Hacker was six-two, 170, with thinning dishwater hair and a chin that fell far short of assertive. He wore a white shirt and tie, smiled faintly for the motor vehicles camera.
According to Medi-Cal investigator Dwight Zevonsky, the PO was a rich man. Both of them were.
Franco Gull hadn’t responded to my greeting, so I repeated it.
He said, “Morning.”
I kept my suit jacket buttoned, kept my posture authoritative. “Pretty outside,” I said. “But that’s irrelevant to you.”
No answer.
“All that dissonance must be tough, Franco.”
Myrna Wimmer said, “Pardon me?”
“Dissonance. When self-image clashes with harsh reality.” I scooted closer to Gull. He pressed himself against the back of the armchair. The chair rolled back a couple of inches.
“What is this?” said Wimmer. “I canceled an appointment to hear psychobabble?”
I addressed Gull. “First off, you need to know that I’m not a police officer, I’m your peer.”
Franco Gull’s left eye twitched, and he glanced at Wimmer. She said, “What’s going on?”
Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s a clinical psychologist. He consults to the department.”
Gull glared at me. “You never thought to mention that.”
“No reason to,” I said. “There is now.”
Wimmer folded her arms across her chest. “Well, this is different.”
“Any problem with that?” said Milo.
She held up a finger. “No one talk, I’m thinking.”
“Maybe it’ll be more pleasant for your client,” said Milo. “No rubber hose, a bit of collegiality.”
“That remains to be seen.” To me: “What’s your angle—first of all, what’s your name, again?”
I told her, and she made a show of writing it down. “Okay, now what’s your angle?”
“Clinical psych.” I turned to Gull. “I’ve been trying to understand how you got into this dismal situation.”
Gull looked away and I went on: “I did a little research on you, but that only put more pieces in the puzzle.” I edged even closer. Gull tried to wheel backwards, but the casters caught in the carpet.
“Franco—may I call you Franco? Franco, the gap between the person I learned about and what’s happening to you now is rather wide.”
Gull licked his lips.
Myrna Wimmer laughed. “Oh boy, Psych 101.”
I turned to her. “Is that okay with you?”
The question surprised her. “You’re asking my opinion?”
“What I mean,” I said, “is that if I’m taking the wrong approach—if you’ve got a better approach to communicating with Dr. Gull, please let me know.” Speaking softly, so that she had to cant her head to hear.
She said, “I—just get on with it. I’ve got another appointment in forty-five minutes.”
I turned back to Gull: “You graduated summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa from the U. of Kansas in Lawrence. You managed that while playing four years of varsity baseball. Not just run-of-the-mill baseball. In your senior year, you came close to breaking the university’s RBI record. I find that more than impressive, Franco. Talk about your well-rounded scholar. Kind of a Grecian ideal, no? You’d know about that, you switched from classics to psychology in your sophomore year.”
Myrna Wimmer circled behind her desk and sat down. She looked angry and fascinated.
Franco Gull didn’t move or speak.
I said, “Two years in the Minor Leagues and no one there has anything but good things to say about you. Too bad about that hamstring shred.”
Gull said, “Things happen.” And started to sweat.
I said, “Same goes for Berkeley. We both know how tough it is to get into a place like that, but you were tops on their list. As a grad student, you kept up the good work. Your dissertation supervisor, Professor Albright, is getting on in years, but his memory is pretty sharp. He told me you were a hard worker, your research was substantive, you really knew how to focus on problem-solving. He hoped you’d go into academia—but that’s another story.”
Gull mopped his neck.
I said, “Then there are all your good works. In addition to all the required clinical hours for your doctorate, you volunteered your services at a home for abused kids. The same year you were writing your dissertation. That’s impressive. How’d you find the time?”