Dr. Death

"I think he needs help, Richard.

Your opinion has been duly noted.

What about you, Richard? How are you doing?

I'm alone. Guess I'd better get used to that.

Anything I can do?"

"No, I'm fine-no thanks to your buddy the detective. He keeps trying to search every square inch I own. And hounding Safer, asking for an 'interview.' Talk about euphemism. But that's okay, everyone has to do their job. Safer tells me I'll be free of all this crap soon enough. Gotta go, Doctor, call coming in on the other line. If Stacy needs you, I'll be in touch.

She doesn't want an appointment?

I'll ask her. Thanks. Bye."

I found "the packet" in the middle of the mail stack. Courier-delivered envelope, the return address, RTD Properties. Folded into a sheet of RTD stationery was a check written on RTD business account IV. Fifteen thousand dollars. A typed note:

Mr. D. thanks you for your time. He trusts this will cover everything to date.

Terri, Accounting

I'll be in touch.

Not likely. I knew severance pay when I saw it.

I couldn't talk to Milo, so I called Petra to let her know my impressions of Do

"It's fine," she said. "I just have to run over to Hollywood Pres in a few minutes, start some paper on a new one. Boy meets girl, boy beds girl, boy kills girl, then tries to kill himself. Guy's hooked up to life support, some people can't do anything right. What's up?"

I summarized my bedside chat with Do

She said, "Is this guy dangerous?"

"If he doesn't get medicated, maybe. I can't promise you he didn't kill his father, but I wouldn't bet on it."

I explained my reasoning.

She said, "Makes sense. I'll pass it on, see if Milo wants me to hold him on anything… Listen, I know I'm a pest about Billy, but kid care isn't my thing, I'm the youngest in my family. Tomorrow when I see him, I was thinking of bringing him some books. Anything in particular you'd suggest?"

"He's always liked history."

"I've already gotten him plenty of history books. I thought fiction might be a nice switch-maybe the classics? Do you see him as able to handle Les Mis-erablest Or The Count of Monte Cristo, something like that?"

"Sure," I said. "Either."

"Good, I wasn't sure. Because of the themes- abandonment, poverty. You don't think it's too close to home?"

"No, he'll be fine with it, Petra. I can see books like that appealing to his moral core."

"He's sure got one of those, doesn't he?" she said. "I'm still trying to figure out where it came from."

"If you knew, you could sell it."

"And do something else for a living."

"Such as? "I said.

She laughed. "Such as nothing. I love my job."

Saturday morning I awoke thinking about Eric as a murderer. It stayed on my mind during the breakfast that Robin and I shared out near the pond. Then I looked around, saw how beautiful the world was and wondered if I was just letting my imagination run wild because I couldn't stand nice. After all, not a shred of evidence pointed to the boy-or his mother-even talking to Mate.

Mate's records might shed some light on that. And I was certain that records existed, because Mate had regarded his work as historically significant, would have wanted every detail recorded for posterity.

Milo had guessed Roy Haiselden had them, and he might be right. Now that he had Richard as a suspect, and Haiselden's motive for disappearing had become clear, he was unlikely to pursue the attorney.

No criminal charges had been lodged against Haiselden yet, but domestic violence and child-abuse allegations meant that other detectives would be looking for him, meaning someone might get a warrant. But the Breckenham civil suit had been filed in Baldwin Park, sheriffs jurisdiction. My only sheriffs contact was Ron Banks, a downtown homicide investigator and Petra Co

After we cleaned up, Robin and I went shopping for groceries, then walked in the hills with the pooch. Then she retired for a nap and I went into my office, ignited the computer and gave the Internet another try. Nothing new on Mate except for a couple of cybergossips in a right-to-die chat room exercising their constitutional right to be paranoid.

Am I being too imaginative, wondered whiteknight, to suggest that following the death of Dr. Mate further attempts are being made to silence those with the courage to face off against The Powers That Be?

Not at all, responded fu

Screenplays were everywhere. I logged off.

Mate's records… Time to give the ever-amiable Alice Zoghbie another try? For all I knew, Haiselden had never had the files, they'd been stored at the pretty little vanilla house on Glenmont.

No reason for her to be any more forthcoming.

Unless I pointed out the discrepancies between Jo-a

If she knew that already, hearing about Richard's arrest would have sent her reeling, she might even be contemplating coming forth. If so, maybe I could tip the scales-turn her grief to my advantage.

Manipulative, but she was someone who believed the infirm should be encouraged not to exist.

At worst, she'd slam the door in my face. Nothing lost; as things stood, I was pretty useless.

I made the drive to Glendale in thirty-five minutes. In the morning light, Alice Zoghbie's house was even cuter, flower beds crayon bright, the copper rooster weather vane vibrating in a breeze I couldn't feel. The same white Audi sat in the cobblestone driveway. Dust on the windshield.

A bit more humanity on the street this time. An old man sweeping his front porch, a young couple pulling out of their carport.

I tapped the goat's-head knocker lightly. No answer. My second attempt, more energetic, was also met with silence.

Making my way back to the driveway, I walked past the Audi to a green wooden gate. Bees buzzed, butterflies fluttered. I called out, "Hello?" then Alice Zoghbie's name, got no reply. Flowers kissed the side of the house. Lights on in the kitchen.

The gate was latched but not locked. I reached around, popped it open, continued along a cobblestone path shaded by the arthritic boughs of an old, scarred sycamore. A small stoop led up to the kitchen door. Four panes of glass gave me something to look through. Lights on, but unoccupied. Dishes in the sink. A carton of milk and half an orange on the counter. The fruit, slightly withered. I knocked. Nothing. Climbing down the stoop, I moved along the side of the house, peeking in windows, listening. Just the bee buzz.

The backyard was small, charmingly landscaped, with hedges of Italian cypress on two sides that blocked the neighbors' views, and a tall wooden fence at the back. Victorian lawn furniture, more flower beds. The kind of flowers that bloom in shade. A dark yard, shrouded by a second sycamore, even larger, stout branches supporting a macrame hammock.

Trunk as thick as two people.

Two people propped against the trunk.

The buzzing, louder-not bees, flies, a storm of flies.

Both of the bodies were tied to the tree with thick rope, fastened tight at chest level and around the waist. The hemp was crusted maroon and brown and black.

Barefoot corpses, insects reco