Dr. Death (31 page)

Skin art . . .

Where was Donny Salcido Mate, self-proclaimed Rembrandt of the flesh?
The Anatomy Lesson.
Let us carve and learn.

Let us carve Daddy? 'Cause we hate Daddy but want to be him? The art of death . . . Why couldn't it be him? It
should
be him.

Then I thought of Guillerma Mate, the way she'd stood at the closet of that dingy little motel room, frozen, as I asked about her only child. Maybe faith was its own reward, but still, hers had to be a lonely life: a single mom, abandoned by her husband, disappointed by her only child.

She prayed regularly, offered thanks.

Casting her eye upon some grand world to come, or had she truly found peace? Her bus trip to L.A. said she hadn't.

Richard and his kids, Guillerma and her boy.

Alone, everyone alone.

23

THREE HOURS INTO Thursday.

Three twenty-two A.M. and I'd finished every word in Fusco's omnibus. No thunderous conclusions. Then I went over the photos a second time and saw it.

Crime-scene shot from a Washington State unsolved— one of the four victims murdered during Michael Burke's term as a medical student. Four killings Fusco saw as consistent with Burke's technique because the victims had been left propped against or near trees.

The girl was a twenty-year-old waitress named Marissa Bonpaine, last seen serving shrimp cocktail at a stand in the Pike Place Market in Seattle, found a week later splayed in front of a fir in a remote part of the Olympic National Forest. No footprints near the scene; the buildup of pine needles and decaying leaves on the forest floor was a potentially fertile nest for forensic data, but nothing had been found. Add eleven days of rain to that, and the scene was as clean as the operating room the killer had intended it to be.

Marissa Bonpaine had been savaged in a manner I now found uncomfortably familiar: throat slash, abdominal mutilations, sexual posturing. A single, deep trapezoidal wound just above the pubic bone could be considered geometrical, though the edges were rough. Death from shock and blood loss.

No blunt-force head wound. I supposed Fusco would attribute that to the killer's escalating confidence and the seclusion of the spot: wanting Bonpaine conscious, wanting her to watch, to suffer. Taking his time.

I checked the girl's physical dimensions. Four-eleven, one hundred one. Tiny, easy to subdue without knocking her out.

What caught my eye wasn't any of that; after three hours of wading in gore and sadism, I'd grown sadly habituated.

I'd noticed something glinting against the brown cushion of forest detritus, several feet to the right of Marissa Bonpaine's frail left hand. Something shiny enough to catch the miserly light filtering through the dense conifer ceiling and bounce it back. I flipped pages till I found the police report.

A hiker had found the body. Forest rangers and law enforcement personnel from three departments had conducted a two-hundred-yard grid search and listed their findings under "Crime Scene Inventory." One hundred eighty-three retrieved items, mostly trash— empty cans and bottles, broken sunglasses, a can opener, rotted paper, cigarette butts— tobacco and cannabis— animal skeletons, solid lead buckshot, two copper-jacketed bullets ballistically analyzed but deemed unimportant because Marissa Bonpaine's body bore no gunshot wounds. Three pairs of insect-infested hiking boots and other discarded clothing had been studied by the crime lab and dated well before the murder.

Halfway down the list, there it was:

C.S.I. Item #76: Child's toy hypodermic, manu. TommiToy, Taiwan, orig. component of U-Be-the-Doctor Kit, imported 1989–95. Location: ground, 1.4 m from victim's l. hand, no prints, no organic residue.

No residue might have indicated recent placement, but the rain might have just washed any residue away. I read the rest of the Bonpaine documents. No sign anyone had considered the toy. A review of all the other Washington cases revealed no other medical toys.

Marissa Bonpaine was the last of the Washington victims. Her body had been found July 2, but the abduction was believed to have occurred around June 17. More page-flipping. Michael Burke had received his MD on June 12.

Graduation party?

I'm a doctor, here's my needle!

I'm
the
doctor!

Stethoscope, hypodermic. One broken, the other intact. I knew what Milo would say. Cute, but so what?

Maybe he was right— he'd been too damn right, so far— and the injector was nothing more than a piece of trash left by some kid who'd hiked through the forest with his parents.

Still, it made me wonder.

A message . . . always messages.

To Marissa: I'm the doctor.

To Mate: I'm the doctor and you're not.

I reread Fusco's notes. No mention of the toy.

Maybe I'd mention it to Milo. If he and I had the chance to talk soon.

I flipped back to the front of the first volume, the various incarnations of Michael Burke, studied every feature of every photo. A song danced through my head
— Getting to know you, getting to know all about you—
but Burke remained a stranger.

High-IQ psychopath, lust-killer, master euthanist. Comforter of terminally ill women, brutalizer of healthy females. Compartmentalizing. It helped in murder as well as politics.

Maybe in real estate, as well. The world of distressed properties.

Milo had his prime witness and I had two toys. Still, the wounds fit. And Milo had asked me to study the files.

You're out of business, I'm in.

When we'd questioned Alice Zoghbie, we'd asked her about confederates, and she'd just about admitted they existed but refused to go further, pooh-poohed the chance anyone close to Mate could have savaged him.

Eldon was brilliant. He wouldn't have trusted just anyone.

But Mate would've
loved
the idea of the MD sidekick. Another boost to his respectability— supervising an internship in cellular cessation.

Zoghbie was worth another try. She'd worshiped Mate, would want to punish his murderer. Now I had a name to throw her, a general physical description, could observe her reaction. What risk was there? I'd call her later this morning. Worst case, she'd tell me to go to hell.

Best case, I'd learn something, maybe make some progress revealing a new suspect.

Someone other than Richard.
Anyone
but Richard.

Stretching out on the old leather sofa, I covered myself with a woolen throw, stared up at the ceiling, knowing I'd never fall back asleep.

When I awoke, it was just after seven and Robin was standing over me.

"What a guy," she said, "moves out to the couch even when he hasn't misbehaved." She sat perched on the edge of the cushion, smoothed my hair.

"Morning," I said.

She looked at the file. "Cramming for the big test?"

"What can I say? Always been a grind."

"And look where it's gotten you."

"Where?"

"Fame, fortune. Me. Rise and shine. Fix yourself up so I can take care of you— I seem to be doing that a lot, lately, don't I?"

• • •

Showering and shaving provided a veneer of humanness, but my stomach recoiled at the idea of breakfast and I sat watching as Robin ate toast and eggs and grapefruit. We shared a pleasant half hour and I thought I pulled off amiable pretty well. When she left for the studio, it was eight and I turned on the morning news. Recap of the Doss story but no new facts.

At 8:20, I phoned Alice Zoghbie and heard the taped greeting from her machine. Just as I hung up, my service rang in.

"Morning, Dr. Delaware. I have a Joseph Safer on the phone."

Richard's lawyer. "Put him on."

"Doctor? Joe Safer. I'm a criminal-defense attorney representing your patient Richard Doss."

Mellow baritone. Slow pace but no faltering. The voice of an older man— deliberate, grandfatherly, comforting.

"How's Richard doing?" I said.

"We-ell," said Safer, "he's still incarcerated, so I don't imagine he's doing too well. But that should be resolved by this afternoon."

"Paperwork?"

"Not to be paranoid, Doctor, but I do wonder if the boys in blue haven't slowed things down a bit."

"God forbid."

"Are you a religious man, Doctor?"

"Doesn't everyone invoke God when times get rough?"

He chuckled. "How true. Anyway, the reason I'm calling is once Richard does get out, he would like to speak with you about his children. How to best get them through this."

"Of course," I said.

"Terrific. We'll be in touch." Cheerful. As if planning a picnic.

"What's in store for him, Mr. Safer?"

"Call me Joe. . . . We-ell, that's hard to say . . . we both enjoy the privilege of confidentiality here, so I'll be a bit forthcoming. I don't believe the police have anything one might judge as seriously incriminating. Unless something turns up during the search, and I don't expect it will . . . Doctor, you've got more latitude than I in terms of your confidentiality."

"What do you mean?"

"Unless your patient poses a Tarasoff risk, you're not obligated to divulge anything. I, on the other hand . . . There are questions I don't ask."

Letting me know he didn't want to know if his client was guilty. That I should keep my mouth shut if I knew.

"I understand," I said.

"Splendid . . . Well, then talk about Stacy and Eric for a moment. They seem like nice children. Bright, extremely bright, that's evident even under the circumstances. But troubled— they'd have to be. I'm glad you're on board if therapy's called for."

"There may be a problem with that. Eric's furious with me, convinced I'm aligned with the police. I can understand that because I am friends with one of the—"

"Milo Sturgis," said Safer. "A very effective investigator— I'm well aware of your friendship with Mr. Sturgis. Commendable."

"What is?"

"A heterosexual man enjoying a friendship with a homosexual man. One of my sons was gay. He taught me a lot about having an open mind. I didn't learn quickly enough."

Past tense. His voice had dropped in pitch and volume. "Impetuous youth," he continued. "I'm referring to Eric. I have five of my own, thirteen grandchildren. Four of my own, to be truthful. My boy Daniel passed on last year. His diagnosis sped up my learning curve."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh it was terrible, Doctor, your life's never the same . . . but enough of that. In terms of Eric's recalcitrance, I'll have a talk with the boy. As will Richard. What about Stacy? I don't have as much of a feel for her. She sits there while Eric does all the talking. Reminds me of my Daniel. He was my firstborn, always a peacemaker— his siblings' ambassador to their mother and me when things got rough."

I heard him sigh.

"Stacy's a good kid," I said. "My primary patient in the family. I had only one session with Eric, and not a complete one. The police showed up before we were through and took Richard away."

"Yes. Dreadful. Rather cossacklike behavior . . . We-ell, thank you for your time, Dr. Delaware. Take care of yourself. You're needed here."

24

THURSDAY AT 8:45 A.M. I called Alice Zoghbie, got the same taped message. Fifteen minutes later, I caught a newsbreak. Different reporter, same I've-got-a-scoop smile. Another backdrop that I recognized.

". . . the woman, Amber Breckenham, claims that in addition, Haiselden regularly abused her and her daughter during their relationship. We're here at Haiselden's house, where neighbors say he hasn't been seen for well over a week. At the moment this remains a civil case, and no word has come down from LAPD as to whether a criminal investigation will be pursued. From Westwood, with another bizarre twist on the murder of death doctor Eldon Mate, I'm Dana Almodovar, On-the-Spot News."

Shift to the weather report. Hazy skies, low sixties to mid-seventies, for the fortieth day in a row. I played with the remote, finally found a complete story on one of the networks specializing in lurid.

Amber Breckenham, thirty-four, the manager of one of Roy Haiselden's laundromats, in Baldwin Park, had filed a civil suit against her former boss. A shot of Breckenham walking into court with her attorney showed a tall, thickly built bleached blonde. Holding her hand was a dark-haired girl, eleven or twelve. The child kept her head down, but someone called her name—"Laurette!"— and she looked up just long enough for the camera to capture a glimpse of pretty African features and straightened hair brushed back from a high, smooth brow.

Breckenham's story was that she'd had a seven-year affair with Haiselden, during which time he'd claimed to be investing her money but had, in fact, embezzled. Furthermore, he'd abused her physically and intimidated Laurette psychologically. The suit was for five million dollars, most of it punitive damages.

Haiselden's reason for cutting town? Scratch one murder suspect?