Dr. Death (32 page)

But if Amber Breckenham's charges were true, it indicated Mate had been less than a sterling judge of character. Had he misjudged fatally?

Or had choosing Joanne Doss been his big mistake?

And what had been
Joanne
's
mistake— the sin, if there was one, that had caused her to turn herself into the creature in Eric's Polaroid?

I left the house, drove to the U. for my second trip to the research library in as many days.

Only one reference to Joanne's death, a page-20 story in the
Times
:

Body Found in Desert Motel

Attributed to Dr. Mate's Machine

LANCASTER. A motel maid entering to clean a room at the Happy Trails Motel on the outskirts of this high desert community discovered the fully clothed body of a Pacific Palisades woman early yesterday morning. While no sightings of "death doctor" Eldon Mate's van in the vicinity have been reported, toxicologic analysis of the blood of Joanne Doss, 43, indicating the presence of two drugs used consistently by the self-styled euthanist, as well as puncture marks suggesting intravenous injection, and the absence of forced entry or struggle, have led Sheriff's detectives to suspect assisted suicide.

Lead investigator David Graham stated, "She looked peaceful. Classical music was playing on the radio and she'd eaten a last meal. From what I understand, Dr. Mate encourages his patients to listen to music."

Ms. Doss, married to a businessman and the mother of two, was reported to have suffered from deteriorating health, and would be the forty-eighth person whose death Mate has facilitated. Given Mate's success in avoiding conviction, and most recently, his indictment, authorities say it is unlikely criminal charges will be filed.

No follow-up, not even an obituary for Joanne.

No attempt by Mate to claim credit. Maybe I'd missed something. I spent another half hour combing the data banks. Not a single additional line on Joanne Doss's final night. Because by victim number forty-eight, Mate and the Humanitron were no longer news?

Mate had hooked two additional travelers to his machine before ending up in the van himself.

The van. When had he stopped using motels?

Using Mate's name as a keyword and limiting my search to three months before and after Joanne's death, I pulled up three references.

Traveler forty-seven, seven weeks before Joanne: Maria Quillen, sixty-three, terminal ovarian cancer, her body deposited at the front door of the County Morgue wrapped in a frilly pink comforter. Mate's business card tucked into the folds. Driven in the rented van where Mate had helped her die.

Mate informed the press of the details.

Number forty-nine, one month after Joanne. Alberta Jo Johnson, fifty-four, muscular dystrophy. A black woman, the papers specified. Mate's first African American. As if her death represented a new variant of affirmative action. Her corpse had been left at the Charles Drew Medical Center in South L.A., similarly wrapped.

Another van job. Another statement by Dr. Mate.

Now my pulse was racing. I found the fiftieth traveler, a man named Brenton Spear. Lou Gehrig's. Van. Press conference.

Three people with definitive diagnoses. Three van jobs, three public statements— Mate chasing the press because, I was right, he loved the attention.

No word out of him on Joanne. No van.

Joanne's death didn't fit.

I kept searching till I found the last time he'd used a motel.

Number thirty-nine, a full two years before Joanne. Another Lou Gehrig's patient, Reynolds Dobson, dispatched in a Cowboy Inn up near Fresno.

I reread the account of Joanne's final night. No sightings of Mate in the vicinity.
Attribution
to Mate because circumstances had pointed to him.

Cheap motel, the risk of a traumatized maid. After nearly a year's success with motor vehicles, it didn't make sense.

Mate hadn't taken credit for Joanne, because he knew he didn't deserve it.

Then why hadn't he come out and denied his involvement?

Because that would have made him look foolish.
Displaced.

Someone horning in, a new Dr. Death, just as I'd guessed.

Broken stethoscope. Someone— Michael Burke?— making his grand entry by bathing himself in the blood of his predecessor. Hacking off Mate's manhood— you could deny Freud had ever existed and still understand
that.

But how had Joanne gotten in contact with the person who'd accompanied her to the Happy Trails Motel?

Maybe I had it all wrong and Mate
had
known. Had allowed his apprentice to strike out on his own.

I considered that. Joanne, ready to die, calling Mate and talking instead to an underling— let's say Burke. Mate supervising, judging Burke's readiness. Unaware Burke was already an expert in the fine art of cellular cessation.

Then I remembered Michael Burke's affinity for older, seriously ill women— patients he met in hospitals— and a whole different scenario flashed.

Joanne, shuffled from doctor to doctor, enduring batteries of medical tests. MRIs, CAT scans, lumbar punctures. Procedures carried out in hospitals.

I pictured her, bloated, pain-racked, regressed to silence, waiting in yet another antiseptic waiting room for the next round of indignities, as people in white coats hurried by, no one noticing her.

Then someone did. A charming, helpful young man. MD on his badge, but he took the time to talk. How wonderful to finally encounter a doctor who actually
talked
!

Or perhaps Burke had been more than a drop-in. Maybe he'd actually carried out some of the tests. Working as a
technician
, because he hadn't figured out a way, yet, to bogus a new medical diploma but was well-qualified to obtain a paramedical job.

Either way, I needed to learn where Joanne had been evaluated. Richard could tell me, but Richard was indisposed. Bob Manitow would also know, but there was no reason to think he'd even take my call. Whatever the reason for his antipathy, his wife didn't share it.

I'd phone Judy, find some pretense for asking about Joanne's hospital experiences— wanting to know more so I could help the kids. Especially now that Richard was in jail. I'd also try to learn more about the stress fractures that had worked their way through the Doss family. Maybe her family, as well. About why
her
husband was so angry.

Better a face-to-face, a chance to read nonverbal cues. Could I get Judy out of chambers long enough? She and I had always been cordial, and I'd come through for her on lots of tough cases. Now she'd landed me in the toughest one of all and I was ready to tell her so.

I called her number at Superior Court, expecting someone to tell me the judge was in trial. Instead, she picked up herself. "You're calling about Richard."

"The police took him away at my house. Eric and Stacy were there."

"You're kidding. Why would they do that?"

"Orders from above," I said. "They see Richard as a prime suspect for Mate. Have you heard anything around the courthouse?"

"No," she said, "just what was on the news. Bob and I were in Newport for the evening, never looked at the TV, didn't find out about it till last night when we drove home and saw the police cars at Richard's house. I just can't believe this, Alex. It makes no sense."

"Richard as a murderer."

Pause. "Richard doing something so stupid."

"On the other hand," I said, "he did despise Mate. Wasn't shy about expressing it."

"You think he's
guilty
?"

"Just playing devil's advocate."

"I don't allow those in my court— Seriously, Alex, if Richard was up to no good, why would he advertise it? All that tough talk was just Richard being Richard. Spouting off, attributing blame. He's always been a big blamer."

"Who else did he blame besides Mate?"

"No one in particular— it's just his overall style. Being dominant. The truth is, Richard's always been a difficult person— and yes, he does have a vindictive streak. You should hear him talk about how he destroys business rivals. But this? No, it just doesn't make sense. He has too much to lose— Hold on. . . ." Fifteen-second hold. "Alex, they're waiting for me, got to go."

"Could we talk more, Judy?"

"What about?"

"Eric and Stacy. With all this going on, I really need all the data I can get. If you could spare me an hour, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"I . . . I just don't know what I can tell you that hasn't already been said." Brittle laughter. "Some referral, huh? I'll bet from now on you're not going to return my calls quite so quickly."

"I'll always take your referrals, Judy."

"Why's that?"

"Because you give a damn."

"Oh come on," she said. "Don't get all sugary on me. I'm just a judicial hack, putting in my time."

"I don't think so."

"That's very kind of you." Now she sounded sad. "Just an hour?"

"Use that egg timer you pull out when attorneys go on too long."

She laughed again. "You've heard about that."

"I've seen it. The Jenkins case."

"Oh yeah, good old Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. That one deserved an egg timer with a sonic alarm— Okay, let me check my calendar, here . . . there's so much scrawl I can barely make it out."

"Sooner rather than later if possible, Judy."

"Hold again . . ." Another female voice in the background. Her clerk Doris's contralto. Judy's soprano reply. "The husband's lawyer is trying to pull shtick, time to whip him into shape. . . . Okay, how about dinner tonight? I've got a ton of reports to do, will be working late, anyway. Bob's taking Becky to the Cliffside, so I'm flexible. How about someplace on my way home— Grun!, in Westwood. That's not far from you— eight-thirty tonight."

"Grun! it is. Thanks, Judy. I really appreciate it."

"Oh yes," she said, "I'm quite the saint."

25

WESTWOOD VILLAGE, AS those who live nearby are quick to point out, used to be a nice place.

Once a high-end shopping district for a high-end residential area, a twist of charmingly curving streets lined with single-story brick buildings, the Village has devolved into a confused tangle of neon and chrome, weekends pulsating with noise, fast-food joints ejaculating gusts of grease and sugar.

Some of that was inevitable. Dominating the north end of the Village is the land-grant sprawl of the U., perched like a hungry bear. The encroachment stretches beyond campus borders, as the university pounces on vacant offices and builds parking lots. Student sensibilities means multiplex theaters, U-print T-shirt shops, discount record stores, jeans emporiums. Student budgets means burgers, not beluga. When a grizzly lolls near a trout stream, guess who gets eaten?

But there are other beasts at work. Developers, aiming to squeeze every dollar out of dirt. Building up, up, up, beyond, beyond, beyond. Lunching and boozing and bribing their way past zoning restrictions. People like Richard.

As token appeasements to the neighbors, some of the high-rise barons bring in pricey restaurants. Grun! was one of those, set on the top floor of a heartless black glass rhomboid on the north end of Glendon. The latest creation of a German celebrity chef with his own brand of frozen dinners.

I'd been there once, the lunch guest of an overeager personal-injury lawyer. Allegedly healthful dining formed of unlikely ethnic melds, prices that kept out the middle class. Waiters in pink shirts and khakis who launched into a world-weary, robotic recitation of the daily specials as if it were another audition. What happened to all the kids who didn't break into pictures?

I drove down Hilgard, passing sorority houses to the west, the U.'s botanical garden to the east, made it to the restaurant in ten minutes. I live close to the Village, but I rarely venture into the cacophony.

A red-jacketed valet lounged by the curb. I squeezed in between two Porsche Boxsters, and the attendant examined the Seville as if it were a museum piece.

I was inside by eight-thirty on the nose. The hostess was a hollow-cheeked, lank-haired brunette working hard on a Morticia Addams act. Judy Manitow hadn't arrived. It took a while to get Tish's attention and figure out that the JTJ in the reservation book stood for Judy the Judge. Tish directed me to the bar. I looked over her shoulder at the half-empty dining room and gave my best boyish grin. She sighed and fluttered her lashes and allowed me to trail her to a corner table.

Half-empty but noisy, sound waves caroming against bleached wood walls, ostentatiously distressed plank floors and mock-wormwood ceiling beams. Where plaster had been applied, it was an unhealthy sunburn pink. Iron tables covered in rose linen, chairs sheathed in dark green suedette.

Tish stopped midway in our trek. Sighed again. Turned. Rotated her neck, as if warming up for a workout. "I just love the way the light hits the room from this spot."

"Fantastic." Lights, camera, action.
Cut.

• • •