Dr. Death Read online

  His tone implied Judy was well-meaning but far from infallible.

  I said, "Whatever form treatment takes, Mr. Doss—"

  "Richard."

  "I'll need to see you first."

  "Can't we do history-taking over the phone? Isn't that what we're doing right now? Look, if payment's the issue, just bill me for telephonic services. God knows my lawyers do."

  "It's not that," I said. "I need to meet you face-to-face."

  "Why?"

  "It's the way I work, Richard."

  "Well," he said. "That sounds rather dogmatic. The quack insisted on family therapy and you insist upon face-to-face."

  "I've found it to be the best way."

  "And if I don't agree?"

  "Then I'm sorry, but I won't be able to see your daughter."

  His chuckle was flat, percussive. I thought of a mechanical noisemaker. "You must be busy to afford to be that cavalier, Doctor. Congratulations."

  Neither of us talked for several seconds and I wondered if I'd erred. The man had been through hell, why not be flexible? But something in his manner had gotten to me— the truth was, he'd pushed, so I'd pushed back. Amateur hour, Delaware. I should've known better.

  I was about to back off when he said, "All right, I admire a man with spine. I'll see you once. But not this week, I'm out of town. . . . Let me check my calendar . . . hold on."

  Click. On hold again. More pop music, belch-tone synthesizer syrup in waltz-time. "Tuesday at six is my only window this week, Doctor."

  "Fine."

  "Not that busy, eh? Give me your address."

  I did.

  "That's residential," he said.

  "I work out of my house."

  "Makes sense, keep the overhead down. Okay, see you Tuesday. In the meantime, you can begin with Stacy on Monday. She'll be available anytime after school—"

  "I'll see her after we've spoken, Richard."

  "What a tough sonofabitch you are, Doctor. Should've gone into my business. The money's a helluva lot better and you could still work out of your house."

  5

  AN ALIBI.

  Richard's call made me want to get out of the house. I filled a cup for Robin and carried it, along with mine, out through the house and into the garden. Passing the perennial bed Robin had laid down last winter, crossing the footbridge to the pond, the rock waterfall. Placing the coffee on a stone bench, I paused to toss pellets to the koi. The fish darted toward me before the food hit the water, coalescing in a frothy swirl at the rim. Iron skies bore down, dyeing the water charcoal, playing on metallic scales. The air was cool, odorless, just as stagnant as up at the murder site, but greenery and water burble blunted the sense of lifelessness.

  Up in the hills, September haze can be romanticized as fog. Our property's not large, but it's secluded because of an unbuildable western border, and surrounded by old-growth pines and lemon gums that create the illu- sion of solitude. This morning the treetops were capped with gray.

  I crouched, allowing one of the larger carp to nibble my fingers. Reminding myself, as I sometimes did, that life was transitory and I was lucky to be living amid beauty and relative quiet. My father destroyed himself with alcohol and my mother was heroic but habitually sad. No whining, the past isn't a straitjacket. But for people breast-fed on misery, it can be an awfully tight sweater.

  No sounds from the studio, then the chip-chip of Robin's chisel. The building's a single-story miniature of the house, with high windows and an old, burnished pine door rescued by Robin from a downtown demolition. I pushed the door open, heard music playing softly— Ry Cooder on slide. Robin was at her workbench, hair tied up in a red silk scarf, wearing gray denim overalls over a black T-shirt. Hunched in a way that would cause her shoulders to ache by nightfall. She didn't hear me enter. Smooth, slender arms worked the chisel on a guitar-shaped piece of Alaskan spruce. Wood shavings curled at her feet, creating a cozy bed for Spike. His bulldog bulk had sunk into the scrap, and he snored away, flews flapping.

  I watched for a while as Robin continued to tune the soundboard, tapping, chiseling, tapping again, running her fingers along the inner edges, pausing to reflect before resuming. Her wrists were child-size, seemed too fragile to manipulate steel, but she handled the tool as if it were a chopstick.

  Biting her lower lip, then licking it, as her back humped more acutely. A stray bit of auburn curl sprang loose from the kerchief and she tucked it back impatiently. Oblivious to my presence though I stood ten, fifteen feet away. As with most creative people, time and space have no meaning for her when her mind's engaged.

  I came closer, stopped at the far end of the bench. Mahogany eyes widened, she placed the chisel on the workbench and the ivory flash of those two oversize incisors appeared between full, soft lips. I smiled back and held out a cup, enjoying the contours of her face, heart-shaped, olive-tinted, decorated by a few more lines than ages ago when we'd met, but still smooth. Usually, she wore earrings. Not this morning. No watch, no jewelry or makeup. She'd rushed out too quickly to bother.

  I felt a nudge at my ankle, heard a wheeze and a snort. Spike grumbled and butted my shin. We'd both adopted him, but he'd adopted her.

  "Call off your beast," I said.

  Robin laughed and took the coffee. "Thanks, baby." She touched my face. Spike growled louder. She told him, "Don't worry, you're still my handsome."

  Setting the cup down, she wrapped both her arms around my neck. Spike produced a poor excuse for a bark, raspy and attenuated by his stubby bulldog larynx.

  "Oh, Spikey," she told him, snaring her fingers in my hair.

  "If you stop to pet him," I said, "I'll start snorting."

  "Stop what?"

  "This." I kissed her, ran my hands over her back, down to her rear, then up again, grazing her shoulder blades. Starting at the top and kneading the knobs of her spine.

  "Oh that's good. I'm a little sore."

  "Bad posture," I said. "Not that I'd ever preach."

  "No, nothing like that."

  We kissed again, more deeply. She relaxed, allowing her body— all 110 pounds of it— to depend upon mine. I felt the warmth of her breath at my ear as I undid the straps of her overalls. The denim fell to her waist but no farther, blocked by the rim of the workbench. I stroked her left arm, luxuriating in the feel of firm muscle under soft skin. Slipping my fingers under her T-shirt, I aimed for the spot that tended to pain her— two spots, really, a pair of knots just above her gluteal cleft. Robin's by no means skeletal; she's a curvy woman, blessed with hips and thighs and breasts and that sheath of body fat that is so wonderfully female. But a small frame meant a back narrow enough for one of my hands to cover both tendernesses simultaneously.

  She arched toward me. "Oh . . . you're bad."

  "Thought it felt good."

  "That's why you're bad. I should be working."

  "I should be, too." I took her chin in one hand. Reached down with my other hand and cupped her bottom. No jewelry or makeup, but she had taken the time for perfume, and the fragrance radiated at the juncture of jawline and jugular.

  Back to the sore spots.

  "Fine, go ahead," she whispered. "Now that you've corrupted me and I'm completely distracted." Her fingers fumbled at my zipper.

  "Corruption?" I said. "This is nothing."

  I touched her. She moaned. Spike went nuts.

  She said, "I feel like an abusive parent." Then she put him outside.

  • • •

  When we finished, the coffee was long cold but we drank it anyway. The red scarf was on the floor and the wood shavings were no longer in a neat pile. I was sitting in an old leather chair, naked, with Robin on my lap. Still breathing hard, still wanting to kiss her. Finally, she pulled away, stood, got dressed, returned to the guitar top. A private-joke smile graced her lips.

  "What?"

  "We moved around a bit. Just want to make sure we didn't get anything on my masterpiece."

  "Like what?"

 
"Like sweat."

  "Maybe that would be a good thing," I said. "Truly organic luthiery."

  "Orgasmic luthiery."

  "That, too." I got up and stood behind her, smelling her hair. "I love you."

  "Love you, too." She laughed. "You are such a guy."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "Depends on my mood. At this moment, it's a whimsical observation. Every time we make love you tell me you love me."

  "That's good, right? A guy who expresses his feelings."

  "It's great," she said quickly. "And you're very consistent."

  "I tell you other times, don't I?"

  "Of course you do, but this is . . ."

  "Predictable."

  "One hundred percent."

  "So," I said, "Professor Castagna has been keeping a record?"

  "Don't have to. Not that I'm complaining, sweetie. You can always tell me you love me. I just think it's cute."

  "My predictability."

  "Better that than instability."

  "Well," I said, "I can vary it— say it in another language— how about Hungarian? Should I call Berlitz?"

  She pecked my cheek, picked up her chisel.

  "Pure guy," she said.

  Spike began scratching at the door. I let him in and he raced past me, came to a short stop at Robin's feet, rolled over and presented his abdomen. She kneeled and rubbed him, and his short legs flailed ecstatically.

  I said, "Oh you Jezebel. Okay, back to the sawmill."

  "No saw today. Just this." Indicating the chisel.

  "I meant me."

  She looked at me over her shoulder. "Tough day ahead?"

  "The usual," I said. "Other people's problems. Which is what I get paid for, right?"

  "How'd your meeting with Milo go? Has he learned anything about Dr. Mate?"

  "Not so far. He asked me to do some research on Mate, thought I'd try the computer first."

  "Shouldn't be hard to produce hits on Mate."

  "No doubt," I said. "But finding something valuable in the slag heap's another story. If I dead-end, I'll try the research library, maybe Bio-Med."

  "I'll be here all day," she said. "If you don't interrupt me, I'll push my hands too far. How about an early dinner?"

  "Sure."

  "I mean, baby, don't stay away. I want to hear you say you love me."

  • • •

  Pure guy.

  Often, especially after a day when I'd seen more patients than usual, we spent evenings where I did very little talking. Despite all my training, sometimes getting the words out got lost on the highway between Head and Mouth. Sometimes I thought about the nice things I'd tell her, but never followed through.

  But when we made love . . . for me, the physical released the emotional and I supposed that put me in some sort of Y-chromosome file box.

  There's a common belief that men use love to get sex and women do just the opposite. Like most alleged wisdom about human beings, it's anything but absolute; I've known women who turned thoughtless promiscuity into a fine art and men so bound by affection that the idea of stranger-sex repulsed them to the point of impotence.

  I'd never been sure where Richard Doss fell along that continuum. By the time I met him, he hadn't made love to his wife for over three years.

  He told me so within minutes of entering the office. As if it was important for me to know of his deprivation. He'd resisted any notion of anyone but his daughter being my patient, yet began by talking about himself. If he was trying to clarify something, I never figured out what it was.

  He'd met Joanne Heckler in college, termed the match "ideal," offered the fact that he'd stayed married to her over twenty years as proof. When I met him, she'd been dead for ninety-three days, but he spoke of her as having existed in a very distant past. When he professed to have loved her deeply, I had no reason to doubt him, other than the absence of feeling in his voice, eyes, body posture.

  Not that he was incapable of emotion. When I opened the side door that leads to my office, he burst into the house talking on a tiny silver cell phone, continuing to talk in an animated tone after we'd entered the office and I'd sat behind my desk. Wagging an index finger to let me know it would be a minute.

  Finally, he said, "Okay, gotta go, Scott. Work the spread, at this point that's the key. If they give us the rate they promised, we're in like Flynn. Otherwise it's a deal-killer. Get them to commit now, not later, Scott. You know the drill."

  Eyes flashing, free hand waving.

  Enjoying it.

  He said, "We'll chat later," clicked off the phone, sat, crossed his legs.

  "Negotiations?" I said.

  "The usual. Okay, first Joanne." At his mention of his wife's name, his voice went dead.

  Physically, he wasn't what I'd expected. My training is supposed to endow me with an open mind, but everyone develops preconceptions, and my mental picture of Richard Doss had been based upon what Judy Manitow had told me and five minutes of phone-sparring.

  Aggressive, articulate, dominant. Ex–frat boy, tennis-playing country-club member. Tennis partner of Bob Manitow, who was a physician but about as corporate-looking as you could get. For no good reason, I'd guessed someone who looked like Bob: tall, imposing, a bit beefy, the basic CEO hairstyle: short and side-parted, silver at the temples. A well-cut suit in a somber shade, white or blue shirt, power tie, shiny wing-tips.

  Richard Doss was five-five, tops, with a weathered leprechaun face— wide at the brow tapering to an almost womanish point at the chin. A dancer's build, very lean, with square shoulders, a narrow waist. Oversize hands sporting manicured nails coated with clear polish. Palm Springs tan, the kind you rarely saw anymore because of the melanoma scare. The fibrous complexion of one who ignores melanoma warnings.

  His hair was black, kinky, and he wore it long enough to evoke another decade. White man's afro. Thin gold chain around his neck. His black silk shirt had flap pockets and buccaneer sleeves and he'd left the top two buttons undone, advertising a hairless chest and extension of the tan. Baggy, tailored gray tweed slacks were held in place by a lizard-skin belt with a silver buckle. Matching loafers, no socks. He carried a smallish black purselike thing in one hand, the silver phone in the other.

  I would've pegged him as Joe Hollywood. One of those producer wanna-bes you see hanging out at Sunset Plaza cafés. The type with cheap apartments on month-to-month, poorly maintained leased Corniches, too much leisure time, schemes masquerading as ideas.

  Richard Doss had made his way south from Palo Alto and embraced the L.A. image almost to the point of parody.

  He said, "My wife was a testament to the failure of modern medicine." The silver phone rang. He jammed it to his ear. "Hi. What? Okay. Good . . . No, not now. Bye." Click. "Where was I— modern medicine. We saw dozens of doctors. They put her through every test in the book. CAT scans, MRIs, serologic, toxicologic. She had two lumbar punctures. No real reason, I found out later. The neurologist was just 'fishing around.' "

  "What were her symptoms?" I said.

  "Joint pain, headaches, skin sensitivity, fatigue. It started out as fatigue. She'd always been a ball of energy. Five-two, a hundred and ten pounds. She used to dance, play tennis, powerwalk. The change was gradual— at first I figured a flu, or one of those crazy viruses that's going around. I figured the best thing was stay out of her face, give her time to rest. By the time I realized something serious was going on, she was hard to reach. On another planet." He hooked a finger under the gold chain. "Joanne's parents didn't live long, maybe her constitution . . . She'd always been into the mom thing, that went, too. I suppose that was her main symptom. Disengagement. From me, the kids, everything."

  "Judy told me she was a microbiologist. What kinds of things did she work on?"

  He shook his head. "You're hypothesizing the obvious: she was infected by some pathogen from her lab. Logical but wrong. That was looked into right away, from every angle— some sort of rogue microbe, allergies, hypersensitivity to
a chemical. She worked with germs, all right, but they were plant germs— vegetable pathogens— molds and funguses that affect food crops. Broccoli, specifically. She had a USDA grant to study broccoli. Do you like broccoli?"

  "Sure."

  "I don't. As it turns out, there are cross-sensitivities between plants and animals, but nothing Joanne worked with fit that category— her equipment, her reagents. She went through every blood test known to medicine." He thumbed his black silk cuff. His watch was black-faced with a gold band, so skinny it looked like a tattoo.