Therapy (37 page)

Wimmer finished reading, returned to the first page, reviewed. Her mouth tightened.

“What, what?” said Franco Gull.

No answer.

“Myrna—”

“Shh, let me finish.”

“Finish what? It’s ridiculous, it’s—”

Wimmer silenced him with an air-chop, completed her perusal, refolded the warrant. “It’s patently ridiculous, Franco, but apparently valid.”

“What does that mean, Myrna? What the fuck does that
mean
?” The handkerchief was wadded tightly in his hand, and his knuckles were ivory knobs. Sweat trickled from his hairline, but he made no attempt to swab. “Myrna?”

Milo took out his cuffs. The metallic sound made Gull jump.

Myrna Wimmer said, “Oh, please.”

Milo said, “You read the charges.”

Gull said, “Myrna—”

Wimmer said, “What it means, Franco, is that you’ll have to go with them.” Disapproval in her voice. As if Gull had disappointed her. “Where will you be booking him, Lieutenant?”

“Charges like these?” said Milo. “Gotta be the main jail.”

Gull said, “Jail? Oh, God, no.”

Wimmer smiled at Milo. “Could you do me a favor and book him at West L.A.? Save me the drive?”

“
Book
him?” said Gull. “Myrna, how can you just—”

Milo said, “No can do, Counselor, sorry.”

Wimmer looked ready to spit.

Gull’s eyes had filled with tears. “Myrna, I can’t
do
this.”

She said, “Does your wife have access to your finances? If so, I’ll call her and we’ll get to work on bail. If not—”

“Bail? Myrna, this is
insane
—”

“Is that an official diagnosis, Doctor?” said Milo.

“Please,”
said Gull, backing off some more and pressing against the glass. “You don’t know what you’re doing, I’ve never done any of what you say I’ve done. Please.” Sucking in breath.
“Please.”

Milo said, “Turn and place your hands on Ms. Wimmer’s desk, Doctor. If you’re carrying any weapons or illicit substances, now would be the time to tell me.”

“Murder?” Gull was shouting. “What the hell are you talking about?
Murder?
Are you
insane
?” He opened his hand and the hankie fluttered to the carpet. As he watched it fall, his knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright.

Myrna Wimmer said, “Calm down, Franc—”

“Calm down? Easy for you to say, you’re not the one—”

“As your advocate, Franco, I advise you not to say anything—”

“All I’m saying is I never
did
anything, what’s wrong with saying I never
did
anything?”

Milo said, “Hands on the desk, please.” He began walking toward Gull. “Franco Gull, you have the right to remain silent—”

Gull’s powerful physique tensed. He doubled over, began to weep. “Oh, God, how can this be
happening
!”

Myrna Wimmer shot me a
hope-you’re-happy
glare.

Milo jangled the cuffs. Gull stepped forward, placed his hands on the desk. Wept some more.

Milo bent one of Gull’s arms behind his back and cuffed it. Gull cried out.

“Are you hurting my client?” demanded Wimmer.

“Maybe psychologically,” said Milo. “Not too tight, is it, Doctor?”

“God, God,” said Gull. “What can I do to
fix
this?”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Why are you saying I
killed
someone? Who?
Mary?
That’s
crazy,
Mary was my friend, we were—I never would’ve—”

Milo drew back Gull’s other arm.

Gull shouted, “What is it you
want
?!”

I said, “For you to be forthcoming.”

“Forthcoming about
what
?”

Myrna said, “Be quiet, Franco.”

“What? And let them put
these
on me and take me to
jail
?”

“Franco, I’m sure this will—”

“What
I’m
sure of is I never killed anyone or
conspired
or did
any
of those things!” Gull twisted to make eye contact with me. “What you’re doing is unethical. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I said, “Feel free to file a complaint. Though I don’t imagine you’ll want to.”

He said, “What gives you the right to judge me?”

“Forthcoming,” I said, “doesn’t mean gamesmanship.” To Milo: “My opinion is we should wrap up.”

Milo placed his hand on Gull’s scruff and turned him around and placed a palm in the small of Gull’s back. “Time to go to jail, Doctor.”

Gull shouted, “Stop! Please! I’ll be
forthcoming
. Okay, yes, I
chased
a few skirts. You want to talk about that?
Fine,
I’m ready to
talk
about it. I’ve got a little
problem,
is that what you wanted to hear? I pleasured women, received pleasure in return, it has nothing to do with jail or
murder
or any other fucking
bullshit
that would send me to jail! And yes, that
is
an official diagnosis, I’m
qualified
to diagnose, I
am
a good psychologist, fucking
great
psychologist, all my patients get
better
!”

I said, “Like Gavin Quick?”

Gull said, “He—that—he wasn’t really my patient.”

“No?”

“I saw him for four, five sessions. It ended.”

“Why?”

“Take these things off, and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell us, now.”

Wimmer said, “Franco, my advice to you is to not tell them any—”

Gull said, “The stupid kid didn’t want to see me because he found out I was sleeping with a patient. Okay? Happy? I’m humiliated, I am now officially, publicly shit-faced humiliated. But I never
killed
anyone! Take these things off.”

Myrna Wimmer said, “I need an Advil.”

*

Milo removed the cuffs and sat Gull in the same armchair.

Gull said, “Can we all calm down and get rational, here?” His face was sodden.

Milo said, “If you continue to show some honesty, we might be able to work something out.”

Wimmer said, “I want that on the record.”

Milo said, “Sorry, no.”

“Then I refuse to have my client—”

“Myrna, stop complicating things, stop being a goddamn
lawyer
!” said Gull. “It’s not
your
life!”

Wimmer frowned at him, dry-swallowed the two Advil tablets in her palm. “You’ve been warned, Franco.”

Gull turned to me. “Honesty about what? I told you, I slept with a patient.”

“Only one?” I said.

His eyes searched mine. Trying to figure out how much I knew.

“More than one,” he said. “But not that many more, and it was always consensual. The stupid kid found out and threw a fit and said he could no longer trust me, he wanted to fire me. Then he threatened to report me. He, of all people.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“The whole reason he was there was to deal with his
own
sexual issues.
He
was a stalker. So who was he to get self-righteous?”

“You don’t understand why he’d think you weren’t the ideal therapist, Franco?”

“I understand, I understand,” said Gull. “It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. But he was snooping, it’s not as if I flaunted it or anything like that. The point is, the kid was brain-damaged, his mentation was distorted.”

“Not thinking straight,” I translated for Milo.

“In addition,” said Gull, “he was pathologically compulsive—extremely perseverative. Cognitively and behaviorally.”

I said, “Once he got hold of something he wouldn’t let go.”

“Precisely,” said Gull. As if that settled it.

“How’d he find out?” I said.

“I told you, by snooping.” Gull let out a harsh laugh. “Stalking
me
.”

“Where?”

“He hung around the building after his session was over, came back after hours, and waited in his car, out on the street.”

“Where on the street?”

“Palm Drive. Out back, behind the parking lot. It didn’t register at the time, but later, when he confronted me, I realized he’d been sitting there.”

“What kind of car?”

“Mustang.”

“Color?”

“Red. Red convertible. But he always kept the top up, and the windows were tinted, so I never saw if anyone was inside.”

I said, “That’s the car he was killed in.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, that’s unfortunate,” said Gull. “But I had nothing to do with it.”

“He confronted you and threatened to report you.”

“You don’t kill someone for that.”

“What do you kill them for?”

“Nothing. Violence is always wrong.” Gull searched for his hankie. I spotted it, on the floor behind him, but didn’t let on.

He said, “You don’t kill anyone for any reason. I’m a firm believer in nonviolence.”

“Make love, not war.”

“You’re making me sound glib and lecherous. It wasn’t like that. Some women need tenderness.”

Wimmer’s hands clawed.

I said, “So Gavin hung around the building.”

“He damn well did.”

“How often?”

“Don’t know,” said Gull. “I caught him once.”

“When he caught you.”

Silence.

“How did it happen?”

“Are you going to use it against me?”

“Ethical violations are the least of your problems.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything you know about everything I ask.”

“The Grand Inquisitor,” he said. “How can you justify this, professionally?”

“We all make adjustments,” I said.

Milo jangled the handcuffs.

Gull said, “Sure. Fine. Let’s do it.”

“That okay with you?” I asked Wimmer. “Busy schedule and all.”

Wimmer hesitated. Gull whined, “Myr-na?” She looked at her watch, sighed, sat back in her chair. “Sure, make yourselves comfortable.
Boys.
”

CHAPTER

39

F
ranco Gull said, “I should’ve followed my instincts, never wanted to treat him.”

“Not your type of patient,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

A few minutes ago, he’d cleared his throat several times, and Milo had suggested to Myrna Wimmer that someone get water for her client. Looking vexed, she phoned for a pitcher and glasses, but when they arrived Gull refused to drink.

Clutching at the smallest choice.

I said, “Why didn’t you want to treat Gavin Quick?”

“I don’t like adolescents,” said Gull. “Too much crisis, too much in flux.”

“Add brain damage to that.”

“That, too. I hate neuropsych. Boring. Uncreative.”

“Brain-damaged adolescent,” I said. “Also, he was male.”

“I see males.”

“Not many.”

“How would you know?”

“Am I wrong?”

“I’m not divulging personal information about my patients,” said Gull. “No matter what pressure you put on me.”

I said, “Ethics and all that.”

Gull was silent.

“Gavin watched the building,” I said. “How did he find out you were sleeping with a patient?”

Gull winced. “Is this necessary?”

“Very.”

“Fine, fine. He was there in the parking lot when we came out.”

“You and the patient.”

“Yes. A lovely person. I walked her out. It was late, dark, she was my last patient, and I was leaving, too.”

“Chivalrous,” I said. “What did Gavin see?”

Gull hesitated.

Milo stretched his legs. Myrna Wimmer polished the dial of her watch with her sleeve.

Gull said, “We kissed. Yes, it was stupid to be that open. But who knew anyone was watching? The kid was parked at the curb, for God’s sake.”

“Nosy,” I said.

“You need to understand: This wasn’t some exploitative thing. It was loving. Mutual and
loving
. This woman had experienced some severe losses in her life, and she needed comfort.”

“Deep comfort,” said Milo.

“What I did was wrong. In a formal sense—a normative sense. But the specifics of the situation dictated a certain degree of intimacy.”

I said, “Therapeutic kindness.”

“If you must know.”

Myrna Wimmer picked up a legal pad and pretended to read. She looked as if she’d swallowed a cup of sewage.

Gull turned to me, flushed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

I said, “So you did it in the office. On a couch? On the desk?”

“That is vulgar—”

“Your conduct was vulgar.”

“I’ve told you. She was lonely—”

“And had experienced severe losses.”

Myrna Wimmer shook her head.

“All right,” said Gull. “I’m a bastard. Is that what you want to hear?”

I said, “Back to the beginning: You don’t like adolescent males, but you agreed to treat Gavin Quick.”

“As a favor to Mary. The referral came to her but she was booked and I’d just discharged a patient—a very successful case, I might add. So I happened to have an open slot. Which is extremely rare.”

“Why’d Mary ask you to see Gavin and not Albin Larsen?”

“Albin only works part-time.”

“Too busy with good works,” I said.

Gull shrugged.

“Did Mary tell you how the referral came to her?”

“Through her ex-husband. He’s our landlord, in fact—and Gavin’s father was a tenant of his, had mentioned Gavin’s legal problems. The actual referral came through a neurologist I’d never heard of. Gavin was claiming brain damage had caused the stalking.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Gull shrugged off the question.

I said, “It doesn’t take brain damage to get a guy sexually aggressive.”

Gull exhaled. “This is wearying me.”

“So sorry.”

Wimmer said, “
Is
there anything more?”

I said, “Did you have much contact with Gavin’s parents?”

“The father only,” said Gull, “and just once. I thought it was unusual, generally it’s the mother. I asked the father about it, he said his wife wasn’t feeling well.”

“What did you learn from Mr. Quick?”

“Not much, I took a quick family intake. He seemed very concerned about his son.”

I said, “Initially, Mary had no time for Gavin, but once Gavin fired you, she took over.”

“I suppose she made time,” said Gull. “As a favor to me.”

“So Gavin wouldn’t make waves.”

Silence.

I said, “What did you give her in return?”

“I agreed to take night call for two months.”

Milo said, “Did that include calling on her at night?”

Gull glared at him.

“The questions stands, Doctor.”

“Mary was a highly sexual person. She had strong needs, and I was able to fill them. We enjoyed each other. I don’t see that as sinful. But in answer to your question: No. Mary and I were perfectly competent at separating our professional and personal lives.”

I said, “Who murdered her?”

“I have no idea. From these questions, you obviously think it had something to do with Gavin Quick.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“A therapist and her patient murdered within days of each other. You’ve never wondered about it?”

“I wonder,” said Gull. “I just don’t have answers.”

“Any guesses?”

He shook his head.

“The girl murdered alongside Gavin,” I said. “Had you ever seen her before?”

“I told you the first time you showed me that picture. No.”

“The picture was in yesterday’s paper. Bring back any memories?”

“I didn’t read yesterday’s paper.”

“No interest in world affairs.”

“Not much,” said Gull. “I’m not a political person.”

“Unlike Albin Larsen.”

“You keep bringing him up.”

“So I do.” I looked over at Milo. He appeared serene.

Myrna Wimmer moved forward, perching on the edge of her desk chair. Her mouth was set, and her shoulders were tight.

Gull said, “Gavin Quick, now Albin. You’re losing me.”

I said, “Why did Albin just inform Sonny Koppel that your group had no further interest in leasing the ground floor?”

“No
further
interest? Why would we need the bottom floor? It’s already leased, isn’t it? Some sort of charitable foundation.”

“Charitable Planning.”

He nodded.

“What are they about?” I said.

“Don’t know.”

“You’ve been neighbors for a while.”

“I never see anyone go in there except Sonny Koppel. And that’s not very often.”

“How often?”

“Once, twice a month. Maybe it’s one of his businesses. He owns several.”

“Tycoon?”

“Apparently.”

“How do you know that?”

“From Mary. She got us the suite through him. Handled all the paperwork on our lease.”

“Take-charge gal,” I said.

“Mary was a mover. Albin and I are more . . . cerebral. She got us a great deal on the lease because Sonny was still fond of her.”

“She told you that?”

“She told me and laughed about it,” said Gull.

“Making fun of Sonny.”

“To be frank, she didn’t think much of him. Mary could be . . . cutting. It wasn’t typical of her, but she could get that way.”

“And Sonny brought out Mary’s cutting side.”

“You know exes.”

“What exactly did Mary tell you about Sonny?”

“That soon after she’d married him he’d turned into a fat slob. That she’d never found him attractive in the first place but had deluded herself he might be workable. She liked the fact that he was a law student. Then he flunked his bar exam, and she started viewing him as the quintessential loser. Her phrase.”

“A loser who became a tycoon.”

“That surprised her. She said being rich was wasted on Sonny, he didn’t know how to spend money, didn’t know how to enjoy life.”

“Sounds like the fondness ran one way,” I said.

“You think he killed her?”

“Why would we think that?”

“Ex-husband,” he said. “Unrequited love. Maybe he found out how Mary really felt about him. Maybe it came to a head.”

“Did Mary ever give you any indication that things got hostile between her and Sonny?”

“No, but she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me.”

“Despite you being friends—despite all that intimacy.”

Gull said, “All I can tell you is what happened.”

“Do
you
like Sonny Koppel as a suspect?”

“I’m saying given the situation, I’d look into it.”

“Instead of looking into you,” said Milo.

Gull ground his teeth. “I haven’t
killed
anyone.”

I said, “How many patients are you carrying, currently?”

The change of subject threw Gull. He sat up, ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head. “I told you, I can’t talk about patients.”

“I’m not asking for names, just your approximate patient load.”

Gull glanced over at Myrna Wimmer. She ignored him.

Milo said, “You fuck them but won’t talk about them. Spare me.”

“Now wait one—”

“No,
you
wait, Doctor.” Milo’s voice had taken on that bear growl. “Forthcoming means no more bullshit. The question was how many patients are you seeing, not their quirks or their bra sizes.”

Gull’s face lost color. “Okay, okay, let me see . . . I work . . . thirty-eight hours a week with regular patients, have another . . . maybe twenty-five who pop in for occasional sessions.”

“Tune-ups,” said Milo.

“I don’t run a garage.”

“Sixty-five total,” I said.

“That’s an estimate.”

“Those sixty-five. You’d remember their names.”

“Sure.”

I pulled a page of computer printout from my jacket and unfolded it on my lap.

“Does the name ‘Gayford Woodrow’ mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“What about ‘James Leroy Craig’?”

“Same answer,” said Gull.

“Carl Philip Russo,” I said. “Ludovico Montez, Daniel Lee Barendo, Schendley Paul, Orlando Jones.”

Headshake.

“Roland Kristof, Lamar Royster Collins, Antonio Ortega.”

“Who
are
these people?”

“Patients for whom you’ve billed Medi-Cal a considerable amount over the last sixteen months.”

Gull looked stunned. “That’s ridiculous. First of all, I don’t accept Medi-Cal patients. Second, those are all men, and my patients are almost exclusively women. Third, I’d know if I treated someone.”

“And got paid for it.”

“This is absolutely psychotic.”

I picked up the list and read some more. “Akuno Williams, Salvador Paz, Mattias Soldovar, Juan Jorge Montoya, Juan Eduardo Lunares, Baylor Hawkins, Paul Andrew McCloskey—”

“No, none of them,” said Gull. “This is a mistake.”