“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 Gulclass="underline" “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.
Wimmer finished reading, returned to the first page, reviewed. Her mouth tightened.
“What, what?” said Franco Gull.
No answer.
“Myrna-”
“Shh, let me finish.”
“Finish what? It’s ridiculous, it’s-”
Wimmer silenced him with an air-chop, completed her perusal, refolded the warrant. “It’s patently ridiculous, Franco, but apparently valid.”
“What does that mean, Myrna? What the fuck does that mean?” The handkerchief was wadded tightly in his hand, and his knuckles were ivory knobs. Sweat trickled from his hairline, but he made no attempt to swab. “Myrna?”
Milo took out his cuffs. The metallic sound made Gull jump.
Myrna Wimmer said, “Oh, please.”
Milo said, “You read the charges.”
Gull said, “Myrna-”
Wimmer said, “What it means, Franco, is that you’ll have to go with them.” Disapproval in her voice. As if Gull had disappointed her. “Where will you be booking him, Lieutenant?”