Johnithan Kellerman – Bad Love

“Police. Open up or I’ll shoot.”

He bared his teeth in a Halloween grimace. I unlocked the door and he came in, carrying a black briefcase. He was dressed for work: blue hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt stretched tight over his belly, blue and gray plaid tie tugged loose, suede desert boots in need of new soles.

His haircut was recent, the usual: clipped short at sides and back, long and shaggy on top, sideburns down to the earlobes. Country yokels had looked that way back in the fifties. Melrose Avenue hipsters were doing it nowadays.

I doubted Milo was aware of either fact. The black forelock that shadowed his forehead showed a few more gray streaks. His green eyes were clear. Some of the weight he’d lost had come back, he looked to be carrying at least two hundred and forty pounds on his seventy-five inches.

He stared at the dog and said, “What?”

“Gee, Dad, he followed me home. Can I keep him?”

The dog gazed up at him and yawned.

“Yeah, I’m bored, too,” Milo told him. “What the hell is it, Alex?”

“French bulldog,” I said. “Rare and pricey, according to a vet. And this one’s a damned good specimen.”

“Specimen.” He shook his head. “Is it civilized?”

“Compared to what you’re used to, very.”

He frowned, patted the dog gingerly, and got slurped.

“Charming,” he said, wiping his hand on his slacks. Then he looked at me.

“Why, Marlin Perkins?”

“I’m serious-he just showed up this morning. I’m trying to locate the owner, have an ad running in the paper. The vet said he’s been well cared for.

It’s just a matter of time before somebody claims him.”

“If it’s not Wallace,” I said, “maybe it’s some psychopath picking me as his audience because I treat kids and sometimes my name gets in the papers.

Someone who read about Becky’s murderer screaming bad love’ and got an idea.

And for all I know, I’m not the only therapist he’s contacted.”

“Could be. When was the last time you were in the papers?”

“This summer-when the Jones case went to trial.”

“Anything’s possible,” he said.

“Or maybe it’s more direct, Milo. A former patient, telling me I failed him. I started going through my files, got halfway and couldn’t find anything.

But who knows? My patients were all children. In most cases I have no idea what kind of adults they turned into.”

“If you found anything funny, would you give me the names?”

“Couldn’t,” I said. “Without some kind of clear danger, I couldn’t justify breaking confidentiality.”

He scowled. The dog watched him unwaveringly.

“What’re you staring at?” he demanded.

Wag, wag.

Milo began to smile, fought it, picked up his case, and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, Alex, I still wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Let me take these to the lab right now instead of tomorrow, see if I can get some night-shifter to put some speed on. I’ll also make a copy and start a case file-private one, just for my eyes. When in doubt, be a goddamn clerk.”

After he left, I tried to read a psychology journal but couldn’t concentrate. I watched the news, did fifty pushups, and had another go at my charts. I made it through all of them. Kids’ names, vaguely remembered pathologies. No allusions to “bad love.” No one I could see wanting to frighten me.

At ten, Robin called. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi,” I said. “You sound good.”

“I am good, but I miss you. Maybe I’ll come home early.”

“That would be great. Just say when and I’ll be at the airport.”

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy. We’ve got a visitor.”

I described the bulldog’s arrival.

“Oh,” she said, “he sounds adorable. Now I definitely want to come home early.”

“He snorts and drools.”

“How cute. You know, we should get a dog of our own. We’re nurturant, right? And you had one when you were a kid. Don’t you miss it?”

“My father had one,” I said. “A hunting cur that didn’t like children.

It died when I was five and we never got another, but sure, I like dogs-how about something big and protective?”

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