out from a frantic afternoon to deliver a leisurely lecture. Our entire conversation could have been handled in a five-minute phone call. “Maybe it’s his idea of recreation. One-upping another professional.”

  “Hell of a hobby for a busy man.”

  “Yeah, but the ego comes first. I’ve met guys like Towle before, obsessed with being in control, with being the boss. Lots of them end up as department heads, deans and chairmen of committees.”

  “And captains and inspectors and police chiefs.”

  “Right …”

  “You going to call him like he said?” He sounded defeated.

  “Sure, for what it’s worth.”

  “Yeah.”

  Milo reclaimed his Fiat and after a few moments of prayer and pumping it started up. He leaned out of the window and looked at me wearily.

  “Thanks, Alex. I’m going to go home and crash. This no-sleep routine is catching up with me …”

  “You want to take a nap here and then head out?”

  “No thanks. I’ll make it if this pile of junk will.” He slapped the dented door. “Thanks anyway.”

  “I’ll follow up with Melody.”

  “Great. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He drove a way until I stopped him with my shout. He backed up.

  “What?”

  “It’s probably not important, but I thought I’d mention it. The nurse in Towle’s office told me Melody’s dad’s in prison.”

  He nodded somnambulantly.

  “So’s half the county. It’s that way when the economy goes bad. Thanks.”

  Then he was off.

  It was six-fifteen and already dark. I lay down on my bed for a few minutes and when I awoke it was after nine. I got up, washed my face, and called Robin. No one answered.

  I took a quick shave, threw on a windbreaker and drove down to Hakata, in Santa Monica. I drank sake and ate sushi for an hour, and bantered with the chef, who, as it turned out had a master’s degree in psychology from the University of Tokyo.

  I got home, stripped naked, and took a hot bath, trying to erase all thoughts of Morton Handler, Melody Quinn and L.W. Towle, M.D., from my mind. I used self-hypnosis, imagining Robin and myself making love on top of a mountain in the middle of a rain forest. Flushed with passion I got out of the tub and called her again. After ten rings, she answered, mumbling and confused and half-asleep.

  I apologized for waking her, told her I loved her and hung up.

  Half a minute later she called back.

  “Was that you, Alex?” She sounded as if she was dreaming.

  “Yes, hon. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “No, that’s okay—what time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Oh, I must have conked out. How are you, sweetie?”

  “Fine. I called you around nine.”

  “I was out all day buying wood. There’s an old violinmaker out in Simi Valley who’s retiring. I spent six hours choosing tools and picking out maple and ebony. I’m sorry I missed you.”

  She sounded exhausted.

  “I’m sorry too, but go back to bed. Get some sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “If you want to come over, you can.”

  I thought about it. But I was too restless to be good company.

  “No, doll. You rest. How about dinner tomorrow? You pick the place.”

  “Okay, darling.” She yawned—a soft, sweet sound. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  It took me a while to fall asleep and when I finally did, it was restless slumber, punctuated by black-and-white dreams with lots of frantic movement in them. I don’t remember what they were about, but the dialogue was sluggish and labored, as if everyone were talking with paralyzed lips and mouths filled with wet sand.

  In the middle of the night I got up to check that the doors and windows were locked.

  6

  I WOKE UP at six the next morning, filled with random energy. I hadn’t felt that way for over five months. The tension wasn’t all bad, for with it came a sense of purpose, but by seven it had built up some, so that I paced around the house like a jaguar on the prowl.

  At seven-thirty I decided it was late enough. I dialed Bonita Quinn’s number. She was wide-awake and she sounded as if she’d been expecting my call.

  “Morning, Doctor.”

  “Good morning. I thought I’d drop by and spend a few hours with Melody.”

  “Why not? She’s not doin’ anything. You know—” she lowered her voice—“I think she liked you. She talked about how you played with her.”

  “That’s good. We’ll do some more today. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  When I arrived she was all dressed and ready to go. Her mother had put her in a pale yellow sundress that exposed bony white shoulders and pipe-stem arms. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, fastened by a yellow ribbon. She clutched a tiny patent-leather purse. I had thought we’d spend some time in her room and then perhaps go out for lunch, but it was clear she was primed for an outing.

  “Hi, Melody.”

  She averted her gaze and sucked her thumb.

  “You look very pretty this morning.”

  She smiled shyly.

  “I thought we’d take a drive, go to a park. How does that sound?”

  “Okay.” The shaky voice.

  “Great.” I peeked my head in the apartment. Bonita Quinn was pushing around a va
cuum cleaner as if it were a wagonload of sins. She wore a blue bandana on her head and a cigarette dangled from her lips. The television was tuned in to a gospel show, but snow obscured the picture and the choir was drowned out by the sound of the vacuum.

  I touched her shoulder. She jumped.

  “I’m taking her now, okay?” I yelled over the din.

  “Sure.” When she spoke the cigarette bobbled like a trout lure in a rushing brook.

  She resumed her chore, stooping over the roaring machine and plowing it forward.

  I rejoined Melody.

  “Let’s go.”

  She walked alongside me. Midway to the parking lot a small hand slipped into mine.

  Through a series of hilltop turns and lucky detours, I connected to Ocean Avenue. I drove south, toward Santa Monica, until we reached the park at the top of the cliff overlooking Pacific Coast Highway. It was eight-thirty in the morning. The sky was clear, pebbled only with a handful of clouds that might have been as distant as Hawaii. I found a parking space on the street, directly in front of the Camera Obscura and the Senior Citizens’ Recreation Center.

  Even that early in the morning the place was bustling. Old people packed the benches and the shuffleboard court. Some of them jabbered nonstop to each other, or themselves. Other stared out at the boulevard in mute trance. Leggy girls in skimpy tops and satin shorts that covered a tenth of their gluteal regions skated by, transforming the walkways between the palms into fleshy freeways. Some of them wore stereo headsets—speeding spacewomen, with glazed, beatific expressions on their California-perfect faces.

  Japanese tourists snapped pictures, nudged each other, pointed and laughed. Shabby bums loitered against the guardrail that separated the crumbling bluff from sheer space. They smoked behind cupped hands and regarded the world with distrust and fear. A surprising number of them were young men. They all looked as if they’d crawled out of some deep, dark, unproductive mine.

  There were students reading, couples sprawled on the grass, small boys darting between the trees and a few furtive encounters that looked suspiciously like dope deals.

  Melody and I walked along the outer rim of the park, hand in hand, talking little. I offered to buy her a hot pretzel from a street vendor, but she said she wasn’t hungry. I remembered that loss of appetite was another side effect of Ritalin. Or maybe she’d just had a big breakfast.