Dr. Death

"Go fuck yourself."

I pressed him about novelty shop gags, phony books. Broken stethoscopes.

He said, "What in the ripe rotten fuck are you talking about?"

"You don't know?"

"Hell no, but go ahead, talk all you want, I'm coasting now. Getting smooth."

Then he closed his eyes, curled as fetally as the cuffs allowed, and went to sleep.

Not faking; real slumber, chest rising and falling in a slow, easy beat. The rhythmic snores of one at peace. I left Hollywood Mercy trying to classify him. Assaultive and deeply disturbed, but bright and manipulative. Combative and pigheaded, too. Eldon Mate had rejected his son unceasingly, but genetics couldn't be denied. Zero Tollrance. He'd turned himself into a walking canvas, drifting from squat to squat, numbed his pain with dope and anticonvulsants and anger and art.

Painting his father's portrait, over and over.

Offering his best to his father, getting rejected over and over.

As good a motive for patricide as any. And Do

Did you kill him?

Too late. As usual.

Denying he'd followed through. As did Richard. Brilliant, bloody production, and no one was willing to take credit.

Despite Do

The mental impairment was real. Tegretol was powerful stuff, end-stage medication for mood disorders when lithium failed. No fun, not an addict's choice. If Do

He'd dissected his father on canvas, but the real-life murder reeked of a mix of calculation and brutality that seemed beyond him. I tried to picture him organizing what had happened up on Mulholland. Stalking, enticing, writing a mocking note, hiding a broken stethoscope in a box. Cleaning up perfectly, sufficiently meticulous not to leave a speck of DNA.

This was a guy who got mugged and left in the gutter. Who got yelled at by an elderly landlady and fled.

My mention of the book and the scope had elicited nothing from him. His clumsy attempt to enter his father's apartment in full view of Mrs. Krohnfeld was miles from that degree of sophistication. His entire life pattern was a series of failed attempts. I doubted he'd ever gotten past Eldon Mate's front door.

No, someone a lot more intact than Do

Smarts and rage. Outwardly coherent but with a bad temper problem.

Someone like Richard.

And his son. I thought of how the boy had pulverized six figures' worth of treasure.

It kept coming back to Eric.

Dispirited, I headed west on Beverly and considered how Eric might've lured Mate to Mulholland. Wanting to talk about his mother? To talk about what he'd done to his mother-for his mother. Claiming to Mate that he'd been inspired by the death doctor. The appeal to Mate's vanity might have worked.

But if Eric had been the one in that motel room, why butcher Mate? Covering for himself? Thin. So perhaps Mate had been involved. And Eric, knowing of his father's hatred for the death doctor, perhaps even knowing about the failed contract with Quentin Goad, had taken it upon himself to act.

Blood orgy to please the old man.

Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard. The phrasing had an adolescent flavor to it. I could hear the sentence tumbling from Eric's lips.

But if Eric had slaughtered Mate, why was he now striking out against his father? Had he finally come to grips with what he'd done? Turned his anger on Richard-blaming, just as the old man was wont to do?

Father and son rolling, wrestling, snorting on the floor. Tearing at each other, only to embrace. Ambivalence. Apparent reconciliation.

But if what I suspected was true, the boy was unpredictable and dangerous. Joe Safer had sensed that, asked my opinion. I'd avoided an answer, claiming I needed to focus upon Stacy, but also wanting to avoid additional complications. Now I had to wonder if Eric's presence in the house put Stacy-and Richard-in danger.

I'd call Safer as soon as I got home. Hold back my suspicions and keep my comments general-Eric's bad temper, the effects of stress, the need to be careful.

The afternoon traffic had sludged to chrome cholesterol, cars lurching forward in fits and starts, tempers flaring. I allowed myself to be drawn into it, oblivious to petty resentments, thinking about real rage: Eric and Mate on Mulholland. Blunt-force injury to Mate's head. As in baseball bat.

Perhaps the boy had gotten Mate up there with a simple lie: misrepresenting himself as a terminally ill patient pining for the love bite of the Humanitron.

A young, male traveler. Mate, defensive about too many females, those nasty feminist jibes about his sexuality, would have liked that.

The meet, the kill, then weeks later Eric sneaks into Mate's apartment and hides the stethoscope.

Out of business, Doc.

High intelligence, savage anger. The boy had plenty of both.

And sneaking out in the middle of the night was Eric's habit, he'd done it for years.

Helen, the dog…

A look at the boy's phone records and credit-card log would be instructive. Had he booked a flight from Palo Alto to L.A. on or around the day of Mate's murder? Made a second trip to pull off the break-in?

Taking all those risks simply to taunt Mate's ghosts.

Or was it the cops he was out to humiliate? Because, after shedding blood, he learned that he liked it?

The juxtaposition of blood and pleasure. That's the way it had started for Michael Burke. That's the way it always started.

Someone that young and smart warping so severely. Terrifying.

I wanted to bounce it all off Milo. Intriguing, he'd say, but all theory.

And theory was where it would freeze because I couldn't-didn't want to-probe further.

A horn honked. Someone screeched to a stop. Someone cursed. The air outside looked heavy and milky and poisonous. I sat in my steel box, one among thousands, pretending to navigate.

CHAPTER 31

FOUR P.M. CORNED-BEEF sandwiches and beer in the fridge, a note from Robin pi

The studio was on La Brea near Sunset; I'd been only a few blocks away. Ships passing…

Mail was piled up on the dining room table; from the looks of it, mostly bills, and hucksters promising immortality. I phoned Safer. He was in court, unavailable, so I tried the Dosses.

Richard answered. "Doctor. So you got the packet."

"What packet?"

Pause. "Doesn't matter… What can I do for you?"

"I was calling to see how you're doing."

"Stacy's fine. Went to school. She's staying away for the weekend." His voice dropped. "I suppose that's best."

"And Eric?"

"On his way back to Stanford. I got him a plane out of VanNuys."

"You think he's ready for that?"

"Why not?"

"Last night-"

"Last night was an aberration, Doctor. With all he's gone through, he should've blown a long time ago. Tell the truth, I'm glad he finally did. It's just pottery, I'm fully insured. We'll tell the carrier it was an accident- the bolts on the cases came loose."

"Is he going to get some help at Stanford?

We discussed that," he said. "He's considering it.

I think you should be more directive-

Look, Doctor, I appreciate all you've done, but frankly Eric doesn't… he doesn't feel comfortable with you. Not your fault, everyone relates differently, you're fine for Stacy, not Eric. Probably all for the best, avoiding sibling rivalry. So why don't you concentrate on Stacy and I'll handle Eric."