A small, round, bald man in his sixties with the constipated face and the high, strident voice of a petty functionary, mocking the justice system that couldn't touch him, lashing out against those "enslaved to the hypocritic oath." Proclaiming his victory with rambling sentences armored with obscure words ("My partnership with my travelers has been an exemplar of mutual fructification"). Pausing only to purse slit lips that, when they weren't moving, seemed on the verge of spitting. Microphones shoved in his face made him smile. He had hot eyes, a tendency to screech. A hit-and-run patter had made me think
vaudeville.
"Yeah, he was a piece of work, wasn't he?" said Milo. "I always thought when you peeled away all the medico-legal crap, he was just a homicidal nut with a medical degree. Now he's the victim of a psycho."
"And that made you think of me," I said.
"Well," he said, "who else? Also, there's the fact that one week later I'm no closer to anything. Any profound, behavioral-science insights would be welcome, Doctor."
"Just the mockery angle, so far," I said. "A killer going for glory, an ego out of control."
"Sounds like Mate himself."
"All the more reason to get rid of Mate. Think about it: If you were a frustrated loser who saw yourself as a genius, wanted to play God publicly, what better than dispatching the Angel of Death? You're very likely right about it being a travel gone wrong. If the killer did make a date with Mate, maybe Mate logged it."
"No log in his apartment," Milo said. "No work records of any kind. I'm figuring Mate kept the paperwork with that lawyer of his, Roy Haiselden. Mouthy fellow, you'd think he'd be blabbing nonstop, but nada. He's gone, too."
Haiselden had been at the conference with Mate. Big man in his fifties, florid complexion, too-bushy auburn toupee. "Amsterdam, also?" I said. "Another humanist?"
"Don't know where yet, just that he doesn't answer calls. . . . Yeah, everyone's a humanist. Our
bad
boy probably thinks he's a humanist."
"No, I don't think so," I said. "I think he likes being bad."
Another car drove by. Gray Toyota Cressida. Another female driver, this one a teenage girl. Once again, no sideward glance.
"See what you mean," I said. "Perfect place for a nighttime killing. Also for a travel jaunt, so maybe Mate chose it. And after all the flack about tacky settings, perhaps he decided to go for scenic— final passage in a serene spot. If so, he made the killer's job easier. Or the killer picked the spot and Mate approved. A killer familiar with the area— maybe even someone living within walking distance— could explain the lack of tire tracks. It would also be a kick— murder so close to home and he gets away with it. Either way, the confluence between his goals and Mate's would've been fun."
"Yeah," Milo said, without enthusiasm. "Gonna have my D-I's canvass the locals, see if any psychos with records turn up." Another glance at his watch. "Alex, if the killer set up an appointment with Mate by faking terminal illness, that implies theater on another level: acting skills good enough to convince Mate he was dying."
"Not necessarily," I said. "Mate had relaxed his standards. When he started out, he insisted on terminal illness. But recently he'd been talking about a dignified death being anyone's right."
No formal diagnosis necessary. I kept my face blank.
Maybe not blank enough. Milo was staring at me. "Something the matter?"
"Beyond a tide of gore in the morning?"
"Oh," he said. "Sometimes I forget you're a civil- ian. Guess you don't wanna see the crime-scene photos."
"Do they add anything?"
"Not to me, but . . ."
"Sure."
He retrieved a manila packet from the unmarked. "These are copies— the originals are in the murder book."
Loose photos, full-color, too much color, the van's interior shot from every angle. Eldon Mate's body was pathetic and small in death. His round white face bore
the look—
dull, flat, the assault of stupid surprise. Every murdered face I'd seen wore it. The democracy of extinction.
The flashbulb had turned the blood splatter greenish around the edges. The arterial spurts were a bad abstract painting. All of Mate's smugness was gone. The Humanitron behind him. The photo reduced his machine to a few bowed slats of metal, sickeningly delicate, like a baby cobra. From the top frame dangled the pair of glass I.V. bottles, also blood-washed.
Just another obscenity, human flesh turned to trash. I never got used to it. Each time I encountered it, I craved faith in the immortality of the soul.
Included with the death photos were some shots of the brown Econoline, up close and from a distance. The rental sticker was conspicuous on the rear window. No attempt had been made to obscure the front plates. The van's front end so ordinary . . . the front.
"Interesting."
"What is?" said Milo.
"The van was backed in, not headed in the easy way." I handed him a picture. He studied it, said nothing.
"Turning around took some effort," I said. "Only reason I can think of is, it would've made escape easier. It probably wasn't the killer's decision. He knew the van wouldn't be leaving. Although I suppose he might have considered the possibility of being interrupted and having to take off quickly. . . . No, when they arrived, Mate was in charge. Or thought he was. In the driver's seat literally and psychologically. Maybe he sensed something was off."
"It didn't stop him from going through with it."
"Could be he put his reservations aside because he also enjoyed a bit of danger. Vans, motels, sneaking around at night say to me he got off on the whole cloak-and-dagger thing."
I handed him the rest of the photos and he slipped them in the packet.
"All that blood," I said. "Hard to imagine not a single print was left anywhere."
"Lots of smooth surfaces in the van. The coroner did find smears, like finger-painting whirls, says it might mean rubber gloves. We found an open box in the front. Mate was a dream victim, brought all the fixings for the final feast." He checked his watch again.
"If the killer had access to a surgical kit, he could've also brought sponges— nice and absorbent, perfect for cleanup. Any traces of sponge material in the van?"
He shook his head.
I said, "What else did you find, in terms of medical supplies?"
"Empty hypodermic syringe, the thiopental and the potassium chloride, alcohol swabs— that's a kicker, ain't it? You're about to kill someone, you bother to swab them with alcohol to prevent infection?"
"They do it up in San Quentin when they execute someone. Maybe it makes them feel like health-care professionals. The killer would've liked feeling legitimate. What about a bag to carry all that equipment?"
"No, nothing like that."
"No carrying case of any kind?"
"No."
"There had to be some kind of case," I said. "Even if the equipment was Mate's, he wouldn't have left it rolling around loose in the van. Also, Mate had lost his license but he still fancied himself a doctor, and doctors carry black bags. Even if he was too cheap to invest in leather, and used something like a paper sack, you'd expect to find it. Why would the killer leave the Humanitron and everything else behind and take the case?"
"Snuff the doctor, steal his bag?"
"Taking over the doctor's practice."
"
He
wants to be Dr. Death?"
"Makes sense, doesn't it? He's murdered Mate, can't exactly come out into the open and start soliciting terminally ill people. But he could have something in mind."
Milo rubbed his face furiously, as if scrubbing without water. "More wet work?"
"It's just theory," I said.
Milo gazed up at the dismal sky, slapped the packet of death photos against his leg again, chewed his cheek. "A sequel. Oh that would be peachy. Extremely
pleasant.
And this theory occurs to you because
maybe
there was a bag and
maybe
someone took it."
"If you don't think it has merit, disregard it."
"How the hell should
I
know if it has merit?" He stuffed the photos in his jacket pocket, yanked out his pad, opened it and stabbed at the paper with a chewed-down pencil. Then he slammed the pad shut. The cover was filled with scrawl. "The bag coulda been left behind and ended up in the morgue without being logged."
"Sure," I said. "Absolutely."
"Great," he said. "That would be great."
"Well, folks," I said, in a W. C. Fields voice, "in terms of theory, I think that's about it for today."
His laughter was sudden. I thought of a mastiff's warn- ing bark. He fanned himself with the notepad. The air was cool, stale, still inert. He was sweating. "Forgive the peckishness. I need sleep." Yet another glance at the Timex.
"Expecting company?" I said.
"The yuppie hikers. Mr. Paul Ulrich and Ms. Tanya Stratton. Interviewed them the day of the murder, but they didn't give me much. Too upset— especially the girl. The boyfriend spent his time trying to calm her down. Given what she saw, can't blame her, but she seemed . . . delicate. Like if I pressed too hard she'd dis- integrate. I've been trying all week to arrange the re- interview. Phone tag, excuses. Finally reached them last night, figured I'd go to their house, but they said they'd rather meet up here, which I thought was gutsy. But maybe they're thinking some kind of self-therapy— whatchamacallit— working it
through.
" He grinned. "See, it
does
rub off, all those years with you."
"A few more and you'll be ready to see patients."
"People tell
me
their troubles, they get locked up."
"When are they due to show up?"
"Fifteen minutes ago. Stopping by on their way to work— both have jobs in Century City." He kicked dust. "Maybe they chickened out. Even if they do show, I'm not sure what I'm hoping to get out of them. But got to be thorough, right? So what's your take on Mate? Do-gooder or serial killer?"
"Maybe both," I said. "He came across arrogant, with a low view of humanity, so it's hard to believe his altruism was pure. Nothing else in his life points to exceptional compassion. Just the opposite: instead of taking care of patients, he spent his medical career as a paper pusher. And he never amounted to much as a doctor until he started helping people die. If I had to bet on a primary motive, I'd say he craved attention. On the other hand, there's a reason the families you've talked to support him. He alleviated a lot of suffering. Most of the people who pulled the trigger of that machine were in torment."
"So you condone what he did even if his reasons for doing it were less than pure."
"I haven't decided how I feel about what he did," I said.
"Ah." He fiddled with the turquoise clasp.
There was plenty more I could've said and I felt low, evasive. Another burst of engine hum rescued me from self-examination. This time, the car approached from the east and Milo turned.
Dark-blue BMW sedan, 300 model, a few years old. Two people inside. The car stopped, the driver's window lowered and a man with a huge, spreading mustache looked out at us. Next to him sat a young woman, gazing straight ahead.
"The yuppies show up," said Milo. "Finally, someone respects the rule of law."
3
MILO WAVED THE BMW up, the mustachioed man turned the wheel and parked behind the Seville. "Here okay, Detective?"
"Sure— anywhere," said Milo.
The man smiled uncomfortably. "Didn't want to mess something up."
"No problem, Mr. Ulrich. Thanks for coming."
Paul Ulrich turned off the engine and he and the woman got out. He was medium-size, late thirties to forty, solidly built, with a well-cured beach tan and a nubby, sunburned nose. His crew cut was dun-colored, soft-looking to the point of fuzziness, with lots of pinkish scalp glowing through. As if all his hair-growing energy had been focused on the mustache, an extravagance as wide as his face, parted into two flaring red-brown wings, stiff with wax, luxuriant as an old-time grenadier's. His sole burst of flamboyance, and it clashed with haberdashery that seemed chosen for inconspicuousness on Century Park East: charcoal suit, white button-down shirt, navy and silver rep tie, black wing-tips.
He held the woman's elbow as they made their way toward us. She was younger, late twenties, as tall as he, thin and narrow-shouldered, with a stiff, tentative walk that belied any hiking experience. Her skin tone said indoors, too. More than that: indoor pallor. Chalky-white edged with translucent blue, so pale she made Milo look ruddy. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, boy-short, wispy. She wore big, black-framed sunglasses, a mocha silk blazer over a long brown print dress, flat-soled, basket-weave sandals.
Milo said, "Ms. Stratton," and she took his hand reluctantly. Up close, I saw rouge on her cheeks, clear gloss on chapped lips. She turned to me.
"This is Dr. Delaware, Ms. Stratton. Our psychological consultant."
"Uh-huh," she said. Unimpressed.
"Doctor, these are our witnesses— Ms. Tanya Stratton and Mr. Paul Ulrich. Thanks again for showing up, folks. I really appreciate it."