Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

“Richard’s a courageous man,” he said. “The children are courageous. Let’s go see them.”

We continued through the center hallway. Black carpeting muffled our steps as we passed more brass cases. Monochrome bowls of every color, the mirror backs reflecting Chinese inscriptions on white bases, tiny mud-colored figurines, shelves of potters’ creations in white and cream and gray, more of that pale, clean green that I decided I liked best. A row of closed doors, two more at the rear. Safer beckoned me through the one that was open.

Cathedral ceiling, black leather sofas and chairs, black grand piano filling a corner. Through a wall of french doors, an aqua pool and green-lit foliage. Beyond the chlorinated water, palm fringes and the hint of ocean. The seating faced rosewood bookshelves filled with hardcovers, a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, a seventy-inch TV, laser-disc machine, other amusements. On an upper shelf, four family photos. Three of Richard and the kids, a single portrait of Joanne as a smiling young woman.

Richard sat upright on the largest of the sofas, unshaven, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kinky hair ragged— pulled-at, as if birds had attacked, seeking nesting material. He wore the usual all-black and blended so thoroughly with the couch that his body contours were obscured. It made him seem very small—like a growth that had sprouted from the upholstery.

“You’re here,” he said, sounding half asleep. “Thanks.”

I took an armchair and Richard gazed up at Joe Safer.

Safer said, “I’ll go see how the kids are doing,” and left. Richard picked something out of the corner of his mouth. Sweat beads ringed his hairline.

When Safer’s footsteps had faded completely, he said, “They say he’s the best.” Staring past me. “This is our family room.”

“Beautiful house,” I said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“What happened?” I said. Any way he took that would be fine.

He didn’t answer, kept his gaze above me—focused on the blank TV. As if waiting for the set to come on by itself and feed him some form of enlightenment.

“So,” he said, finally. “Here we are.”

“What can I do for you, Richard?”

“Safer says anything I tell you is confidential, unless you think I’m a direct threat to someone else.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m no threat to anyone.”

“Good.”

He jammed his fingers in his hair, tugged at the wiry

strands. “Still, let’s keep it hypothetical. For the sake of all concerned.”

“Keep what hypothetical?” I said.

“The situation. Say a person—a man, by no means a stupid man but not infallible—say he falls prey to an impulse and does something stupid.”

“What impulse?”

“The drive to attain closure. Not a smart move, in fact it’s the single stupidest, most insane thing he’s ever done in his life, but he’s not in his right mind because events have … changed him. In the past, he’s lived a life full of expectations. That’s not to say he’s wedded to optimism. Of all people, he knows things don’t always work out according to plan. He’s earned a living understanding that. But still, after all these years of building, establishing, he’s done very well, gotten sucked in by the trap of rising expectations. Feels he has a right to some degree of comfort. Then he learns differently.” He shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

“His acting on impulse,” I said.

He sucked in breath, gave a sick smile. “He’s not in his right mind, let’s leave it at that.”

Crossing his legs, he sat back, as if giving me time to digest. I had a pretty good idea what he was up to. Working on a diminished-capacity defense. Safer’s advice or his own idea?

“Temporary insanity,” I said.

“If it comes to that. The only problem is, because he’s so screwed up, in the process he may have upset his kids. His own peccadilloes, he can deal with. But his kids, he needs help with that.”

Murder-for-hire as a peccadillo.

I said, “Do the kids know what he’s done?”

“He hasn’t told them, but they’re smart kids, they may have figured it out.”

“May have.”

He nodded.

I said, “Does he intend to tell them?”

“He doesn’t see the point of that.”