Therapy (9 page)

“I pulled the chart, but if you’ve got time, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it, Lorraine.”

Ogden glared at the computer, clicked it off. Her touch was hard, and the machine quivered. “My son tells me not to do that without going through the proper steps. Says it puts garbage into the system. But all I’ve been getting is garbage.”

She got up. Six feet tall in flats. The three of us left the detectives’ room and moved into the hallway.

“How old’s your son?” I said.

“Ten. Going on thirty. Loves math and all that techie stuff. He’d know what to do with that abysmal piece of crap.” To Milo: “I think Conference A’s vacant. Let’s play déjà vu.”

CHAPTER

9

C
onference A was a ten-by-twelve, low-ceilinged space set up with a folding table and chairs, so brightly lit it made me want to confess to something. Wal-Mart sales labels on the backs of the chairs. The table was cluttered with empty pizza boxes. Milo shoved them to the far end and sat at the head. Lorraine Ogden and I flanked him.

She took the Newsome file, paged through, paused at the autopsy photos, spent a lot of time on a five-by-seven glossy photo.

“Poor Flora,” she said. “This was her graduation picture. Cal State L.A., she got her teaching credential there.”

“She was thirty-one when she died,” said Milo. “Old picture?”

“Recent picture. She took time off, worked as a secretary between college and teaching school, had just graduated a year before. She was finishing her probationary year at the school. The principal liked her, the kids liked her, she was going to be asked to stay on.”

Her fingernail flicked the edge of the photo. “Her mother gave this to us, made a big point of telling us we could keep it—she kind of bonded with me and Al. Nice lady, she had faith in us, never bugged us, just called once in a while to thank us, let us know she was sure we’d solve it.” Her nostrils flared. “Haven’t heard from her in must be half a year. Poor Mrs. Newsome. Evelyn Newsome.”

I said, “May I?” and she slid the folder across the table.

In life, Flora Newsome had been attractive in a scrubbed, unremarkable way. Broad face, clear complexion, dark hair worn to her shoulders and flipped, bright pale eyes. For her grad shot, she’d put on a fuzzy white sweater and thin gold chain with a crucifix. An inscription on the back of the picture said,
“To Mom and Dad. I finally made it!”
Blue ink, beautiful penmanship.

“Mom and Dad,” I said.

“Dad died two months after Flora graduated. Mom wasn’t doing too great either—serious arthritis. Sixty years old, but she looked seventy-five. After Flora got killed, she moved out of her house and checked herself into one of those board-and-care places. If that doesn’t turn you old at warp speed . . .” She frowned. “So what can I tell you guys about it . . . Flora’s boyfriend found her around 11:30 A.M., Sunday morning. The two of them had a date for brunch, were gonna head over to Bobby J’s in the Marina.” She snorted. “Funny I should remember that. We checked, the restaurant confirmed the reservation. The boyfriend shows up, knocks, no one answers. He keeps trying, finally uses his cell phone to call Flora, still nothing. He bangs on her window, tries to look through, but the drapes are blocking. So he goes and gets the manager. Who didn’t want to let him in—he’s seen the boyfriend around but doesn’t really know him. The boyfriend makes noise about calling the cops, and the manager agrees to have a quick look. Minute later, the manager’s puking in the bushes and the boyfriend’s calling 911, shouting for an ambulance. Not that there was a chance. Coroner said she’d gotten killed around midnight.”

She motioned for the file. I slid it back and she skimmed it again. “Shot and stabbed. We counted thirty-four wounds—serious overkill. And yeah, here’s one, right under the sternum. Coroner said the bad guy made the most of it by churning the knife. Lots of blood. Big blade, single-edged, like a butcher knife. Flora had a set of cutlery in her kitchen, one of those wood-block things with slots for each knife and the largest was missing. We figured the bad guy took it for a souvenir or just to hide the evidence.”

“Our guy left the rail in the girl,” said Milo.

“Charming. So what, you’re thinking the shrink might be a link?”

Milo shrugged. “Two people in one practice murdered, some similarities in technique.”

Lorraine Ogden said, “What, they each encountered the same nutcase in the waiting room?”

“It’s not a bad screenplay, Lorraine.”

Ogden played with her wedding band. “I wish I could give you something more on Flora, but that baby was cold the day it got delivered. A victim with no kinks, everyone liked her, no known enemies. It smelled to me right away like a psycho killing. The problem was, a careful psycho. There were prints in the living room. Flora’s, the boyfriend, her parents, the manager—he’s an eighty-year-old geezer with cataracts, so don’t go thinking in that direction. And a few of Flora’s in the bedroom, in and around the closet area mostly. But nothing on or near the bed. Same for the kitchen and the bathroom. As in
wiped
. The bathroom, in particular. Not a smudge on the sink, no hair in the tub or on the soap. We had the techies check the pipes and the traps and sure enough, Flora’s blood showed up, plus Luminol made the place look like a slaughterhouse, all sorts of wipe marks in the blood, coroner said a right-handed person. There was also a row of drinking glasses in the kitchen and one, in particular, had that squeaky-clean feel like it had been put through the dishwasher. Techie confirmed dishwasher crystals at the bottom.”

“Bad guy does his thing, washes up, has a drink.”

“Meticulous,” said Ogden. “Not that there was any finesse to how he did her. He shot her after she died, but she was alive for at least some of the knife work. Lots of arterial spurt on the sheets, you saw the pictures. He left her lying on her back with her legs spread. Our theory was that she was surprised while sleeping. At least I hope so. Imagine waking up to that? Being fully aware?” She slapped the file shut.

“All that blood,” said Milo, “and no footprints.”

“Not a single one. Where’s O.J. when we need him? This bastard was careful, guys. So much for the old transfer theory. We did find a shred of neoprene—black plastic—stuck on a corner of Flora’s nightstand. Looked like a corner that got torn off a bigger piece. Al and I wondered if he’d brought garbage bags along, or some sort of tarp. Lab said it was consistent with industrial sheeting, the kind they use in construction. So maybe we’re dealing with someone in the building trades. We were hoping for a print on that shred, at least a partial.” She grinned. “Just like on TV.”

“Zip,” said Milo.

“Zip squared. I was so frustrated I even filled out one of those FBI profiling forms and sent it to Quantico. Four months later, I get an official Feebie letter. White male, organized psychopath, probably between twenty-five and forty and yeah, the building trades thing made sense, but they couldn’t be sure, don’t hold ’em to any of it.”

“Our tax dollars working for us.”

“Every day.”

I said, “A wrought-iron fence rail might narrow down the building trades.”

Ogden said, “Murderous ironworker. Sure, why not? Or he just picked it up at a construction site and sharpened it. In terms of the shrink”—she glanced at me—“pardon, the
therapist,
the only reason we found out Flora was seeing one was biweekly checks drawn on her account. A hundred bucks, which seemed steep for someone taking home four hundred. When we asked the mother about it, she was surprised. Flora had never told her she was being treated for anything. Al and I called Dr.—what was her name—”

“Koppel.”

“Right, Dr. Koppel. We conferenced with her by phone, she said she’d only seen Flora a few times, which synched with the checkbook. Six payments over three months. She didn’t want to get into details—patient confidentiality. We told her dead people lose the privilege, and she said she knew that, but there was nothing to tell. She sounded pretty shook-up, said she’d flown in from a conference. Is there something hinky about her?”

“Not that I know,” said Milo. “Like you said, the bad guy could be another one of her patients. No idea why Newsome was in therapy?”

“I think Koppel said ‘adjustment issues.’ Something along those lines. I know she denied there was anything weird about Flora’s personality. We asked her about relationships with weirdos or bad guys, and she said Flora had never talked about that. She gave us a diagnosis—adjustment problem . . .”

“Adjustment disorder, anxious type?” I said.

“That sounds right. What it boiled down to was that Flora had been under stress—the pressure of her probationary year at the school, realizing she was going to be a teacher and all the responsibility that entailed. She was also having some financial difficulties because of the years she’d taken off from work to go back to school.”

“Financial difficulties,” said Milo, “but she shells out a hundred bucks every two weeks to Koppel.”

“Koppel said that was a discount rate. She’d cut her fee in half and agreed to see Flora every other week instead of weekly.”

“Doing Flora a favor.”

“Basically, yes,” said Ogden. “Koppel said once a week was usually the minimum in order to gain the benefits of therapy, but she made an exception for Flora. That true, Doctor? Is there a minimum?”

“No.”

“Well,” she said, “that was Koppel’s way of looking at it.” One of her hands rested atop the other. A big woman, but delicate, pianist’s hands. “She made a big deal about that—how she’d accommodated Flora. I remember thinking she was talking mostly about herself, not Flora.”

“Bit of an ego,” said Milo. “She does the radio talk-show circuit.”

“Does she?” said Ogden. “All I listen to is The Wave, nice smooth jazz after a day of blood and evil. You talk to her yet?”

“Dr. Delaware has.” He looked at me.

I summarized the conversation.

Ogden said, “Sounds like you got lots of nothing, too.”

“Maybe all she’s
got
is nothing,” said Milo. “Dr. D. wonders if maybe Koppel went a little lax on our vic—therapy-lite. In any event, we’re gonna have another go at her. The coincidence is too damn cute. Anything else we should know about Flora?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“The boyfriend was never an issue?”

“Brian Van Dyne,” said Ogden. “Teacher at the same school, couple of years older than Flora. The night of the murder he went to a Lakers game with two friends, then out to dinner, then they hit a couple of bars. Confirmation on all accounts. The friends dropped him off at his apartment in Santa Monica after 2 A.M. I never saw him as our guy, but we polygraphed him anyway and gave him a paraffin test, just to be safe. No gunshot residue on his hands, but it was invalid because too much time had passed. He passed the poly with flying colors.”

“Why didn’t you see him as the guy?” I said.

“He seemed devastated by Flora’s death, really crushed. His friends said he’d been in a great mood at the game and later. Everyone we talked to said he and Flora got along fine. All that still wouldn’t have swayed me, but with the poly? No way. Not him.”

“Did he know anything about Flora’s therapy?”

“Nope. Like Flora’s mother, he hadn’t been aware she’d been going.”

“Biweekly appointments,” I said. “Easy enough to conceal.”