When the Bough Breaks (46 page)

McCaffrey pointed the gun at her, reflexively. I threw myself at him and kicked his wrist, knocking the gun loose. It sailed backward, into the front room. He howled, rabid. I kicked him again, in the shin. His leg felt like a side of beef. He backed into the front room, wanting the gun. I went after him. He lunged, his bulk rolling. I used both hands to hit him in the lower back. My fists sank into his softness. He barely budged. His hand was inches from the magnum. I kicked it away, then used my foot to smash his ribs with little effect. He was too damned big and too damned tall to be able to get a facial punch in. I went for his legs and thighs, and tripped him.

He came crashing down, a felled redwood, taking me with him. Snarling, cursing, drooling, he rolled on top of me and got his hands around my throat. He panted his sour breath on me, the lumpy face crimson, the fish eyes swallowed by fleshy folds, squeezing. I fought to get out from under him but couldn’t move. I experienced the panic of the sudden paralytic. He squeezed tighter. I pushed up helplessly.

His face darkened. With effort, I thought. Crimson to maroon to red-black, then a splash of color. The kinky hair exploding. The blood bright and fresh, pouring out of his nose, his ears, his mouth. The eyes opening wide, blinking furiously. A look of great insult on the grotesque face. Gargling noises from the jowl-wrapped gullet. Needles and triangles of broken glass raining down upon us. His inert carcass a shield from the rain.

The skylight was an open wound now. A face peered down. Black, serious. Delano Hardy. Something else black: the nose of a rifle.

“Hold on, Consultant,” he said. “We’re coming to get you.”

“Your face looks uglier than mine,” Milo said when he’d pulled McCaffrey off of me.

“Yeah,” I said, struggling to articulate through a mouth that felt as if I’d sucked on razor blades, “but mine will look better in a couple of days.”

He grinned.

“The kid seems okay,” said Hardy from the back room. He came out with Melody in his arms. She was shivering. “Scared but unharmed, as the papers say.”

Milo helped me to my feet. I walked to her and stroked her hair.

“It’s going to be all right, sweetheart.” Funny how clichés seem to find their niche during rough times.

“Alex,” she said. She smiled. “You look funny.”

I squeezed her hand and she closed her eyes. Sweet dreams.

In the ambulance Milo kicked his shoes off and sat, yoga style, by the side of my stretcher.

“My hero,” I said. It came out
Mmm rnirrow
.

“This one’s going to be good for a
long
time, pal. Free use of the Caddy on demand, cash loans with no interest, gratis therapy.”

“In other words,” I fought to enunciate through swollen jaws, “business as usual.”

He laughed, patted my arm and told me to shut up. The ambulance attendant agreed.

“The man may need wires,” he said. “He shouldn’t talk.”

I started to protest.

“Shh!” said the attendant.

A half-mile later Milo looked at me and shook his head.

“You are one lucky turkey, friend. I got into town an hour and a half ago and got Rick’s note to call you. I call your place. Robin was there, sans you, worried. You had a dinner date at seven, but no you. She says it’s not like compulsive old you to be late, please could I do something. She also filled me in on your jaunts—you’ve been a busy little bee in my absence, haven’t you? I call in to the station—on a vacation day, I might add—and get this schitzy message about Kruger written in Del Hardy’s fine cursive scrawl; also something about he’s going to La Casa. I went to Kruger’s, got through your barricade, found him trussed, scared shitless. He was a wreck, spilled his guts without being asked—amazing what a little sensory deprivation will do, huh? I beep Del, catch him in his car on Pacific Coast Highway—which is still full of traffic at this hour, what with producers and starlets going home—make believe it’s code three and siren it all the way along the side of the road. The pros take over and the rest is goddamn history.”

“I didn’t want a full-scale raid.” I forced out the words, in agony. “Didn’t want anything to happen to the kid—”

“Please shut up, sir,” said the attendant.

“Shush,” said Milo, gently. “You did a great job. Thanks. Okay? Don’t do it again. Turkey.”

The ambulance came to a halt at Santa Monica Hospital’s Emergency Room. I knew the place because I’d given a series of lectures to the staff on the psychological aspects of trauma in children. There’d be no lecture tonight.

“You okay?” Milo asked.

“Um-hmm.”

“Okay. I’ll let the white coats take over. Gotta go and arrest a judge.”

30

R
OBIN TOOK
one look at me, jaws wired shut, eyes blackened, and burst into tears. She hugged me, fussed over me and sat by my side feeding me soup and soda. That lasted for a day. Then she got in touch with her anger and let me have it for being so crazy to put my life on the line. I was in no position to defend myself. She tried not speaking to me for six hours, then relented and things started to get back to normal.

When I could talk I called Raquel Ochoa.

“Hi,” she said. “You sound funny.”

I told her the story, keeping it brief because of the pain.

She said nothing for a moment, then softly:

“There
were
monsters.”

“Yes.”

The silence between us was uncomfortable.

“You’re a man of principle,” she said, finally.

“Thank you.”

“Alex—that evening—us. I don’t regret it. It got me thinking. Made me realize I have to go out and find something—someone—for myself.”

“Don’t settle for less than the best.”

“I—thanks. Take care of yourself. Mend fast.”

“I’ll work on it. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

My next call was to Ned Biondi, who rushed over that afternoon and interviewed me until the nurses kicked him out. I read his stories for days. He had it all down—McCaffrey’s Mexico days, the Hickle murder, the Gentleman’s Brigade, the suicide of Edwin Hayden the night he was arrested. The judge had shot himself in the mouth while
dressing to go to the station with Milo. It seemed fitting in light of what he’d done to Hickle, and Biondi didn’t miss the chance to wax philosophical.

I phoned Olivia Brickerman and asked her to take care of Melody. Two days later she found an older, childless couple up in Bakersfield, people she knew and trusted, with lots of patience and five acres for running. Nearby was a gifted child psychologist, a woman I’d known from graduate school, with experience in stress and bereavement. To them would be entrusted the task of helping the little girl piece her life together.

Six weeks after the fall of La Casa de los Niños, Robin and I met Milo and Rick Silverman for dinner at a quiet, elegant seafood place in Bel Air.

My friend’s amour turned out to be a guy who could have walked out of a cigarette ad—six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, masculine, handsome face overlaid with just a touch of crag, head of tight bronze curls, matching bristle mustache. He wore a tailored black silk suit, black-and-white striped shirt and a black knit tie.

“Lucky Milo,” Robin whispered as they joined our table.

Next to him, Milo looked baggier than ever, though he’d tried to spruce himself up, his hair slicked down like that of a kid in church.

Milo made the introductions. We ordered drinks and got acquainted. Rick was quiet and reserved, with nervous, surgical hands that had to be holding something—a glass, a fork, a stirrer. He and Milo exchanged loving glances. Once I saw them touch hands, for just a second. As the evening progressed he opened up and talked about his work, about what he liked and didn’t like about being a doctor. The food came. The others had lobster and steak. I had to content myself with soufflé. We chatted, the evening went well.

After the dishes had been cleared away, before the pastry cart and the brandy, Rick’s beeper went off. He excused himself and went to the phone.

“If you gentlemen don’t mind, I’ll make a stop in the ladies’ room.” Robin patted her mouth with her napkin and rose. I followed her sway until she disappeared.

Milo and I looked at each other. He picked a piece of fish off his tie.

“Hello, friend,” I said.

“Hello.”

“He’s a nice guy, Rick. I like him.”

“I want this one to last. It’s hard, the way we live.”

“You look happy.”

“We are. Different in lots of ways, but we also have a lot in common. He’s getting a Porsche 928,” he said with a laugh.

“Congratulations. You’re a good-lifer now.”

“All comes to he who waits.”

I motioned the waiter over and we ordered fresh drinks. When they came I said: “Milo, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. About the case.”

He took a long swallow of scotch.

“What about?”

“Hayden.”

His face grew grave.

“You’re my shrink—so that this conversation is confidential?”

“Better than that. I’m your friend.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Ask what I know you’re going to ask.”

“The suicide. It doesn’t make sense on two grounds. First, the kind of guy he was. I got the same picture from everyone. An arrogant, nasty, sarcastic little bastard. Loved himself. Not a trace of self-doubt. That kind don’t kill themselves. They search for ways to shift the blame to others, they weasel out of things. Second, you’re a pro. How could you get so sloppy as to let him do it?”

“The story I told Internal Affairs was that he was a judge. I treated him with deference. I let him get dressed. In his study. They bought it.”

“Tell me about it. Please.”

He looked around the restaurant. The tables nearby were empty. Rick and Robin were still gone. He gulped down the rest of his drink.

“I went for him right after I left you. Must have been after ten by then. He lived in one of those huge English Tudor palaces in Hancock Park. Old money. Big lawn. Bentley in the driveway. Topiary. A doorbell out of a Karloff flick.

“He answered the door, a little wimp of a guy, maybe five-four. Strange eyes. Spooky. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, holding a brandy in one hand. I told him what I’d come for. It didn’t faze him.

“He was very proper, distant, as if what I was there for had nothing to do with him. I followed him inside the house. Lots of family portraits. Moldings around the ceilings, chandeliers—I want you to get the flavor of this. Lord of the Manor. Led me to his study in the back. The requisite oak panels, wall-to-wall leather-covered books, the kind people collect but never read. A fireplace with two porcelain greyhounds, carved desk, blah blah blah.

“I pat him down, find a .22, take it. ‘It’s for protection at night, officer,’ he tells me. ‘You never know who’ll come knocking at your door.’ He’s laughing, Alex, I swear I couldn’t believe it. The guy’s life is crashing down around him, he’s going to hit the front page as a kiddy-diddler and he’s laughing.

“I read him his rights, go into the spiel, he looks bored. Sits down
at his desk, like I’m there for a favor. Then he starts talking to me. Laughing in my face. ‘How amusing,’ he says, ‘that they send you, the
faggot cop
, after me in a case like this. You of all people should understand.’ He goes on like that for a while, smirking, implying, then coming right out and saying it. That we’re birds of a feather. Partners in crime. Perverts. I’m standing there listening to this and getting hotter and hotter. He laughs some more and I see that’s what he wants, to stay in control of the situation. So I cool down, smile back. Whistle. He starts telling me the things they did to the kids, like it’s supposed to arouse me. Like we’re buddies at a stag party. My stomach is turning and he’s putting us in the same boat.

“As he talks, he comes into focus, psychological focus. It’s like I can see behind the spooky eyes, into his brain. And all I see is dark and bad. Nothing good in there. Nothing good can come from this guy. He’s a washout. I’m judging the judge. I’m prophesying. Meanwhile he’s going on about the parties they used to have with the kids, how much he’s going to miss them.”

He stopped and cleared his throat. Took my drink and finished it.

“I’m still looking through him, into his future. And I know what’s going to happen. I look around that big room. I know the kind of money behind this guy. He’ll get a Not Guilty by Reason, they’ll cart him off to some country club. Eventually he’ll buy his way out and start all over again. So I make a decision. Right there on the spot.

“I walk around behind him, grab his scrawny little head and tilt it back. I take out the .22 and jam it in his mouth. He’s struggling, but he’s an old wimp. It’s like holding down an insect, a goddamn bug. I position him—I’ve seen enough forensic reports to know what it should look like. I say ‘Nighty-night, Your Honor,’ and pull the trigger. The rest you know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now how about another drink? I’m thirsty as hell.”

J
ONATHAN
K
ELLERMAN
is a clinical psychologist specializing in the care of children and adolescents. He graduated from UCLA and received a Ph.D. from the University of Southern California. He is currently a clinical associate professor of pediatrics at the USC School of Medicine. For six years he directed the Psychosocial Program at Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles and acquired a national reputation as an authority on childhood stress. Prior to receiving his doctorate he worked as a journalist, teacher, cartoonist, illustrator and musician and won a Samuel Goldwyn Writing Award. Dr. Kellerman is the author of two nonfiction books,
Helping the Fearful Child
and a medical textbook, as well as over one hundred scholarly articles, reviews and abstracts. His fiction essays have appeared in
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, The Los Angeles Times
and
Newsweek
. He heads a psychological consulting firm near Los Angeles, where he lives with his wife, Faye, and their two children.