Therapy (38 page)

“Never treated any of them? Not once?”

“Not once.”

“Don’t see any Medi-Cal patients at all.”

“Why would I? Reimbursement’s pathetic, and I’m booked with solid-paying patients.”

“Then why’d you bother to obtain a Medi-Cal billing number?”

“Who says I did?”

I walked over to him and held the printout in front of his eyes. “Is this your signature on an application to be a provider?”

He said, “It looks like—I may have obtained a number, but I never really used it.”

“Over the last sixteen months you’ve received over three hundred thousand dollars in Medi-Cal reiumbursement. Three forty-three and fifty-two cents, to be precise.”

He grabbed for the sheet. I whipped it away.

“Let me see that!”

“You received a provider number but didn’t
really
use it.”

Silence.

I said, “Here’s where ‘forthcoming’ enters the picture.”

Gull said, “Fine, fine, I applied to get a number, just . . . to keep all my options open. In case there was a lull, I could fill in the time. But three hundred thou? You’re out of your mind!”

“The state payments went to a billing address in Marina Del Rey.”

“There you go,” he said. “I don’t
have
an address in the Marina. Can’t remember the last time I
went
to the Marina. Someone obviously screwed up—your so-called
investigation
is screwed up.” A smile spread slowly across his lips. “I suggest you do your homework. Both of you.”

I said, “No Marina for you? No harbor-front dinners for you and the missus?”

Gull turned to Wimmer. “Do you believe this, Myrna? I’ve just showed them they’re totally off base, and they can’t admit it. Are you thinking what I am—a harassment suit.”

Wimmer didn’t answer.

I rattled the printout. “None of those names mean anything to you?”

“Not a one. Not a
single
one.”

“What about this name, then: Sentries for Justice.”

Gull stopped smiling. One hand shot up spasmodically and grabbed his upper lip. Twisting. Like a kid playing with a rubber mask.

Sad mask.

“You know that name,” I said.

“That,” he said. “Oh, boy.”

CHAPTER

40

G
ull pointed to the water pitcher on Myrna Wimmer’s desk. “I think I will have some of that.”

Wimmer aimed a cold smile his way. Gull got up and poured himself a glass. Drained it standing near the desk and refilled.

“I need,” he said, “to put everything in context.”

I said, “Go for it. If Ms. Wimmer’s schedule allows.”

Wimmer said, “Oh, sure, this is the fun part of my day.”

Gull said, “Yes, I did apply for a provider number but only at Mary’s and Albin’s urging. The two of them were socially aware. One of the issues they got involved in was penal rehabilitation.”

“Who got into it first?”

“I think it was Albin’s idea, but Mary began carrying the ball.”

“She was the mover.”

“Mary,” he said, “wasn’t the most creative person in the world, but once she put her mind to something, she went full bore. The two of them got the idea of setting up treatment for paroled criminals, in order to fight recidivism. I admired what they were doing but chose to stay out of it.”

“Why?” I said.

“As I told you, I was busy enough. And I was skeptical. These people—criminals. They’ve got entrenched personality disorders. Psychotherapy has never been very effective for that kind of thing.”

“Mary and Albin disagreed.”

“Especially Mary. She was passionate about it. State money was going to be freed up, it was more than just theory.”

“How’d she find that out?”

“One of Albin’s political connections—he’s involved in a lot of progressive causes—is the wife of a politician from up north. She’s a psychologist, too, and she got her husband to pass a bill that authorized psychotherapy on demand for paroled felons. Albin helped her with the wording. He told Mary, she told me.”

“But you declined,” I said. “Entrenched personality disorders.”

“Yes.”

“Also, the reimbursement rates couldn’t match your private fees.”

“I work for a living,” said Gull. “I don’t see why I should apologize for that.”

“What’s your hourly fee?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Yes.”

“I use a sliding scale. From one-twenty to two hundred per session.”

“Medi-Cal pays twenty and restricts the number of sessions.”

“Medi-Cal’s a joke,” said Gull. “Mary said the bill doubled the rates—some sort of political give-and-take. But forty’s still a joke. I opted out.”

“How’d Mary and Albin react to that?”

“Albin didn’t say much. He rarely does. Mary was upset with me, but that didn’t last.”

Milo said, “Your being intimate friends and all that.”

Gull sniffed.

I said, “You declined to participate but obtained a Medi-Cal provider number.”

“At Albin’s and Mary’s behest. They said the state preferred settings with multiple providers, it would look better if all of us were listed. Mary filled out the paperwork and I signed and that was it.”

He was sweating heavily now, searched again for his linen hankie. I pulled a tissue out of a box on Wimmer’s desk and handed it to him. He wiped his face hastily, and the tissue turned into a little gray sphere.

“You’re saying you never actually saw any patients on the program?”

“Basically,” he said.

“Basically?”

“I saw a few—very few. At the beginning, just to get the ball rolling.”

“How many is a few?”

He removed a pair of tiny-lensed reading glasses from his pocket and began playing with the sidepieces.

“Franco?”

“Three. That’s it. And no one with any of the names you mentioned.”

“How was it, treating ex-cons?”

“It wasn’t a good experience.”

“Why not?”

“Two of them were chronically late and when they did show up, they were high on something. It was obvious they were just passing the time.”

“Why would they do that?”

“How should I know?”

“Any indication they were getting paid to show up?”

Gull’s brows arched. “No one ever mentioned that. Whatever the reason, they weren’t motivated. No insight, no desire to acquire any.”

“What about the third patient?” I said.

“That one,” said Gull, frowning. “That one upset me. He wasn’t drunk or stoned, and he talked. Talked plenty. But not about himself. About his girlfriend. What she needed, how he figured to give it to her.”

“What did she need?” I said.

Gull folded and unfolded the glasses. “Orgasms. Apparently, she was anorgasmic, and he was determined to fix the problem.”

“Did he ask your help with that?”

“No,” said Gull, “that’s the point, he didn’t want anything from me, he thought he knew everything. Very aggressive, very . . . not a pleasant man. Even though he tried to be charming.
Attempted
to speak intelligently.”

“He couldn’t pull it off.”

“Not hardly. Faking it—the typical antisocial charm. If you’ve had any experience with sociopaths, you’d know what I mean.”

“Pretentious,” I said.

“Exactly, prototypical antisocial pretentiousness.” His body loosened. Pretending we were colleagues having a clinical chat. “Flowery use of language, overly solicitous.
Playing
at being civilized and thinking he was putting one over on me. But his fantasies.” He exhaled.

“Sadistic?”

“Dominance, bondage and, yes, I’d say a touch of sadism. He talked incessantly about tying this woman up and making love to her aggressively for as long as it took to force orgasms out of her body. He
didn’t
use the term ‘making love.’ ”

“Sexual tough guy,” I said.

“His fantasies involved multiple penetration, bondage, foreign objects. I tried to get him to address this woman’s needs, suggested that perhaps she needed some tenderness, some intimacy, but he laughed that off. His plan was to quote-unquote ‘stick her every which way until she screamed for mercy.’ ”

He smiled with practiced weariness. Any reticence about discussing patients had vanished. “I, for one, couldn’t see what any of that had to do with reducing recidivism, and when he stopped showing up, I told Mary I’d had enough of the program and the people it brought in.”

He placed the eyeglasses back in his pocket, laced his hands, and sat forward. “You need to understand: I’d never do anything to hurt Mary.
Never.
”

I said, “So you saw only three Sentries for Justice patients. For how many sessions, total?”

“I believe twelve—certainly not much more than that. I remember thinking that apart from being unpleasant and unproductive, the project was a financial loser. I think the total billable charges didn’t even amount to five hundred dollars. That’s why your three hundred thousand figure is absurd. And the money didn’t come to Marina del Rey, it came to Mary at the office, she cashed the state check and distributed the money to me. You really do need to check your facts, gentlemen.”

“Mary was the bursar.”

“So to speak. Yes.”

Milo removed several sheets of paper from his attache case and passed them to me. I showed Franco Gull a mug shot of Raymond Degussa.

He said, “Yes, that’s him. Ray.”

“Mr. Dominance.”

He nodded. “Did he murder Mary?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because he impressed me as someone clearly capable of violence. The way he carried himself, the way he sat, walked—like a barely tethered animal.” He studied the picture. “Look at those eyes. He made me uncomfortable. I told Mary that. She laughed it off, said there was nothing to worry about.”

“The girlfriend he talked about,” I said. “Did he mention her name?”

“No, but I saw her. At least I assume it was her.”

“You assume?”

“Shortly after Ray had stopped coming to see me, I spotted him with a woman. His arm was around her. He seemed . . . proprietary.”

“Where’d you see them?” I said.

“I happened to step out into the waiting room to get my patient, and the two of them were also sitting there. At first I thought there’d been some kind of scheduling problem, that Ray expected a session. But before I could say anything, Mary came out and the woman went back with her.”

“The girlfriend was a patient of Mary’s.”

“Apparently.”

I showed him a shot of Flora Newsome, alive and smiling.

“Yes,” he said. “Good Lord, what’s this all about?”

“Did you see this woman with Ray Degussa any other times?”

“Once more,” said Gull, “as I arrived at the building and they were walking out to the parking lot. It surprised me—the way she looked. Putting a face to the person he’d talked about. A man like that, I’d have expected someone a bit more . . . obvious.”

“A bimbo,” said Milo.

“This woman was . . . she looked like a bank clerk.”

“She was a teacher,” I said.

“Was,” said Gull. “You’re saying . . . God, how far does this
go
?”

“Knowing Degussa was a thug, did you tell Mary his fantasies about her patient?”

“No, I couldn’t. Confidentiality. That was one thing we were adamant about. All three of us. Once our doors closed, that was it. No cross-office chitchat about patients.”

“You didn’t see Degussa as a threat to Flora Newsome?”

“Flora,” said Gull. “So that’s her name . . . good God.” He bounded up, snatched another tissue. “There was nothing to warn anyone about. Nothing that even approached a Tarasoff level. He never said he wanted to hurt her, just that he wanted to make her come.”

“Make her scream for mercy,” I said.

“I took that as a metaphor.”

Milo said, “Him being a poetic type.”

“He killed her?” said Gull. “You’re saying he actually killed her?”

“Someone did.”

“Oh God. This is my worst nightmare.”

Milo said, “Hers was worse.”

No one spoke for a while, then Gull said, “Did he assault her sexually?”

Milo said, “We’ll ask the questions.”

“Fine, fine—God, this is draining me, I’m drying up.” Gull stood again, poured two glasses of water, and finished both. His face was glossy. Fluid in, fluid out. A man of little substance.

I said, “Who else was involved in Sentries for Justice?”

“Just Mary and Albin.”

“What about Ray Degussa?”

“Him? You’re saying he was—you know, now that you mention it, he
did
seem to be near the office a lot. After he stopped coming for therapy.”

“Where’d he hang out?”

“I’d see him walking up the block, and he’d nod and smile and give a thumbs-up. As if we were friends. I assumed he worked nearby.”

“You ever talk to him?”

“Just hi and good-bye.”

“A thug nearby, that didn’t bother you?”

“Mary and Albin were treating criminals.”

“But you assumed Degussa worked nearby.”