Chapter 34
Atascadero
The Bell LongRanger 206 helicopter carrying Wondero and Rittenbaugh high above L.A.’s sprawling mass picked up Highway 101 just outside of Ventura and took it up the coastline to Pismo Beach, then swung inland and followed the main drag until reaching the state mental hospital in Atascadero. The LongRanger was used primarily for drug sweeps, and able to land anywhere there was a moderately flat surface, which allowed them to set down in a dusty field just a hundred yards from the hospital. Feeling like movie cops, they marched across the field and through the swinging front doors of the main building.
Wondero was furious with himself, and for good reason. He and his partner had been running around L.A. trying to catch Eugene Osbourne, when an important clue had been sitting on his desk in the form of a fax from the director at Atascadero. The fax had been there for two days, yet only this morning had he bothered to read it.
A man in hospital whites manned the reception desk. He left his fingerprints all over their photo I.D.’s before picking up a phone, and announcing their arrival to the hospital’s director.
“Dr. Cavanaugh will see you in a few minutes,” he said, putting down the phone.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions,” Wondero said.
“Not at all.”
“Do you know a patient named Douglas Barnhart?”
“Sure. D.B.’s one of our lifers.”
“Has D.B. had any visitors lately?”
“Don’t know, but I can find out.” Flipping open a log book, the receptionist ran his finger down a column of names. “Let’s see. D. B. had a visitor... on Monday.”
“Can you tell me who that visitor was?” Wondero asked, straining to read the upside down names in the book.
The receptionist turned the log around so he could have a look. In the Visitor’s Box beside D.B.’s name was a capital E followed by a long, scribbly line.
“That looks like Rodriguez’s chicken scratch,” the receptionist said, taking the log back. “He works here on Mondays. I’d call him for you, but he’s up in Frisco seeing his mother.”
Wondero handed the receptionist his card. “Please give this to Rodriguez when he gets back. Ask him to call me. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Will do,” the receptionist said, pocketing the card.
Dr. Richard Cavanaugh was a balding mid-fortyish man of few emotions. His tired eyes only hinted at the ordeal required to run a state institution for men deemed criminally insane by the courts, a job Wondero likened to being a gatekeeper in hell.
Cavanaugh introduced the woman sitting on the couch in his office as Dr. Ruth Heller, one of his chief administrators. Heller sat with arms and legs crossed, her face a blunt wall, and Wondero sensed a problem even before he and Rittenbaugh were seated.
“Dr. Heller has been treating D.B. for over a decade,” Cavanaugh said, pulling up a chair to complete the circle. “She’s also writing a book about him. I thought she should hear what you told me.”
“You got a publisher?” Rittenbaugh asked innocently.
Heller acted like she might bite Rittenbaugh’s head off. “Yes. It’s nearly finished,” the administrator said proudly. “I believe I’ve traced the origin of D.B.’s hostilities and through therapy actually cured him of his homicidal tendencies. Needless to say, it came as a shock when Dr. Cavanaugh told me that you suspected him of having master-minded a series of murders from this hospital.”
Wondero felt like he had walked into a minefield. He hadn’t bothered to get a subpoena to question D.B.; if he didn’t handle Heller correctly, she might not let them see him.
“You know him pretty well, then,” Wondero said.
“I believe I know D.B. better than he knows himself,” Heller stated confidently. “I’ve conducted several hundred sessions with him, and have isolated a number of traumatic childhood incidents which even he does not remember.”
“That’s amazing,” Wondero said. She had calmed down, and he decided to press his attack. “In your work with D.B., has the name Babita Cattrell ever come up?”
Dr. Heller’s eyes searched the air. “No.”
“She was a co-ed that D.B. raped at UCLA in 1995. She was the prosecution’s sole witness at D.B.’s trial, I guess because she was the only person who ever survived one of his attacks.”
“He’s never mentioned her,” Dr. Heller said.
“How about Eugene Osbourne? He was D.B.’s roommate five years ago. That name sound familiar?”
“No, but that’s not surprising. D.B. has been here fifteen years. I’m sure he’s had quite a few roommates.”
Wondero felt sorry for Heller, and her years of wasted effort. From his wallet he took an aging snapshot that had been part of him for four years: it was of an aspiring folk singer with auburn hair and a tentative smile. He handed it to Heller.
“That was Babita Cattrell,” Wondero said.
“And?” she said, handing the snapshot back.
“Eugene Osbourne began killing women in L.A. four years ago,” Wondero said. “Babita was his first victim.”
A look of dread wiped away Heller’s stoic expression. “Do you think that D.B. told Osbourne to do this?”
“Yes, we do. D.B. was suspected of killing over fifty women. He picked his victims carefully. Prostitutes, women living alone, runaways. Eugene Osbourne has been doing exactly the same thing.”
“You’re saying that D.B. trained Osbourne?” she said.
“That’s what we think,” Wondero said.
Heller was in shock. She looked at the floor and shook her head. Cavanaugh took Heller’s hands, and tried to comfort her.
“I’m sorry, Ruth,” Cavanaugh said.
“I’ve worked a decade with that man,” she whispered.
Wondero said, “We’d like to spare the hospital as much embarrassment as possible.”
Cavanaugh looked at him. “Yes?”
“We have no evidence to convict D.B., just our suspicions. I want to speak with him — with Dr. Heller’s permission — and you can search his room. If you find evidence tying him to Osbourne, I’ll put in my report that you alerted us to what D.B. was up to, and not the other way around.”
“I appreciate the courtesy,” Cavanaugh said, petting Heller’s hand as the tears flowed unmercifully down her face.
Two beefy attendants led D.B. into the VISITORS room and handcuffed his arm to the leg of a chair hex bolted to the floor. Heller, who had put life back into her cheeks in the washroom, pulled a chair up beside her patient.
“D.B., this is Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh, of the LAPD,” Heller said.
D.B. stared at them, his eyes doing violent things inside his head. A twitch appeared in his throat.
Wondero said, “Do I have to tell you why we’re here?”
D.B. flashed two rows of perfect teeth. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”
“The wheels of justice turn slow,” Wondero said.
D.B. shifted in his chair and spoke directly to Heller.
“Ruth,” he said, dropping his voice, “I’m truly sorry about this — we made such a great team together — but all good things must end. I’m sorry if you feel used, but then again, I never thought that you weren’t using me. What kind of book are you writing? Something for a New York publishing company? Face it: you were in it for the bucks.”
“I wanted to... help you,” Heller said, seething with rage.
“And you did! You got me lots of privileges. And you told Cavanaugh I was getting better. You helped me a great deal.”
Wondero wished they were in Texas, where they still regularly executed killers like D.B. Heller bit her lip in anguish, her patient already turned away, tuning her out.