Therapy (10 page)

“And Flora was definitely concealing. She accounted for the appointments by telling Brian Van Dyne she was going to the gym. Which was logical. She’d joined the Sports Depot on Sepulveda. Step aerobics and whatnot. Al and I interviewed the people who worked there, wondering if she’d hooked up with some gym rat—maybe a muscle-bound bad boy to counterbalance wholesome Brian. But no, she kept to herself, just went there to sweat.”

“Keeping her therapy secret,” I said.

“That doesn’t really surprise me, Doctor. When one of our colleagues here gets a recommendation to see a shrink, they either ignore it, or, if they go, they keep it tightly buttoned.”

“The stigma.”

“It’s still there. Flora was serious about Brian Van Dyne. I can understand her not wanting him—or her boss at the school—to know she was having problems.”

“How long was she dating him?”

“Half a year.”

“Not exactly open communication,” I said, “but you could be right. It does make me wonder, though, if the reason she went into treatment was more stigmatizing than work stress.”

“Some deep, dark kink in her character? Who knows? Maybe Dr. Koppel will give it up.”

Milo said, “If our case is related to yours, you coulda nailed it, Lorraine. Some lunatic seeing Koppel spotted Flora—and our boy Gavin—in the waiting room and smelled Victim.”

“Male and female vics?” said Ogden. “What about the girl who died with yours?”

“No ID yet.”

Ogden frowned. “Not a head patient?”

“Dr. Koppel denied knowing the girl,” I said.

“For what that’s worth,” said Ogden.

Milo said, “You picked up a liar-vibe?”

“Nothing that strong, but it sounds like she was evasive with both of us, and the coincidence is giving off a definite scent. Let me know after you talk to her. Anything else?”

Milo said, “Lorraine, I was figuring to reinterview some of your principals, if that’s okay with you. The mom, the boyfriend, the people Flora worked with.”

“Talk to whoever you want, the main thing is closing Flora. You know Al McKinley.”

“Good man,” said Milo.

“Smart man,” she said. “Real bulldog.” She took a deep breath. “He and I really worked this one. Combed sex-offender records, did some cross-referencing with felons who work construction. It’s scary how many bad guys are doing roofing or day labor. But it all came to nothing. I was so frustrated I found myself hoping some other DB with the same signature would show up, maybe this time there’d be some forensics to work with. Nice, huh? Wanting someone else to die. The neoprene . . . he uses her knife but comes prepared with plastic. We’re talking a predator. And those guys don’t just stop. Right, Doctor?”

I nodded.

Milo said, “Maybe this one didn’t.”

CHAPTER

10

C
anfield School occupied a block of Airdrome Avenue, three blocks south of Pico and east of Doheny. Through the chain-link fence, kids played against a backdrop of mural. Peace, love, harmony. Little kids, their faces shone with possibility.

The neighborhood was Baja Beverly Hills, a five-minute ride from Mary Lou Koppel’s office on Olympic. If Flora Newsome had driven to therapy from her apartment in Palms, the trip would have stretched longer, but not much. Twenty minutes in bad traffic.

The vice principal was a black woman named Lavinia Robson with an Ed.D. and a pleasant demeanor.

She checked our credentials, asked the right questions, got on her intercom and summoned Brian Van Dyne.

“Coffee?” she said.

“No, thanks.”

“Flora was a sweetie, we were all saddened. Is there new evidence?”

“Sorry, no, Dr. Robson. Sometimes it helps to take a fresh look.”

“That’s true in education, as well—ah, here’s Brian.

*

Flora Newsome’s former boyfriend was a tall, narrow-shouldered man in his midthirties with thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache the color of gruel. His complexion implied an aversion to sunshine. He wore a green shirt, khakis, a brown wool necktie, and rubber-soled walking shoes. Thick-lensed eyeglasses gave his eyes a stunned glaze. Add to that his genuine shock at our presence, and he looked like a man who’d landed on a foreign planet.

“Flora?” he said. “After all this time?” His voice was whispery, anemic.

Lavinia Robson’s phone rang. “Brian, Pat’s out for the day, why don’t you take these gentlemen to her office?”

*

The absent Patricia Rohatyn was the school’s special ed counselor. Her office was cramped, linoleum-floored, filled with books and games. The air-conditioning vent rattled. The room smelled of rubber eraser.

Two child-sized chairs faced a cluttered desk. Brian Van Dyne said, “You guys sit,” and went to fetch a third. He came back, settled opposite us in a large chair. No attempt to dominate; he slumped, trying to sink to our level.

“Your being here today is so strange,” he said. “I just got engaged yesterday.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo.

“For a long time after Flora, I didn’t feel like dating. Finally, I agreed to let my sister set me up on a blind date.” His smile was wistful. “Karen—my fiancée—doesn’t know the details of what happened to Flora. Just that she died.”

“No need for her to know.”

“Exactly,” said Van Dyne. “I still have trouble with it. Remembering. I was the one who found her . . . what brings you here? Do you finally have a suspect?”

Milo crossed his legs, taking pains not to kick over a stack of box games. “We’re reviewing the case, sir. Is there anything that’s occurred to you since the first detectives questioned you?”

“Reviewing,” said Van Dyne, deflated. “No, nothing.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why has the case been reopened?”

“It never closed, sir.”

“Oh,” said Van Dyne. “Sure, of course.” His knees bumped together.

The small chair was cramping my back, and I stretched. It had to be agony for Milo, but he appeared fine.

He said, “One thing that came up in our review was that Ms. Newsome was seeing a psychotherapist. Detective Ogden told me that was a surprise to you.”

“It was a total surprise. Flora never told me. Which was strange because
I’d
been in therapy and told
her
.” Van Dyne fooled with his glasses. “I thought we had an open relationship.”

“You were in therapy, too,” said Milo.

Van Dyne smiled. “Nothing crazy, Lieutenant. I was married for three years, got divorced six months before I met Flora. My wife left me for some guy, and I was having a rough time. To be honest, I was pretty depressed. I saw a psychologist, and he counseled me and referred me to a psychiatrist for some short-term antidepressants. After three months, I felt a lot better and stopped the pills. Another two months of therapy, and I was ready to be on my own. That’s what enabled me to be open to a relationship with Flora. So I’d be the last person to look down on therapy. I guess Flora felt differently.”

“You think she was embarrassed?”

Van Dyne nodded.

Milo said, “Any idea why she sought treatment?”

“Not a clue. And believe me, I’ve thought about it.”

“She was well adjusted.”

“I thought she was.”

“You have doubts now?”

“I just assume she went for help because there was some kind of problem. It would have had to be something Flora viewed as serious. She wasn’t the type to talk for the sake of talking.”

“Something serious.”

“Serious in
her
mind.”

“You two meet here at the school?” said Milo.

“First day of school. I’d just transferred from the Valley, and Flora was beginning her probationary year. She got assigned to assist another teacher, but I was the one who ended up showing her the ropes. One thing led to the other.”

Milo pulled out his pad and scribbled. Keeping his eyes on the page, he said, “Any idea about who might’ve wanted to hurt Ms. Newsome?”

“Some nut,” said Van Dyne. “No rational person would do what I saw. It was . . . stomach-churning.”

“Did Flora ever talk about being afraid of anyone?” said Milo. “Someone harassing her, stalking her, that kind of thing?” Easing his big body closer to Van Dyne. Using Newsome’s first name.

“Never. But given the fact that she kept her therapy a secret, I can’t be sure she didn’t hide something else.”

“Did she ever seem scared or unduly nervous?”

“Being on probation was a little stressful. Who likes to be judged? But she was doing great, would definitely have passed. Teaching meant a lot to her, Lieutenant. She told me everything she’d done before that had just been a job, but this was her career.”

“What other jobs did she have?” I said.

“Office work, mostly. She did some filing for a law firm, worked at a parole office, then she managed the office of a software company that went bust. Evenings she studied for her credential.”

“The parole office downtown?” said Milo.

“She never said, only that she didn’t like it there. Too many weird characters coming in and out. I thought that might be important and mentioned it to the first detectives, but they didn’t seem to agree. Because Flora hadn’t worked there for a while.”

“Weird characters.”

“Her phrase,” said Van Dyne. “She didn’t want to discuss it.” He laced his hands across his chest, as if guarding his heart. “The thing you need to understand about Flora was she wasn’t the most talkative person. Not very outgoing or passionate on the surface.” He licked his lips. “She was very . . . traditional, more like someone from my mother’s generation.”

“Conservative.”

“Very. That’s why I was so surprised to find out she’d been in therapy.”

“And you have no idea,” said Milo, “about what was bothering her.”

“She seemed happy,” said Van Dyne. “She really did.”

“About getting married.”

“About everything. She was a reserved person, Lieutenant. An old-fashioned girl.” Van Dyne’s fingers separated, but he kept his hand on his chest. “Have you talked to her therapist? Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, she’s one of those radio personalities. For all I know that’s how Flora found her, from hearing her on the radio.”

“Would Flora do something like that?” I said. “Listen to a show and call up for an appointment?”

Van Dyne thought about that. “It’s not what I’d have predicted, but who knows? What did Koppel say about treating Flora?”

“Haven’t spoken to her yet,” said Milo.

“Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.” Van Dyne’s hands dropped to his lap. “I called her a few weeks after the murder, when I found out Flora had been seeing her. I’m not even sure what I wanted. Some memory of Flora, I guess. Maybe some sympathy, it was a horrendous time. But boy did I dial a wrong number. She was anything but sympathetic. Said confidentiality prevented her from speaking to me and hung up. Very curt. Not in the least bit therapeutic.”

*

Driving away from the school, Milo frowned and lit up a panatella. “Sensitive guy.”

“He bug you in some way?”

“Not in the criminal sense, but I wouldn’t want to hang out with him. Too delicate.” He frowned. “Working at a parole office where the cons made her nervous. One reinterview and we’ve got info that wasn’t in Lorraine’s notes.”

“Lorraine and McKinley weren’t impressed with the parole job because a year had gone by.”

“I’m more easily impressed.”

*

We returned to the station, where he accessed Flora Newsome’s state employment records and located the parole branch where she’d clerked for five months. Not downtown, the North Hollywood office. A half-hour drive from the murder scene.

I said, “A con notices her, follows her home, stakes out her apartment. Breaking in wouldn’t be much of a challenge for a pro.”

“Ye olde failure to rehabilitate,” he said. “Wonder what Dr. Koppel thinks about that.” He stood, stretched, sat down hard.

I said, “There’s another possibility. The con didn’t follow Flora home, she already knew him. That’s why there was no sign of a break-in. Why he didn’t need to bring a knife. Maybe what brought Flora to therapy was more than adjustment problems.”

“Nice, old-fashioned girl getting it on with a lowlife?”

“She kept her therapy from her boyfriend, could’ve had other secrets.”

“Fooling with a con,” he said. “Forbidden pleasures. Guilt took her to Koppel.” He stared at me. “You do weave a web.”

*

He walked me through the station and out to the street, glanced at his Timex. “Think I’ll have a go at Koppel. Solo, seeing as you two have issues.”

“Issues.” I smiled.

“Hey, I’m walkin’ the walk, talkin’ the talk.”

*

Later that evening, he called, and said, “Did you know shrinks don’t have to hold on to files?”

“Koppel has no records of Flora Newsome’s treatment.”

“Straight into the shredder a month after Newsome died. Koppel says it’s routine, any closed case gets trashed. Otherwise, she runs into a ‘storage problem.’ Also, she claims it helps safeguard confidentiality because no one can ‘happen’ upon the chart.”

“Did she remember anything about Newsome?”

“Even less than she remembered for Ogden. ‘I treat so many patients, Lieutenant.’ ”

“But this patient was murdered.”

“Same difference.”

“She gave you a hard time,” I said.

“Not on the surface. She was superfriendly, nice smile, easy manner. Sends her regards, by the way. Says you’re a real gentleman.”

“I’m touched. She give you anything to work with?”