“If Bumaya can be believed about Larsen, we’re talking monster.”
“Monster with a Ph.D.,” I said. “Clever, calculating, dangerous. Mary Lou overvalued her own charisma.”
“What about Sheila? In the dark about all of it?”
“Sheila’s got serious emotional problems. She and Jerry have been unavailable to each other for years, but he’s stuck by her for appearances. Now one kid’s out of the house, and the other’s dead. Toss in some panic, and it would be the perfect time for him to split.”
“Appearances,” said Milo. “The house, the Benz, B.H. school district for the kids. Then Gavin gets his cranium shaken up, and it all falls apart. What about the impalement? The sexual angle? For simple executions, shooting would’ve been enough.”
“The impalement’s icing on the cake,” I said. “Someone who enjoys killing. Someone who’s done it before.”
“Ray Degussa,” he said. He got up, walked to the door, looked up and down the empty corridor, said, “It’s quiet,” and sat back down. “So Mary scammed but couldn’t handle murder?”
“She could’ve rationalized the scam, told herself they were doing good, just padding the bill a bit. Who was the victim anyway? A corrupt prison bureaucracy.”
“It’s exactly the line of bullshit an asshole like Larsen would’ve fed her.” He frowned. “Problem is, this whole house of cards is predicated upon a scam, and we don’t even know one exists.”
“I’ll check with Olivia in a few hours.”
“You really think Mary Lou would be foolish enough to threaten Larsen and the others? Would she be blind to the kind of people she was dealing with?”
“Believing your own PR can be very dangerous.”
“What about Gull?”
“Either he was involved, or he wasn’t.”
“I wonder why Gavin fired him.”
“Me, too.”
“Crazy kid,” he said. “Stupid, crazy kid. Crazy family.”
“What about the other kid in the family?” I said. “The one who didn’t come home after her brother died. Sometimes it’s the ones who get away who have the most interesting things to say.”
“Kelly, the law student at BU.”
“Her first year at law school would be over by now. But she stayed in Boston.”
“Another item for the old to-do list. Lots of to-dos. I need to sleep.”
“We both do,” I said.
He struggled to his feet. The rims of his eyes were scarlet, and his face was gray. “Enough,” he said. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
CHAPTER 37
The phone woke me up. I’d gone to bed at 3:30 A.M.
As my eyes cleared, I focused on the clock. Six hours later.
I grabbed the receiver, fumbled, got hold of it.
“Found it,” said Olivia Brickerman. “The key was divergent thinking.”
“Morning,” I said.
“You sound groggy.”
“Long night.”
“Poor baby. Want to brush your teeth and call me back?”
I laughed. “No, tell me.”
“The problem,” she said, “was that I was being too limited, concentrating on awards and grants. As if that’s the only way stuff gets funded. Finally, I shifted gears and voila! This thing was legislated, Alex. Tacked on as a rider to a tough felony sentencing law. Assemblyman Reynard Bird, D-Oakland- you know him, used to be a Black Panther?”
“Sure.”
“Bird got the rider stuck on the bill as part of the old give-and-take. So now you can send bad guys to prison for long periods, but when they get out, they get free therapy.”
“Any bad guys?”
“Any paroled felons who ask for treatment get it. Up to a year of individual and/or group for each bad guy, no restriction on hours, and the funding comes straight from Medi-Cal. That’s why I couldn’t find the money stream. It’s a drop in the ocean of general medical payments.”
“Sweet deal for felons,” I said. “And for providers.”
“Sure is, but few providers have taken the state up on it. Either they don’t know about it, or they don’t want criminals crowding their waiting rooms. Probably the former. Bird never publicized it, and usually he’s the first to throw a press conference. I found out his third wife’s a psychologist, and guess what: She’s running two of the biggest programs in Oakland and Berkeley. Almost all the activity’s up north. There’s another program in Redwood City, and some groups in Santa Cruz that are run by an eighty-five-year-old shrink who practiced in L.A. and retired. The one you’re probably interested in is Pacifica Psychological Services, Beverly Hills, California. Right?”
“How’d you know?”
“It’s the only program in Southern Cal.”
“Payment straight out of the Medi-Cal cookie jar,” I said. “What’s the reimbursement level?”
“Wait, there’s more, darling. We’re talking Medi-Cal plus. The bill authorizes surcharges because of an ‘exigency’ clause. The funds come out of some legislative slush account, but the administration’s through Medi-Cal.”
“Meaning these are patients your average doctor wouldn’t want to treat, so the state provides an incentive. How much of one?”
“Double reimbursement,” she said. “Actually a bit more than double. Medi-Cal pays fourteen dollars for group therapy by a Ph.D., fifteen for an MD. Providers under this bill get thirty-five. The same goes for individual therapy. From twenty an hour to forty-five. Seventy bucks for the initial intake and forty-eight for case conferences.”
“Thirty-five an hour for group,” I said, recalculating my previous estimates. Lots of zeroes. “Not bad.”
“There’s no fiscal oversight I can find, just bill the state and collect.”
“Any way to find out how much each program has billed?”
“Not for me, but Milo could probably do it,” she said. “If he wants to pursue it further, I’d call Sacramento. Ask for Dwight Zevonsky, he’s a good guy who investigates fraud.”
I copied down the number.
“What’s the official name of the program?” I said.
“No name, just Assembly Bill 5678930-CRP-M, Amendment F,” she said. “Subtitled ‘Psychocultural demarginalization of released offenders.’ Which was one of your buzzwords. I found a couple others in the text of the rider. ‘Attitudinal shifting,’ ‘Holistic emphasis.’ The individual programs are free to take on their own names. The one in Beverly Hills is called-”
“Sentries for Justice.”
“Yes, just like you said. So, what, this has been done before?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“Where?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I found out the name of Assemblyman Reynard Bird’s third wife and ran her through the Internet.
Dr. Michelle Harrington-Bird. A tall, Scottish-born redhead in her forties who favored African robes and spoke out frequently about political issues. The assemblyman was in his seventies, a legislative vet known for passionate oration and the ability to fix potholes in his district.
In one of the many photos I found, Harrington-Bird was posed with a group of fellow psychologists that included Albin Larsen. A bunch of therapists hanging out at a convention. Larsen stood next to Harrington-Bird, goateed, bespectacled, wearing a tweed suit over a sweater-vest and looking like Hollywood’s incarnation of Freud. His body language implied no intimacy with the assemblyman’s current spouse.
All business. Plenty of incentive for that.
Harrington-Bird had borrowed Larsen’s terminology for the wording of the bill. No doubt Larsen had impressed her with descriptions of his human rights work in Africa. I wondered what she’d think about his role in African genocide. About two little boys left in their beds with their throats cut.
I found Larsen and Harrington-Bird paired three more times, as signatories on political ads. After printing what I thought was relevant, I got on the phone.