I went to my bookshelves, pulled out a dictionary of psychological terms.
Nothing. Tried lots of other books, scanning indexes.
Not a clue.
I returned to the desk.
A former patient taunting me for services poorly rendered?
Or something more recent-Donald Dell Wallace, festering up in Folsom, seeing me as his enemy and trying to play with my head?
His attorney, a dimwit named Sherman Bucklear, had called me several times before I’d seen the girls, trying to convince me his client was a devoted father.
“It was Ruthanne neglected them, Doctor. Whatever else Donald Dell did, he cared about them.”
“How was he on child support?”
“Times are rough. He did the best he could-does that prejudice you, Doctor?”
“I haven’t formed an opinion yet, Mr. Bucklear.”
“No, of course not. No one’s saying you should. The question is, are you willing to form one at all or do you have your mind made up just because of what Donald Dell did?”
“I’ll spend time with the girls. Then I’ll form my opinion.”
” Cause there’s a lot of potential for prejudice against my client.”
“Because he murdered his wife?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, Doctor-you know, I can always bring in my own experts.”
“Feel free.”
“I feel very free, Doctor. This is a free country. You’d do well to remember that.”
Other experts. Was this bit of craziness an attempt to intimidate me so that I’d drop out of the case and clear the way for Bucklear’s hired guns?
Donald Dell’s gang, the Iron Priests, had a history of bullying rivals in the meth trade, but I still didn’t see it. How could anyone assume I’d make a connection between screams and chants and two little girls?
Unless this was only the first step in a campaign of intimidation.
Even so, it was almost clownishly heavyhanded.
Then again, Donald Dell’s leaving his ID at the murder scene didn’t indicate finesse.
I’d consult an expert of my own. Dialing the West L.A. police station, I was connected to Robbery-Homicide, where I asked for Detective Sturgis.
Milo was out of the office-no big surprise. He’d endured a demotion and six months’ unpaid suspension for breaking the jaw of a homophobic lieutenant who’d put his life in danger, then a butt-numbing year as a computer clerk at Parker Center. The department had hoped inertia would finally drive him into disability retirement, the LAPD still denied the existence of gay cops, and Milo’s very presence was an assault upon that ostrich logic. But he’d stuck it out and finally gotten back into active service as a Detective 11. Back on the streets now, he was making the most of it.
“Any word when he’ll be back?” I asked the detective who answered.
“Nope,” he said, sounding put upon.
I left my name. He said, “Uh-huh,” and hung up.
I decided nothing further could be gained by worrying, changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, and trotted out the front door, ready for a halfhour run, knees be damned.
Bounding down the steps, I jogged across the motor court, passing the spot where Evelyn Rodriguez’s car had leaked oil. just as I rounded the eugenia hedge that blocked my house from the old bridle path winding above the Glen, something stepped in front of me and stopped.
And stared.
A dog, but I’d never seen one like it.
Small dog-about a foot high, maybe twice that in length. Short, black coat brindled with yellow hairs. A lot of muscle crammed into the compact package, its body bulged and gleamed in the sunlight. It had thick legs, a bull neck, a barrel chest, and a tight, tucked-in belly.
Its head was disproportionately wide and square, its face flat, deeply wrinkled, and pendulously jowled.
Somewhere between frog, monkey, and extraterrestrial.
A strand of drool dangled from its flews.
It continued to look me straight in the eye, arching forward, as if ready to spring. Its tail was an inch of stub. Male. Neutered.
I stared back. He snorted and yawned, showing big, sharp, white teeth.
A banana-sized tongue curled upward and licked meaty lips.
A diamond of white hair in the center of his chest throbbed with cardiac excitement. Around his beefy neck was a nailheadstudded collar, but no tag.