Bad Love (4 page)

“What if you have him and no one claims him?”

“Well . . . you know.”

“What’re my alternatives?”

“You could put an ad in the paper — “founds’ are sometimes free. You might also want to take him to a vet — make sure he’s not carrying anything that could cause you problems.”

I thanked her, called the newspaper, and placed the ad. Then I pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked under veterinarians. There was an animal hospital on Sepulveda near Olympic that advertised “walk-ins and emergencies.”

I let the the dog sleep for an hour, then took him for another ride.

The clinic was a milky blue, cement-block building set between a wrought iron foundry and a discount clothing barn. The traffic on Sepulveda looked angry, so I carried my guest to the front door, upping the weight estimate to thirty pounds.

The waiting room was empty except for an old man wearing a golf cap, comforting a giant white German shepherd. The dog was prone on the black linoleum floor, weeping and trembling from fright. The man kept saying, “It’s okay, Rexie.”

I tapped on a frosted glass window and registered, using my name because I didn’t know the dog’s. Rex was summoned five minutes later, then a college-age girl opened the door and called out, “Alex?”

The bulldog was stretched on the floor, sleeping and snoring. I picked him up and carried him in. He opened one eye but stayed limp.

“What’s the matter with Alex, today?” said the girl.

“Long story,” I said and followed her to a small exam room outfitted with lots of surgical steel. The disinfectant smell reminded
me
of traumas gone by, but the dog stayed calm.

The vet arrived soon after — a young, crewcut, Asian man in a blue smock, smiling and drying his hands with a paper towel.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Uno — ah, a Frenchie, don’t see too many of those.”

“A what?”

He one-handed the towel into a waste bin. “A French bulldog.”

“Oh.”

He looked at me. “You don’t know what he is?”

“I found him.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s a pretty rare dog you’ve got there
— someone’ll
claim him.” He petted the dog. “These little guys are pretty expensive, and this one looks like a good specimen.” He lifted his flews. “Well cared for, too — these teeth have been scaled pretty recently and his ears are clean — these upright ears can be receptacles for all kinds of stuff . . . anyway, what seems to be your problem with him?”

“Apart from a fear of water, nothing,” I said. “I just wanted him checked out.”

“Fear of water? How so?”

I recounted the dog’s avoidance of the pond.

“Interesting,” said the vet. “Probably means he’s been perimeter trained for his own safety. Bulldog pups can drown pretty easily — real heavy boned, so they sink like rocks. On top of that, they have no nose to speak of, so they have trouble getting their head clear. Another patient of mine lost a couple of English bull babies that way. So this guy’s actually being smart by shying away.”

“He’s housebroken and he heels, too,” I said.

The vet smiled and I realized something very close to owner’s pride had crept into my voice.

“Why don’t you put him up here on the table and let’s see what else he can do.”

The dog was probed, vaccinated, and given a clean bill of health.

“Someone definitely took good care of him,” said Uno. “The basic thing to watch out for is heatstroke, specially now, when the temperature is rising. These brachycephalic dogs are really prone to it, so keep him out of the heat.”

He handed me some brochures on basic dog care, reiterated the heat danger, and said, “That’s about it. Good luck finding the owner.”

“Any suggestions along those lines?”

“Put an ad in the paper, or if there’s a local Frenchie club, you could try getting in touch with them.”

“Do you have a list of club addresses?”

“Nope, sorry, we do mostly ER work. Maybe the AKC — American Kennel Club — could help. They register most of the purebreds.”

“Where are they?”

“New York.”

He walked me to the door.

“These dogs generally have good temperament?” I said.

He looked down at the dog, who was staring up at us and wagging his stub.

“From the little I’ve heard and read, what you’re seeing right now is pretty much it.”

“They ever attack?”

“Attack?” He laughed. “I guess if he got attached to you he might try to protect you, but I wouldn’t count on it. They’re really not good for much but being a friend.”

“Well, that’s something,” I said.

“Sure it is,” he said. “That’s where it’s at, bottom line, right?”

I drove away from the clinic stroking the dog and thinking of the child’s voice on the tape. I wasn’t hungry but figured I’d need some lunch eventually. Spotting a hamburger stand farther up on Sepulveda, I bought a takeout half-pounder. The aroma kept the dog awake and drooling all the way home, and a couple of times he tried to stick his nose in the bag. Back in the kitchen, he convinced me to part with a third of the patty. Then he carried his booty to a corner, sat, masticated noisily, and promptly went to sleep, chin to the floor.

I phoned my service and found out Milo had called back. This time he answered at Robbery-Homicide. “Sturgis.”

“How’s it going, Joe Friday?”

“The usual buckets of blood. How’s by you?”

I told him about receiving the tape. “Probably just a prank, but imagine getting a kid to do that.”

I expected him to slough it off, but he said, “ ’Bad love’? That’s weird.”

“What is?”

“Those exact same words popped up in a case a couple of months ago. Remember that social worker who got murdered at the mental health center? Rebecca Basille?”

“It was all over the news,” I said, remembering headlines and sound bites, the smiling picture of a pretty, dark-haired young woman butchered in a soundproof therapy room. “You never said it was your case.”

“It wasn’t really anyone’s case because there was no investigation to speak of. The psycho who stabbed her died trying to take another caseworker hostage.”

“I remember.”

“I got stuck filling out the paperwork.”

“How did “bad love’ pop up?”

“The psycho screamed it when he ran out after cutting Becky. Clinic director was standing in the hall, heard him before she ducked into her office and hid. I figured it was schizo talk.”

“It may be something psychological — jargon that he picked up somewhere in the mental health system. ’Cause I think I’ve heard it, too, but I can’t remember where.”

“That’s probably it,” he said. “A kid, huh?”

“A kid chanting in this strange, flat voice. It may be related to a case I’m working on, Milo. Remember that file you got me — the woman murdered by her husband?”

“The biker?”

“He’s been locked up for six months. Two months ago he started asking for visitation with his daughters — around the same time as the Basille murder, come to think of it. If Becky’s murderer screaming “bad love’
was
in the news, I guess he could have taken notice and filed it away for future use.”

“Intimidate the shrink — maybe remind you of what can happen to therapists who don’t behave themselves?”

“Exactly. There’d be nothing criminal in that, would there? Just sending a tape.”

“Wouldn’t even buy him snack bar demerits, but how could he figure you’d make the connection?”

“I don’t know. Unless this is just an appetizer and there’s more coming.”

“What’s this fool’s name, again?”

“Donald Dell Wallace.”

He repeated it and said, “I never read the file. Refresh me on him.”

“He used to hang out with a biker gang called the Iron Priests — small-time Tujunga bunch. In between prison sentences, he worked as a motorcycle mechanic. Dealt speed on the side. I think he’s a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.”

“Well, there’s a character reference for you. Let me see what I find out.”

“You think this is something I should worry about?”

“Not really — you might think of locking your doors.”

“I already do.”

“Congratulations. You going to be home tonight?”

“Yup.”

“How’s Robin?”

“Fine. She’s up in Oakland, giving a seminar — medieval lutes.”

“Smart kid, working with inanimate objects. All right, I’ll come by, rescue you from your hermitude. If you want me to I can fingerprint the tape, check it against Wallace’s. If it’s him, we’ll report him to his keepers, at least let him know you’re not going to roll over.”

“Okay — thanks.”

“Yeah . . . don’t handle it anymore, hard plastic’s a real good surface for preservation
. . . . Bad love
. Sounds like something out of a movie. Sci-fi, splatter flick, whatever.”

“I couldn’t find it in any of my psych books, so maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s where Becky’s murderer got it, too — all of us are children of the silver screen. The tape was mailed from the Terminal Annex, not Folsom. Meaning if Wallace
is
behind it, someone’s helping him.”

“I can check the rest of his gang, too. At least the ones with records. Don’t lose any sleep over it. I’ll try to get by around eight. Meanwhile, back to the slaughter.”

“Buckets of blood, huh?”

“Big
sloshing
buckets. Every morning I wake up, praise the Lord, and thank Him for all the iniquity — how’s that for perverse?”

“Hey,” I said, “you love your work.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do. Demotion never felt so goddamn glorious.”

“Department treating you well?”

“Let’s not lapse into fantasy. The department’s
tolerating
me, because they think they’ve wounded me
deeply
with their pissanty pay cut and I’ll eventually cave in and take disability like every other goldbricking pension junkie. The fact that one night of moonlighting more than makes up for the difference in take-home has eluded the brass. As has the fact that I’m a contrary bastard.”

“They’re not very observant, are they?”

“That’s why they’re administrators.”

After he hung up, I called Evelyn Rodriguez’s house in Sunland. As the phone rang, I pictured the man who’d carved up her daughter playing with a tape recorder in his cell.

No one answered. I put the phone down.

I thought of Rebecca Basille, hacked to death in a soundproof room. Her murder had really gotten to me — gotten to lots of therapists. But I’d put it out of my head until Milo reminded me.

I drummed my fists on the counter. The dog looked up from his empty bowl and stared. I’d forgotten he was there.

What happens to therapists who don’t behave themselves . . .

What if Wallace had nothing to do with the tape? Someone else, from my past.

I went into the library and the dog followed. The closet was stacked with boxes of inactive patient files, loosely alphabetized with no strict chronological order, because some patients had been treated at several different time periods.

I put the radio on for background and started with the A’s, looking for children whom I’d tagged with psychopathic or antisocial tendencies and cases that hadn’t turned out well. Even long-term deadbeats I’d sent to collections.

I made it halfway through. A sour history lesson with no tangible results: nothing popped out at me. By the end of the afternoon, my eyes hurt and I was exhausted.

I stopped reading, realized grumbly snores had overpowered the music. Reaching down, I kneaded the bulldog’s muscular neck. He shuddered but remained asleep. A few charts were fanned on the desk. Even if I came up with something suggestive, patient confidentiality meant I couldn’t discuss it with Milo.

I returned to the kitchen, fixed kibble and meatloaf and fresh water, watched my companion sup, burp, then circle and sniff. I left the service door open and he bounced down the stairs.

While he was out, I called Robin’s hotel in Oakland again, but she was still out.

The dog came back. He and I went into the living room and watched the evening news. Current events were none too cheerful, but he didn’t seem to mind.

The doorbell rang at eight-fifteen. The dog didn’t bark, but his ears stiffened and tilted forward and he trailed me to the door, remaining at my heels as I squinted through the peephole.

Milo’s face was a wide-angle blur, big and pocked, its paleness turned sallow by the bug light over the doorway.

“Police. Open up or I’ll shoot.”

He bared his teeth in a Halloween grimace. I unlocked the door and he came in, carrying a black briefcase. He was dressed for work: blue hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt stretched tight over his belly, blue and gray plaid tie tugged loose, suede desert boots in need of new soles.

His haircut was recent, the usual: clipped short at sides and back, long and shaggy on top, sideburns down to the earlobes. Country yokels had looked that way back in the fifties. Melrose Avenue hipsters were doing it nowadays. I doubted Milo was aware of either fact. The black forelock that shadowed his forehead showed a few more gray streaks. His green eyes were clear. Some of the weight he’d lost had come back; he looked to be carrying at least two hundred and forty pounds on his seventy-five inches.

He stared at the dog and said, “
What
?”

“Gee, Dad, he followed me home. Can I keep him?”

The dog gazed up at him and yawned.

“Yeah, I’m bored, too,” Milo told him. “What the hell
is
it, Alex?”

“French bulldog,” I said. “Rare and pricey, according to a vet. And this one’s a damned good specimen.”

“Specimen.” He shook his head. “Is it civilized?”

“Compared to what you’re used to, very.”

He frowned, patted the dog gingerly, and got slurped.

“Charming,” he said, wiping his hand on his slacks. Then he looked at me. “
Why
, Marlin Perkins?”

“I’m serious — he just showed up this morning. I’m trying to locate the owner, have an ad running in the paper. The vet said he’s been well cared for. It’s just a matter of time before somebody claims him.”