Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

Milo sat there, probing the rim of his piecrust with his fork. I wondered if he was thinking what I was: a lot of insight in one little speech.

“So,” she said, “who do I talk to about that pension? And the will?”

Back in the car, Milo made a series of calls and got her the number of the army pension office.

“As far as the will is concerned,” he told her, “we’re still trying to contact Dr. Mate’s lawyer. A man named Roy Haiselden. Has he ever called you?”

“That big fat guy always with Eldon on TV? Nope— you think he has the will?”

“If there is one, he might. Nothing’s been filed with County Records. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. I guess I’ll be staying in town for a few days, see what I can find out. Know of any clean, cheap places?”

“Hollywood’s a tough area, ma’am. And nothing de-cent’s gonna be that cheap.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m not saying I don’t have any money. I work, I brought two hundred dollars with me. I just don’t want to spend more than I have to.”

We drove her to a West Coast Inn on Fairfax near Bev-erly and checked her in. She paid with a hundred-dollar bill, and as we walked her to her first-floor room, Milo warned her about flashing cash on the street and she said, “I’m not stupid.”

The room was small, clean, noisy, with a view across Fairfax: cars whizzing by, the sleek, modern lines of the CBS studios a black-and-white subpanel to the horizon.

“Maybe I’ll see a game show,” she said, parting the drapes. She removed another floral dress from the mac-rame bag and headed for the closet. “Okay, thanks for everything.”

Milo handed her his card. “Call me if you think of anything, ma’am—by the way, where’s your son?”

Her back was to us. She opened the closet door. Took a long time to hang the dress. On the top shelf was an extra pillow that she removed. Fluffing, compressing, fluffing.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t know where Donny is,” she said.

Punching the pillow. All at once, she looked tiny and bowed. “Donny’s real smart, just like Eldon. Did a year at San Francisco State. I used to think he’d be a doctor, too. He got good grades, he liked science.”

She stood there, hugging the pillow.

“What happened?” I said.

Her shoulders heaved.

I went over and stood next to her. She edged away, placed the pillow atop a dresser. “They said it was drugs— my friends at church said it had to be that. But I never saw him take any drugs.”

“He changed,” I said.

She bent, cupped a hand over her eyes. I risked taking her by the elbow. Her skin was soft, gelatinous. I guided her onto a chair, handed her a tissue that she grabbed, crushed, finally used to wipe her face.

“Donny changed totally,” she said. “Stopped taking care of himself. Grew long hair, a beard, got filthy. Like one of those homeless people. Only he’s got a home, if he’d ever come back there.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

“Two years.”

She sprang up, marched into the bathroom, closed the door. Water ran for a while, then she emerged announcing she was tired. “When I’m ready to eat, where can I get some dinner around here?”

“Do you like Chinese, ma’am?” said Milo.

“Sure, anything.”

He phoned up a takeout place and asked them to deliver in two hours. When we left, she was consulting the cable TV channel guide.

Out in the car, Milo sat back in his seat and frowned. “One happy family. And Junior’s a homeless guy with mental problems, maybe a druggie. Someone with a reason to kill Mate—who might still want to be Mate. Maybe I was wrong to dismiss the street bum so quickly.”

“If Donny was intelligent to begin with, even with some sort of mental breakdown, he might’ve held on to enough smarts to be able to plan. Mate abandoned and rejected him in the worst kind of way. Exactly the kind of primal anger that leads to violence. Mate’s getting famous wouldn’t have helped things. Maybe Donny smoldered, seethed, decided to come back, take over the family business… Oedipus wrecks. Maybe Mate finally agreed to see him, arranged a talk up in Mulholland because he didn’t want Donny in his apartment. He could’ve even had concerns about his safety, that’s why he backed the van in. But he went through with it—guilt, or he enjoyed the danger.”

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