Dr. Death (18 page)

"What did your mom think about the porcelain?"

"She didn't think anything, that I saw. She didn't think much about anything— Eric likes the porcelain. He can inherit it, I couldn't care less." Sudden smile. "I'm the Queen of Apathy."

• • •

At the end of the sixth session, she said, "Sometimes I wonder what kind of guy I'll marry. I mean, will it be someone dominant like Dad or Eric, because that's what I'm used to, or will I go in a totally opposite direction— not that I'm thinking about that. It's just that Eric was down for the weekend and the two of them went off to some Asian art auction and I watched them leave the house— like twins. That's basically what I know of men."

She shook her head. "Dad keeps buying stuff. Sometimes I think that's what he's all about— expansion. As if one world's not big enough for him— Eric was thinking of coming with me today to meet you."

"Why?"

"He doesn't have classes till tomorrow, asked me if I wanted to hang out before he flies up tonight. Kind of sweet, don't you think? He really is a good brother. I told him I had to see you first. He didn't know about you, Dad makes a big thing about confidentiality. Gave me this whole big speech about even though I was under eighteen, as far as he was concerned I had full rights. Like he was giving me a big gift, but I think he's kind of embarrassed about it. Once, when I brought up Becky's therapy, he changed the subject really fast. . . . Anyway, Eric hadn't known about you and it surprised him. He started asking me all these questions, wanting to know if you were smart, where you got your degree. I realized I didn't know."

I pointed to my diplomas.

She said, "The good old U. Not Stanford or the Ivys, but it'll probably satisfy him."

"Do you feel you need to satisfy Eric?"

"Sure, he's the smart one. . . . No, he's entitled to his opinions, but they don't influence mine. He decided not to come, took a bike ride instead. Maybe one day you'll get to meet him."

"If I behave myself?"

She laughed. "Yes, absolutely. Meeting Eric is a reward of the highest order."

I'd thought a lot about Eric. About the hellish Polaroids he'd shot of his mother. Standing at the foot of the bed, highlighting her misery in cold, unforgiving light. His father considered them trophies, carried them around in that little purse.

How badly had Richard Doss hated his wife?

I said, "How did Eric react to your mother's death?"

"Silence. Silent anger. He'd already dropped out of school to be with her, maybe that did it for him. Because right after, he returned to Stanford." Sudden chill in her voice. She picked at her cuticles, stared down into her lap.

Bad move, bringing up her brother. Keep the focus on her, always on her.

But I wondered if she'd ever seen the snapshots.

"So," I said.

"So." She looked at her watch.

Ten minutes to go. She frowned. I tried to reel her back in: "A couple of weeks ago, we were discussing how expressing opinions can be tricky in your family. How did your mother—"

"By having none. By turning herself into a nothing."

"A nothing," I said.

"Exactly. That's why I wasn't surprised when I found out what she did— with Mate. I mean I was, when I heard about it on the news. But after the shock wore off, I realized it made sense: the ultimate passivity."

"So you had no warning—"

"None. She never said a word to me. Never said good-bye. That morning she had called me in to say hi before I went to school. Told me I looked pretty. She did that sometimes, there was nothing different. She looked the way she always did. Erased— the truth is she'd already rubbed herself out by the time Mate got involved. The media always make it out like he's doing something but he isn't. Not if the other people were like my mom. He didn't do a damn thing. There was nothing left for him to do. She didn't want to
be.
"

I readied my hand for a dive toward the tissue box. Stacy straightened, placed her feet on the floor, sat up straight.

"The whole thing's an incredible pity, Dr. Delaware."

Back to the clinical detachment of the first session.

"Yes, it is."

"She was brilliant,
two
PhDs, she could've won the Nobel Prize if she'd wanted to.
That's
where Eric got his smarts. My father's a bright man, but she was a
genius.
Her parents were brilliant, too. Librarians, they never made much money, but they were brilliant. Both died young. Cancer. Maybe my mother was afraid of dying young. Of cancer, I don't know. She brought Becky Mani- tow from a D to a B in algebra. When Becky stopped seeing her, she dropped down to a D again."

"Becky stopped because your mother was ill?"

"I suppose."

Long silence. A minute to go.

She said, "Our time's up, isn't it."

"In a moment," I said.

"No. Rules are rules. Thanks for all your help, I'm dealing with stuff pretty well. All things considered." She picked up her books.

"All things considered?"

"One never knows," she said. Then she laughed. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm fine. What's the choice?"

• • •

During the last few sessions, she entered ready to talk about her grief. Dry-eyed, solemn, no changes of subject or digressions to trivia or laughing dance-aways.

Trying.

Yearning to understand why her mother had left her without saying good-bye. Knowing some questions could never be answered.

Asking them anyway. Why her family? Why
her
?

Had her mother even been sick? Had it all been psychosomatic, the way Dr. Manitow said it was— she'd heard him say so to Judge Manitow when the two of them didn't know she was in earshot. Judge Manitow saying,
Oh, I don't know, Bob.
He replying,
Trust me, Judy, there's nothing physically wrong with her— it's slow suicide.

Stacy, listening from the bathroom next to the kitchen, had been angry at him, really furious, what a bastard, how could he say something like that.

But then she started wondering herself. Because the doctors never did find anything. Her father kept saying doctors don't know everything, they're not as smart as they think. Then he stopped taking her for tests, so didn't that prove that even
he
thought it might be in Mom's head? You'd think
something
would show up on
some
test. . . .

During the eleventh session, she talked about Mate.

Not angry at him, the way Dad was. The way Eric was. That's all the two of them could do when faced with something they couldn't control. Get angry at it. Big male thing, get pissed off, want to crush it.

I said, "Your father wants to crush Mate?"

"Rhetorically. He says that about anything he doesn't like— some guy trying to cheat him in a business deal, he jokes about pulverizing him, wiping him off the planet, that kind of macho BS."

"What do you think of Mate?"

"Pathetic. A loser. With or without him, Mom would have stopped being."

At the beginning of the twelfth session she announced that there was nothing left to say about her mother, she'd better start paying attention to her future. Because she'd finally decided she just might want one.

"Maybe architecture, still." Smile. "I've eliminated everything else. I'm forging straight ahead, Dr. Delaware. Setting my sights on architecture at Stanford. Everyone will be happy."

"Including you?"

"Definitely including me. No point doing anything if it doesn't bring me satisfaction. Thanks for getting me to see that."

She was ready to terminate, but I encouraged her to make another appointment. She came in the next week with brochures and the course catalog from Stanford. Going over the architecture curriculum with me. Telling me she was pretty sure she'd made the right choice.

"If you don't mind," she said, "I'd like to come in when I apply next year. Maybe you can give me some pointers— if you do that kind of thing."

"Sure. My pleasure. And call any time something's on your mind."

"You're very nice," she said. "It was instructive to meet you."

I didn't have to ask what she meant. I was a male who wasn't her father, wasn't her brother.

13

IT WAS NEARLY ten P.M. when I closed the file.

Stacy had left therapy claiming she'd found direction. This morning her father had implied the transformation had been temporary. She'd promised to call but never followed through. Normal teenage flakiness? Not wanting me to view her as a failure?

Despite her declaration of independence, I'd never considered her a therapeutic triumph. You couldn't deal with what she'd been through in thirteen sessions. I suppose I'd known all along that she'd held back.

Would we really talk about college tomorrow morning?

I paged through the file again, found something in my notes of the eleventh session. My deliberately sketchy shorthand, born of too many subpoenas.

Pt. disc. fath. hostility to Mate.

That's all the two of them could do when faced with something they couldn't control. Get angry at it. Big male thing, get pissed off, want to crush it.

The phone rang.

"Dr. Delaware, this came in an hour ago," said the operator. "A Mr. Fusco, he said you can call him back anytime."

The name wasn't familiar. I asked her to spell it.

"Leimert Fusco. I thought it was Leonard but it's Leimert." She recited a Westwood exchange. "Guess what, Doctor— he says he's with the FBI."

The Federal Building, where the FBI was head- quartered, was in Westwood, on Wilshire and Veteran. Only blocks, as a matter of fact, from Roy Haiselden's house. Something to do with that? Then why call me, not Milo?

Better to check with Milo. I figured the frustrations of the day would push him to keep going, so I tried his desk at the station. No answer there or at his home, and his cell phone didn't connect.

Unsure I was doing the right thing, I punched in Fusco's number. A deep, harsh voice— heavy shoes being dragged over rough cement— recited the usual speech: "This is Special Agent Leimert Fusco. Leave a message."

"This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning your—"

"Doctor," the same voice broke in. "Thanks for getting back so quickly."

"What can I do for you?"

"I've been assigned to look into a police case you're currently working on."

"Which case is that?"

Laughter. "How many police cases are you working on? Don't worry, Doctor, I'm aware of your allegiance to Detective Sturgis, have cleared it with him. He and I will be meeting soon, he wasn't sure whether or not you'd be able to make it. So I thought I'd touch base with you personally, just to see if you've got any information you'd like to share with the Bureau. Psychological insights. By the way, I'm trained as a psychologist."

"I see." I didn't. "The little I know I've told Detective Sturgis."

"Yes," said Fusco. "He as much as said so."

Silence.

He said, "Well, thanks anyway. It's a tough one, isn't it?"

"Looks to be."

"Guess we've all got our work cut out for us. Thanks for calling back."

"Sure," I said.

"You know, Doctor, we do have some expertise in this area. The Bureau."

"What area, specifically?"

"Psychopathic killings. Homicides with psychosexual overtones. Our data banks are pretty impressive."

"Great," I said. "Hope you come up with something."

"Hope so, too. Bye now."

Click.

I sat there feeling like an unwitting character in a candid video.

Something about him . . . I called information and asked for the FBI number. Same prefix Fusco had given, so his number was probably an extension. A female recorded voice said no one was in this late. Rust never sleeps, but the government does.

I tried Milo, again, no success.

Fusco's call bothered me. Too brief. Pointless. As if he'd been checking me out.

Knowing I was being paranoid, I got up, checked all the doors and windows, set the alarm. When I got to the bedroom, Robin was in bed reading, and I slid in beside her. She had on one of my T-shirts and nothing else and I stroked her flank.

"You've been industrious," she said.

"Midwestern work ethic." I reached up under the T-shirt, felt the orange peel of goose bumps between her shoulder blades.

She yawned. "Ready to sleep?"

"I don't know."

She mussed my hair. "Another rough night in store?"

"Hope not."

"You're sure you don't want to try to sleep?"

"In a while," I said. "I promise."

"Well, I've got to nighty-night."

She turned off the light, we kissed, and she rolled away. I got up, closed the bedroom door after me, padded to the kitchen and made some green tea. From his bed in the service porch, Spike played a prolonged snore solo.