"Bad Love" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kellerman Jonathan)

3

I drove away from the clinic stroking the dog and thinking of the child's voice on the tape. I wasn't hungry but figured I'd need some lunch eventually. Spotting a hamburger stand farther up on Sepulveda, I bought a takeout half-pounder. The aroma kept the dog awake and drooling all the way home, and a couple of times he tried to stick his nose in the bag. Back in the kitchen, he convinced me to part with a third of the patty. Then he carried his booty to a corner, sat, masticated noisily, and promptly went to sleep, chin to the floor.

I phoned my service and found out Milo had called back. This time he answered at Robbery-Homicide. "Sturgis."

"How's it going, Joe Friday?"

"The usual buckets of blood. How's by you?"

I told him about receiving the tape. "Probably just a prank, but imagine getting a kid to do that."

I expected him to slough it off, but he said, " 'Bad love'? That's weird."

"What is?"

"Those exact same words popped up in a case a couple of months ago. Remember that social worker who got murdered at the mental health center? Rebecca Basille?"

"It was all over the news," I said, remembering headlines and sound bites, the smiling picture of a pretty, dark-haired young woman butchered in a soundproof therapy room. "You never said it was your case."

"It wasn't really anyone's case because there was no investigation to speak of. The psycho who stabbed her died trying to take another caseworker hostage."

"I remember."

"I got stuck filling out the paperwork."

"How did "bad love' pop up?"

"The psycho screamed it when he ran out after cutting Becky. Clinic director was standing in the hall, heard him before she ducked into her office and hid. I figured it was schizo talk."

"It may be something psychological- jargon that he picked up somewhere in the mental health system. 'Cause I think I've heard it, too, but I can't remember where."

"That's probably it," he said. "A kid, huh?"

"A kid chanting in this strange, flat voice. It may be related to a case I'm working on, Milo. Remember that file you got me- the woman murdered by her husband?"

"The biker?"

"He's been locked up for six months. Two months ago he started asking for visitation with his daughters- around the same time as the Basille murder, come to think of it. If Becky's murderer screaming "bad love' was in the news, I guess he could have taken notice and filed it away for future use."

"Intimidate the shrink- maybe remind you of what can happen to therapists who don't behave themselves?"

"Exactly. There'd be nothing criminal in that, would there? Just sending a tape."

"Wouldn't even buy him snack bar demerits, but how could he figure you'd make the connection?"

"I don't know. Unless this is just an appetizer and there's more coming."

"What's this fool's name, again?"

"Donald Dell Wallace."

He repeated it and said, "I never read the file. Refresh me on him."

"He used to hang out with a biker gang called the Iron Priests- small-time Tujunga bunch. In between prison sentences, he worked as a motorcycle mechanic. Dealt speed on the side. I think he's a member of the Aryan Brotherhood."

"Well, there's a character reference for you. Let me see what I find out."

"You think this is something I should worry about?"

"Not really- you might think of locking your doors."

"I already do."

"Congratulations. You going to be home tonight?"

"Yup."

"How's Robin?"

"Fine. She's up in Oakland, giving a seminar- medieval lutes."

"Smart kid, working with inanimate objects. All right, I'll come by, rescue you from your hermitude. If you want me to I can fingerprint the tape, check it against Wallace's. If it's him, we'll report him to his keepers, at least let him know you're not going to roll over."

"Okay- thanks."

"Yeah… don't handle it anymore, hard plastic's a real good surface for preservation… Bad love. Sounds like something out of a movie. Sci-fi, splatter flick, whatever."

"I couldn't find it in any of my psych books, so maybe that's it. Maybe that's where Becky's murderer got it, too- all of us are children of the silver screen. The tape was mailed from the Terminal Annex, not Folsom. Meaning if Wallace is behind it, someone's helping him."

"I can check the rest of his gang, too. At least the ones with records. Don't lose any sleep over it. I'll try to get by around eight. Meanwhile, back to the slaughter."

"Buckets of blood, huh?"

"Big sloshing buckets. Every morning I wake up, praise the Lord, and thank Him for all the iniquity- how's that for perverse?"

"Hey," I said, "you love your work."

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do. Demotion never felt so goddamn glorious."

"Department treating you well?"

"Let's not lapse into fantasy. The department's tolerating me, because they think they've wounded me deeply with their pissanty pay cut and I'll eventually cave in and take disability like every other goldbricking pension junkie. The fact that one night of moonlighting more than makes up for the difference in take-home has eluded the brass. As has the fact that I'm a contrary bastard."

"They're not very observant, are they?"

"That's why they're administrators."

• • •

After he hung up, I called Evelyn Rodriguez's house in Sunland. As the phone rang, I pictured the man who'd carved up her daughter playing with a tape recorder in his cell.

No one answered. I put the phone down.

I thought of Rebecca Basille, hacked to death in a soundproof room. Her murder had really gotten to me- gotten to lots of therapists. But I'd put it out of my head until Milo reminded me.

I drummed my fists on the counter. The dog looked up from his empty bowl and stared. I'd forgotten he was there.

What happens to therapists who don't behave themselves…

What if Wallace had nothing to do with the tape? Someone else, from my past.

I went into the library and the dog followed. The closet was stacked with boxes of inactive patient files, loosely alphabetized with no strict chronological order, because some patients had been treated at several different time periods.

I put the radio on for background and started with the A's, looking for children whom I'd tagged with psychopathic or antisocial tendencies and cases that hadn't turned out well. Even long-term deadbeats I'd sent to collections.

I made it halfway through. A sour history lesson with no tangible results: nothing popped out at me. By the end of the afternoon, my eyes hurt and I was exhausted.

I stopped reading, realized grumbly snores had overpowered the music. Reaching down, I kneaded the bulldog's muscular neck. He shuddered but remained asleep. A few charts were fanned on the desk. Even if I came up with something suggestive, patient confidentiality meant I couldn't discuss it with Milo.

I returned to the kitchen, fixed kibble and meatloaf and fresh water, watched my companion sup, burp, then circle and sniff. I left the service door open and he bounced down the stairs.

While he was out, I called Robin's hotel in Oakland again, but she was still out.

The dog came back. He and I went into the living room and watched the evening news. Current events were none too cheerful, but he didn't seem to mind.

• • •

The doorbell rang at eight-fifteen. The dog didn't bark, but his ears stiffened and tilted forward and he trailed me to the door, remaining at my heels as I squinted through the peephole.

Milo 's face was a wide-angle blur, big and pocked, its paleness turned sallow by the bug light over the doorway.

"Police. Open up or I'll shoot."

He bared his teeth in a Halloween grimace. I unlocked the door and he came in, carrying a black briefcase. He was dressed for work: blue hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt stretched tight over his belly, blue and gray plaid tie tugged loose, suede desert boots in need of new soles.

His haircut was recent, the usual: clipped short at sides and back, long and shaggy on top, sideburns down to the earlobes. Country yokels had looked that way back in the fifties. Melrose Avenue hipsters were doing it nowadays. I doubted Milo was aware of either fact. The black forelock that shadowed his forehead showed a few more gray streaks. His green eyes were clear. Some of the weight he'd lost had come back; he looked to be carrying at least two hundred and forty pounds on his seventy-five inches.

He stared at the dog and said, "What?"

"Gee, Dad, he followed me home. Can I keep him?"

The dog gazed up at him and yawned.

"Yeah, I'm bored, too," Milo told him. "What the hell is it, Alex?"

"French bulldog," I said. "Rare and pricey, according to a vet. And this one's a damned good specimen."

"Specimen." He shook his head. "Is it civilized?"

"Compared to what you're used to, very."

He frowned, patted the dog gingerly, and got slurped.

"Charming," he said, wiping his hand on his slacks. Then he looked at me. "Why, Marlin Perkins?"

"I'm serious- he just showed up this morning. I'm trying to locate the owner, have an ad running in the paper. The vet said he's been well cared for. It's just a matter of time before somebody claims him."

"For a moment I thought this tape stuff had gotten to you and you'd gone out and bought yourself some protection."

"This?" I laughed, remembering Dr. Uno's amusement. "I don't think so."

"Hey," he said, "sometimes bad things come in small packages- for all I know it's trained to go for the gonads."

The dog stood on his hind legs and touched Milo 's trousers with his forepaws.

"Down, Rover," he said.

"What's the matter, you don't like animals?"

"Cooked, I do. Didja name it yet?"

I shook my head.

"Then "Rover' will have to do." He took his jacket off and tossed it onto a chair. "Here's what I've got so far on Wallace. He keeps a low profile in slam and has some associations with the Aryan Brotherhood, but he's not a full member. As for what kind of hardware he's got in his cell, I don't know yet. Now where's the alleged tape?"

"In the alleged tapedeck."

He went over and turned on the stereo. The dog stayed with me.

I said, "You know where the meatloaf comes from, don't you?"

He cocked his head and licked my hand.

Then the screams came on and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

• • •

Hearing it the third time was worse.

Milo 's face registered revulsion, but after the sound died, he said nothing. Taking his briefcase over to the deck, he switched it off, ejected the tape, and removed it by inserting a pencil in one of the reel holes.

"Black surface," he muttered. "Ye olde white powder."

Placing the cassette atop the plastic cover of my turntable, he removed a small brush and a vial from the case. Dipping the brush into the vial, he dusted the cassette with a pale, ashlike powder, squinting as he worked.

"Well, looks like we've got some nice ridges and swirls," he said. "But they could all be yours. Your prints are on file with the medical board, right, so I can check?"

"They printed me when I got my license."

"Meaning a week or two going through channels in order to pry it loose from Sacramento – noncriminal stuff's not on PRINTRAK yet. You haven't been arrested for anything recently, have you?"

"Nothing I can remember."

"Too bad. Okay, let's get a quick fix on your digits right now."

He took an inkpad and fingerprint form from the case. The dog watched as he inked my fingers and rolled them on the form. The audiocassette was near my hand and I looked at the concentric white patches on its surface.

"Keep that pinkie loose," said Milo. "Feel like a scumbag felon yet?"

"I don't say squat without my lawyer, pig."

He chuckled and handed me a cloth. As I wiped my fingers, he took a small camera out of the case and photographed the prints on the tape. Flipping the cartridge over with the pencil, he dusted, raised more prints on the other side, and took pictures of them, muttering, "Might as well do it right." Then he lowered the cassette into a small box lined with cotton, sealed the container, and put it into the case.

"What do you think?" I said.

He looked at my print form, then at the tape, and shook his head. "They always look the same to me. Let the lab deal with it."

"I meant about the tape. Sound like any movie you know?"

He ran his hand over his face, as if washing without water. "Not really."

"Me neither. Didn't the kid's voice have a brainwashed quality to it?"

"More like brain dead," he said. "Yeah, it was ugly. But that doesn't make it real. Far as I'm concerned, it's still filed under B for "bad joke.' "

"Someone getting a child to chant as a joke?"

He nodded. "We're living in weird times, Doc."

"But what if it is real? What if we're dealing with a sadist who's abducted and tortured a child and is telling me about it in order to heighten the kick?"

"The screamer was the one who sounded tortured, Alex. And that was an adult. Someone's messing with your head."

"If it's not Wallace," I said, "maybe it's some psychopath picking me as his audience because I treat kids and sometimes my name gets in the papers. Someone who read about Becky's murderer screaming "bad love' and got an idea. And for all I know, I'm not the only therapist he's contacted."

"Could be. When was the last time you were in the papers?"

"This summer- when the Jones case went to trial."

"Anything's possible," he said.

"Or maybe it's more direct, Milo. A former patient, telling me I failed him. I started going through my files, got halfway and couldn't find anything. But who knows? My patients were all children. In most cases I have no idea what kind of adults they turned into."

"If you found anything funny, would you give me the names?"

"Couldn't," I said. "Without some kind of clear danger, I couldn't justify breaking confidentiality."

He scowled. The dog watched him unwaveringly.

"What're you staring at?" he demanded.

Wag, wag.

Milo began to smile, fought it, picked up his case, and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, Alex, I still wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Let me take these to the lab right now instead of tomorrow, see if I can get some night-shifter to put some speed on. I'll also make a copy and start a case file- private one, just for my eyes. When in doubt, be a goddamn clerk."

• • •

After he left, I tried to read a psychology journal but couldn't concentrate. I watched the news, did fifty pushups, and had another go at my charts. I made it through all of them. Kids' names, vaguely remembered pathologies. No allusions to "bad love." No one I could see wanting to frighten me.

At ten, Robin called. "Hi, honey."

"Hi," I said. "You sound good."

"I am good, but I miss you. Maybe I'll come home early."

"That would be great. Just say when and I'll be at the airport."

"Everything okay?"

"Peachy. We've got a visitor."

I described the bulldog's arrival.

"Oh," she said, "he sounds adorable. Now I definitely want to come home early."

"He snorts and drools."

"How cute. You know, we should get a dog of our own. We're nurturant, right? And you had one when you were a kid. Don't you miss it?"

"My father had one," I said. "A hunting cur that didn't like children. It died when I was five and we never got another, but sure, I like dogs- how about something big and protective?"

"Long as it's also warm and furry."

"What breeds do you like?"

"I don't know- something solid and dependable. Let me think about it and when I get back we can go shopping."

"Sounds good, bowwow."

"We can do other stuff, too," she said.

"Sounds even better."

• • •

Just before midnight, I fashioned a bed for the dog out of a couple of towels, placed it on the floor of the service porch, and turned out the light. The dog stared at it, then trotted over to the fridge.

"No way," I said. "Time to sleep."

He turned his back on me and sat. I left for the bedroom. He heeled along. Feeling like Simon Legree, I closed the door on his supplicating eyes.

As soon as I got under the covers I heard scratching, then heavy breathing. Then something that sounded like an old man choking.

I jumped out of bed and opened the door. The dog raced through my feet and hurled himself up on the bed.

"Forget it," I said and put him on the carpet.

He made the choking sound again, stared, and tried to climb up.

I returned him to the floor.

A couple more tries and he gave up, turning his back on me and staying hunkered against the dust ruffle.

It seemed a reasonable compromise.

But when I awoke in the middle of the night, thinking about pain screams and robot chants, he was right next to me, soft eyes full of pity. I left him there. A moment later, he was snoring and it helped put me back to sleep.