He smiled with practiced weariness. Any reticence about discussing patients had vanished. “I, for one, couldn’t see what any of that had to do with reducing recidivism, and when he stopped showing up, I told Mary I’d had enough of the program and the people it brought in.”
He placed the eyeglasses back in his pocket, laced his hands, and sat forward. “You need to understand: I’d never do anything to hurt Mary. Never.”
I said, “So you saw only three Sentries for Justice patients. For how many sessions, total?”
“I believe twelve—certainly not much more than that. I remember thinking that apart from being unpleasant and unproductive, the project was a financial loser. I think the total billable charges didn’t even amount to five hundred dollars. That’s why your three hundred thousand figure is absurd. And the money didn’t come to Marina del Rey, it came to Mary at the office, she cashed the state check and distributed the money to me. You really do need to check your facts, gentlemen.”
“Mary was the bursar.”
“So to speak. Yes.”
Milo removed several sheets of paper from his attache case and passed them to me. I showed Franco Gull a mug shot of Raymond Degussa.
He said, “Yes, that’s him. Ray.”
“Mr. Dominance.”
He nodded. “Did he murder Mary?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he impressed me as someone clearly capable of violence. The way he carried himself, the way he sat, walked—like a barely tethered animal.” He studied the picture. “Look at those eyes. He made me uncomfortable. I told Mary that. She laughed it off, said there was nothing to worry about.”
“The girlfriend he talked about,” I said. “Did he mention her name?”
“No, but I saw her. At least I assume it was her.”
“You assume?”
“Shortly after Ray had stopped coming to see me, I spotted him with a woman. His arm was around her. He seemed . . . proprietary.”
“Where’d you see them?” I said.
“I happened to step out into the waiting room to get my patient, and the two of them were also sitting there. At first I thought there’d been some kind of scheduling problem, that Ray expected a session. But before I could say anything, Mary came out and the woman went back with her.”
“The girlfriend was a patient of Mary’s.”
“Apparently.”
I showed him a shot of Flora Newsome, alive and smiling.
“Yes,” he said. “Good Lord, what’s this all about?”
“Did you see this woman with Ray Degussa any other times?”
“Once more,” said Gull, “as I arrived at the building and they were walking out to the parking lot. It surprised me—the way she looked. Putting a face to the person he’d talked about. A man like that, I’d have expected someone a bit more . . . obvious.”
“A bimbo,” said Milo.
“This woman was . . . she looked like a bank clerk.”
“She was a teacher,” I said.
“Was,” said Gull. “You’re saying . . . God, how far does this go?”
“Knowing Degussa was a thug, did you tell Mary his fantasies about her patient?”
“No, I couldn’t. Confidentiality. That was one thing we were adamant about. All three of us. Once our doors closed, that was it. No cross-office chitchat about patients.”
“You didn’t see Degussa as a threat to Flora Newsome?”
“Flora,” said Gull. “So that’s her name . . . good God.” He bounded up, snatched another tissue. “There was nothing to warn anyone about. Nothing that even approached a Tarasoff level. He never said he wanted to hurt her, just that he wanted to make her come.”
“Make her scream for mercy,” I said.
“I took that as a metaphor.”
Milo said, “Him being a poetic type.”
“He killed her?” said Gull. “You’re saying he actually killed her?”
“Someone did.”
“Oh God. This is my worst nightmare.”
Milo said, “Hers was worse.”
No one spoke for a while, then Gull said, “Did he assault her sexually?”
Milo said, “We’ll ask the questions.”
“Fine, fine—God, this is draining me, I’m drying up.” Gull stood again, poured two glasses of water, and finished both. His face was glossy. Fluid in, fluid out. A man of little substance.