Therapy (36 page)
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
CHAPTER
38
F
ranco Gull had retained the services of a criminal defense lawyer named Armand Moss. Moss had passed the assignment to an associate, a stunning brunette woman of around forty named Myrna Wimmer.
The meeting was held in Wimmer’s office, a glass-lined room on the top floor of an office building on Wilshire near Barrington. It was a glorious day, and the glass served its purpose.
Myrna Wimmer wore a burgundy pantsuit and had flawless ivory skin. Her artfully highlighted wedge cut was glossy and efficient. A Yale law degree was displayed like the icon it was. The photos on her credenza said she had a doting husband and five gorgeous kids. She moved like a dancer, her greeting was warm. Slanted gray eyes under artfully shaped brows could’ve melted paint.
She said, “For the record, Dr. Gull is here of his own volition and is under no obligation to answer any questions, let alone those deemed inappropriate.”
“Yes, ma’am, anything you say,” said Milo.
Wimmer regarded him with amusement, turned to Gull, who sat on a club chair near the longest glass wall, feet planted on the carpet, looking drained and thinner. The chair rested on casters, and Gull’s movements made it shudder.
He had on a black suit, white mock-turtleneck, oxblood calfskin loafers. Little red clocks on his black socks. A folded linen handkerchief was wadded in one big hand. No sweating, yet, but preparing himself? Or maybe his lawyer had provided the hankie.
Milo took the seat farthest from Gull. I got close.
“Good morning,” I said. It was 11 A.M., and the view out Myrna Wimmer’s glass walls deserved some serious meditation. I was there for anything but, dressed in my best navy suit, a white pin-collar shirt with French cuffs, and a gold jacquard tie. Last time I’d gone that route someone had mistaken me for a lawyer. The sacrifices we make for the public good.
Two days had passed since Christina Marsh’s photo had run in the paper. A couple of schizophrenics had phoned Milo, each with oddly congruent stories about alien abductions, each certain Christina was really from Venus. Comic relief; with the schedule he’d been keeping Milo needed it.
Two nights attempting to surveil Raymond Degussa had gone flat when the bouncer had failed to show up for his club gig. A check at his last-known address revealed it to be eighteen months out-of-date, and now Milo had more to search for.
Before we’d headed for Myrna Wimmer’s office, he’d shown me mug shots of Degussa and a DMV photo of Bennett Hacker. Degussa’s stats put him at six feet, 198, with multiple tattoos. Long, seamed face, thick neck, strong features, black hair oiled and brushed straight back. In one of the pictures, Degussa wore a thick, drooping mustache. In others he was clean-shaven. Tiny slit eyes projected profound boredom.
Hacker was six-two, 170, with thinning dishwater hair and a chin that fell far short of assertive. He wore a white shirt and tie, smiled faintly for the motor vehicles camera.
According to Medi-Cal investigator Dwight Zevonsky, the PO was a rich man. Both of them were.
Franco Gull hadn’t responded to my greeting, so I repeated it.
He said, “Morning.”
I kept my suit jacket buttoned, kept my posture authoritative. “Pretty outside,” I said. “But that’s irrelevant to you.”
No answer.
“All that dissonance must be tough, Franco.”
Myrna Wimmer said, “Pardon me?”
“Dissonance. When self-image clashes with harsh reality.” I scooted closer to Gull. He pressed himself against the back of the armchair. The chair rolled back a couple of inches.
“What is this?” said Wimmer. “I canceled an appointment to hear psychobabble?”
I addressed Gull. “First off, you need to know that I’m not a police officer, I’m your peer.”
Franco Gull’s left eye twitched, and he glanced at Wimmer. She said, “What’s going on?”
Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s a clinical psychologist. He consults to the department.”
Gull glared at me. “You never thought to mention that.”
“No reason to,” I said. “There is now.”
Wimmer folded her arms across her chest. “Well,
this
is different.”
“Any problem with that?” said Milo.
She held up a finger. “No one talk, I’m thinking.”
“Maybe it’ll be more pleasant for your client,” said Milo. “No rubber hose, a bit of collegiality.”
“That remains to be seen.” To me: “What’s your angle—first of all, what’s your name, again?”
I told her, and she made a show of writing it down. “Okay,
now
what’s your angle?”
“Clinical psych.” I turned to Gull. “I’ve been trying to understand how you got into this dismal situation.”
Gull looked away and I went on: “I did a little research on you, but that only put more pieces in the puzzle.” I edged even closer. Gull tried to wheel backwards, but the casters caught in the carpet.
“Franco—may I call you Franco? Franco, the gap between the person I learned about and what’s happening to you now is rather wide.”
Gull licked his lips.
Myrna Wimmer laughed. “Oh boy, Psych 101.”
I turned to her. “Is that okay with you?”
The question surprised her. “You’re asking my opinion?”
“What I mean,” I said, “is that if I’m taking the wrong approach—if you’ve got a better approach to communicating with Dr. Gull, please let me know.” Speaking softly, so that she had to cant her head to hear.
She said, “I—just get on with it. I’ve got another appointment in forty-five minutes.”
I turned back to Gull: “You graduated summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa from the U. of Kansas in Lawrence. You managed that while playing four years of varsity baseball. Not just run-of-the-mill baseball. In your senior year, you came close to breaking the university’s RBI record. I find that more than impressive, Franco. Talk about your well-rounded scholar. Kind of a Grecian ideal, no? You’d know about that, you switched from classics to psychology in your sophomore year.”
Myrna Wimmer circled behind her desk and sat down. She looked angry and fascinated.
Franco Gull didn’t move or speak.
I said, “Two years in the Minor Leagues and no one there has anything but good things to say about you. Too bad about that hamstring shred.”
Gull said, “Things happen.” And started to sweat.
I said, “Same goes for Berkeley. We both know how tough it is to get into a place like that, but you were tops on their list. As a grad student, you kept up the good work. Your dissertation supervisor, Professor Albright, is getting on in years, but his memory is pretty sharp. He told me you were a hard worker, your research was substantive, you really knew how to focus on problem-solving. He hoped you’d go into academia—but that’s another story.”
Gull mopped his neck.
I said, “Then there are all your good works. In addition to all the required clinical hours for your doctorate, you volunteered your services at a home for abused kids. The same year you were writing your dissertation.
That’s
impressive. How’d you find the time?”
Gull said, “You do the job.”
“You did more than the job, Franco. Lots more. And your research—’Reactions of Latency-aged Girls from Divorced Homes to a Personal Space Challenge.’ Good stuff, you got it published in
Clinical and Consulting Psych,
no mean feat for a student. After you graduated, you didn’t pursue it. Pity. Your findings were provocative.”
Gull said, “Ancient history.” He crossed his legs, forced a smile at Wimmer. “Is there a point to this, Myrna?”
Wimmer touched her platinum watch and shrugged.
I said, “Your postdoc supervisor, Dr. Ryan, also remembers you as bright and industrious. That entire year, you never came close to any ethical breach. The odd thing is that she remembers you as exceptionally
respectful
of women.”
Gull’s lips clamped shut.
I kept silent.
He said, “I still am.”
I said, “The year you graduated, academic jobs were tight, and the offers you received were all in the Midwest. Is that why you opted for private practice? How can you keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen Beverly Hills?”
Gull said, “Ever been to Kansas?” He shifted the hankie to his other hand. “I graduated with serious debt. No one gave me a damn thing for free.”
“No need to apologize for going into practice,” I said. “Who says academics accomplish that much for society?”
“True.”
“Take Albin Larsen, for example. Academic appointments on two continents, travels all over the world, touting ideals. But we both know where most of his money comes from.”
Gull said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I said, “Okay, then, back to this thing with you and women. The promiscuity—the compulsive skirt-chasing. When exactly did it start, Franco? Were you able to fool Dr. Ryan, or was it something that you latched onto when you realized how much power you had as a therapist?”
Gull reddened. “Screw you,” he said, wrapping big fingers around the hankie. “Myrna, let’s end this.”
“Absolutely,” said Wimmer. “Gentlemen, we’re through.”
“No prob,” said Milo, genially.
“That was beyond rude,” said Gull, getting to his feet.
“It certainly was,” said Wimmer.
We remained seated.
She said, “Gentlemen, I’ve got a busy calendar.”
“I understand, ma’am,” said Milo. He stood, removed some folded white papers from his pocket. “I’ll be as quick as possible enforcing this arrest warrant on Dr. Gull.”
Gull had been fooling with the neck of his sweater. His hand dropped as if scalded, and his head snapped back. “What!”
Milo stepped closer to him. “Doctor, this is an arrest war—”
Wimmer said, “What’s the charge, Lieutenant?”
“Char-
ges,
” said Milo. “Multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud. A few other things. Your client should be—”
Gull’s eyes were wild. “What the hell are you talking—”
Wimmer said, “Let me handle this, Franco.” To Milo: “Give me that.”
Milo handed her the warrant. He’d trolled the D.A.’s Office for an Assistant D.A. willing to issue the paper. Gull’s fingerprints all over Mary Lou Koppel’s house had helped, as had a call from State Fraud Investigator Dwight Zevonsky. The finishing touch had been a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet pressed into the palm of a sixty-year-old hardnose ADA, Eben Marovitch, two months from retirement, whose wife had left him for a psychiatrist.
“Proud of me?” Milo had asked, as we ascended the elevator to Wimmer’s office. “Applied psychology and all that.”
*
As Wimmer read the particulars of the warrant, Franco Gull retreated from Milo, keeping his back to the glass. Behind him were gorgeous blue sky and the coppery contours of a sunlit downtown. He stood as still as a piece of sculpture. Life-size sculpture.
California Terror with Panoramic View.
