Blood Test

12

I phoned Professor Seth Fiacre at UCLA. He’s an old classmate from grad school, a social psychologist who’d been studying cults for several years.

“Hi, Alex,” he said, cheerful as always, “just got back from Sacramento. Senate hearings. Stultifying.”

We reminisced and played catch-up and then I told him why I’d called.

“The Touch? I’m surprised you’ve even heard of them. They’re not well-known and they don’t proselytize. They’ve got a place called the Retreat, used to be a monastery, down near the Mexican border.”

“What about the leader — Matthias?”

“Noble Matthias. He was a lawyer originally. Used to call himself Norman Matthews.”

“What kind of law did he practice?”

“I don’t know. But it was high powered. Beverly Hills.”

Attorney to guru seemed an unlikely metamorphosis.

“Why the change of lifestyle?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Alex. Most charismatic leaders claim some sort of cosmic vision, usually after a trauma. Your basic voice in the desert stuff. Maybe he ran out of gas in the Mojave and saw God.”

I laughed.

“I wish I could tell you more, Alex. The group hasn’t attracted much attention because it’s so small, maybe sixty members. And like I said, they’re not out looking for converts, so it’ll probably stay small. Whether or not that’ll change if there’s increased attrition remains to be seen. They’ve only been around for three or four years. Another thing that’s unusual is that most of their members are middle-aged. Groups that recruit tend to go after young people. In practical terms that means you don’t have parents screaming to the cops or calling in the deprogrammers.”

“Are they into holistic health?”

“Probably. Most of these groups are. It’s part of rejecting the values of the greater society. But I haven’t heard about them obsessing on it, if that’s what you mean. I think their focus is more on self-sustenance. Growing their own food, making their own clothes. Like the original Utopians — Oneida, Ephrata, New Harmony. Can I ask why you want to know all of this?”

I told him about the Swopes’ decision not to treat Woody and the family’s subsequent disappearance.

“Does that sound like something this group could be involved in, Seth?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, because they’re reclusive. Taking on the medical establishment would subject them to lots of scrutiny.”

“They did visit the family,” I reminded him.

“If they wanted to be subversive why do it so publicly? You said the family lived near the Retreat?”

“From what I understand.”

“So maybe they were just being neighborly. In a small town like La Vista there’s bound to be plenty of distrust of oddballs on the part of the natives. A smart oddball makes a special effort to be friendly. It’s good survival strategy.”

“Speaking of survival,” I asked, “how do they support themselves?”

“My guess is member contributions. On the other hand, Matthews was a rich man. He could be bankrolling the whole thing himself just for the power and prestige. If they’re really into self-reliance the overhead wouldn’t be that high.”

“One more thing, Seth. Why do they call themselves the Touch?”

He laughed. “Damned if I know. I think I’ll sic a grad student on it.”

Mal Worthy called me later that day.

“It appears that Mrs. Moody didn’t get a rat because she was destined for bigger and better things. This morning she found a dog eviscerated, hanging from the front doorknob by its entrails. He castrated it too, stuffed the balls in its mouth.”

Revulsion kept me silent.

“What a guy, huh? On top of that he snuck in a phone call, in defiance of the order, talked to the boy and told him to run away. The kid obeyed and it took seven hours to find him. They finally caught up with him late last night, wandering around the parking lot of some mall, five miles from home. Apparently he thought his father was going to pick him up and take him away. No one showed up and he was scared out of his mind, poor kid. Needless to say Darlene is going bananas, and I’m calling to ask you to see the kids. More for their mental health than anything else.”

“Did they see the dog?”

“Thank God, no. She cleaned it up before they had a chance. How soon can you see them?”

“I won’t have access to the office until Saturday.” I’d been renting space for forensic evaluations in the Brentwood suite of a colleague, but only had use of the office on weekends.

“You can do it here. Just name the time.”

“Can you get them down there in a couple of hours?”

“You got it.”

The offices of Trenton, Worthy & La Rosa were located on the penthouse floor of a high-prestige building at the intersection of Roxbury and Wilshire. Mal, resplendent in a navy silk and worsted from Bijan, was in the waiting room to greet me personally. He informed me I’d be using his office. I remembered it as a cavernous, dark-walled room with an oversized amorphous desk that looked like a piece of free-form sculpture, saw-toothed abstract prints hanging from the paneling, and shelves full of expensive — and breakable — mementos. Not an ideal place for child therapy but it would have to do.

I rearranged some chairs, moved an end table, and created a play area in the center of the room. Removing paper, pencils, crayons, hand puppets, and a portable playhouse from my carrying case, I placed them on the table. Then I went to fetch the Moody children.

They were waiting in the law library: Darlene, Carlton Conley, and the children, who’d been dressed as if for church.

The three year old, April, wore a white taffeta dress and white patent leather sandals over lace-hemmed socks. Her blond hair had been ribboned and braided. She nestled sleepily in her mother’s lap, worrying a knee scab and sucking her thumb.

Her brother’d been costumed in a white western shirt, brown corduroy pants with the cuffs turned up, a snap-on tie and black oxfords. His face had been scrubbed, his dark hair slicked down in an unsuccessful attempt to make it behave. He looked as miserable in the getup as any nine year old could. When he saw me he turned away.

“Now, Ricky, don’t be rude to the doctor,” admonished his mother. “Say hello, nice and polite. Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Mrs. Moody.”

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled.

Conley got up from his seat next to her and shook my hand, grinning awkwardly. The judge had been right. Except for being significantly taller, he looked strikingly like the man he’d replaced.

“Doctor,” he said weakly.

“Hello, Mr. Conley.”

April stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled at me. She’d been the easy one during the evaluation, an expressive, happy child. Because she was a girl her father had chosen to ignore her and she’d been spared his destructive love. Ricky was the favorite; he’d suffered for it.

“Hi, April.”

She batted her lashes, lowered her face, and giggled, a natural coquette.

“Remember the toys we played with last time?”

She nodded and giggled again.

“I have them here. Would you like to play with them again?”

She looked at her mother, requesting permission.

“Go ’head, honey.”

The little girl climbed down and took my hand.

“I’ll see you in a while, Ricky,” I said to the sullen boy.

I spent twenty minutes with April, mostly observing as she manipulated the miniature inhabitants of the playhouse. Her play was organized and structured and relatively untroubled. Though she enacted several episodes of parental conflict, she was able to resolve them by having the father leave and the family live happily ever after. For the most part, hope and determination emanated from the scenarios she constructed.

I drew her out about the situation at home and found that she had an age-appropriate understanding of what was going on. Daddy was angry at mommy, mommy was angry at daddy, so they weren’t going to live with each other anymore. She knew it wasn’t her fault or Ricky’s and she liked Carlton.

Everything was consistent with what I’d learned during the initial evaluation. At that time she’d expressed little anxiety over her father’s absence and had seemed to be growing attached to Conley. When I questioned her about him now her face lit up.

“Carlton’s so nice, Docka Alek. He take me to da zoo. We saw da diraffe. An da cockadile.” Her eyes widened with wonder, the memory alive.

She went on singing his praises and I prayed Judge Severe’s cynical prophecy would be proved wrong. I’d treated countless girls who’d suffered tortured relationships with their fathers or no relationship at all, and had witnessed the psychic damage they’d incurred, grievously handicapped in the relationship game. This little sweetheart deserved better.

When I’d observed long enough to convince myself she was functioning reasonably well, I took her back. She stood on tippy toes and reached out toothpick arms. I bent and she kissed my cheek.

“Bye, Docka Alek.”

“Bye, honey. If you ever want to talk to me, tell your mommy. She’ll help you call.”

She said okay and crawled back to the pillowy sanctuary of her mother’s thighs.

Ricky’d moved to a far corner where he stood alone, staring out the window. I walked over him, put my hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly so only he could hear: “I know you’re really mad about having to do this.”

He thrust out his lower lip, stiffened his neck, and crossed his arms across his chest. Darlene got up, still holding April, and started to say something but I motioned her down.

“It must be real hard not to see your dad,” I said.

He stood as straight as a Marine, trying hard to look tough and grim.

“I heard you ran away.”

No reply.

“That must have been a real adventure.”

The hint of a smile danced across his lips and escaped.

“I knew you had strong legs, Ricky, but to go five miles all by yourself. Whew!”

The smile returned, staying a little longer this time.

“See anything interesting?”

“Uh huh.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

He looked back at the others.

“Not here,” I assured him. “Let’s go to another room. We can draw and play like the last time. Okay?”

He frowned but followed me.

Mal’s office amazed him and he circled the immense room several times before settling down.

“Ever see a place like this?”

“Uh huh. In a movie.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“It was about bad guys who were taking over the world. They had an office with lasers and stuff. It looked like this.”

“Bad guy headquarters, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Mr. Worthy’s a bad guy?”

“My dad said he was.”

“Did he tell you anyone else was a bad guy?”

He looked uneasy.

“Like me? And Dr. Daschoff?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you understand why your father said that?”

“He’s mad.”

“That’s right. He’s really mad. Not because of anything you or April did, but because he doesn’t want your mom and him to get divorced.”

“Yeah,” the boy said with sudden ferocity, “it’s her damn fault!”

“The divorce?”

“Yeah! She kicked him out and he even paid for the house with his money!”

I sat him down, took a chair opposite him, and put my hands on his small shoulders as I spoke:

“Ricky, I’m sorry everything is so sad. I know you want your mom and dad to get back together. But that’s not going to happen. Do you remember how they used to fight all the time?”

“Yeah, but then they’d stop fighting and be happy to us.”

“When that happened it was nice.”

“Yup.”

“But the fighting got worse and worse and there wasn’t much happiness left.”

He shook his head.

“Divorce is terrible,” I said. “Like everything’s falling apart.” He looked away.

“It’s okay to be angry, Ricky. I’d be angry, too, if my parents were getting divorced. But it’s not okay to run away because you could get hurt that way.”

“My dad’ll take care of me.”

“Ricky, I know you love your dad very much. You should. A dad is someone special. And a dad should be able to be with his children, even after a divorce. I hope some day your dad can see you a lot, and take you places and do fun stuff with you. But right now — and this is really sad — it’s not a good idea for him to spend a lot of time with you and April. Do you understand why?”

“Cause he’s sick?”

“Right. Do you know what kind of sickness?”

He ruminated on the question.

“He gets mad?”

“That’s part of it. He gets real mad or real sad or real happy all of a sudden. Sometimes without a good reason. When he’s real mad he could do mad things that wouldn’t be right, like fight with somebody. That could be dangerous.”

“Uh uh! He could beat ’em up!”

“That’s true, but it would be dangerous for the person he beat up. And you or April could get hurt, accidentally. Do you understand?”

A grudging nod.

“I’m not saying he’ll always be sick. There are medicines he can take that can help. And talking to doctors, like me, can help, too. But right now your dad doesn’t want to admit that he needs help. So the judge said he couldn’t see you until he got better. That made him really mad and now he thinks everyone is a bad guy trying to hurt him. But we’re really trying to help him. And to protect you.”

He stared at me, stood, found the drawing paper, and proceeded to construct a fleet of paper airplanes. For the next quarter hour he waged a solitary battle of epic proportions, destroying entire cities, massacring thousands, stomping and shouting and shredding paper until Mal’s antique Saruk was covered with confetti.

After that he drew for a while but wasn’t happy with any of his creations and tossed them, crumpled, in the trash. I tried to get him to talk about the runaway episode but he refused. I reiterated the danger and he listened, looking bored. When I asked him if he’d do it again he shrugged.

I brought him back and took Darlene into the office. She wore a pink pantsuit with a faint diamond pattern and silver sandals. Her dark hair was piled high and sprayed in place. She’d spent a lot of time on her makeup but still looked tired and worn and scared. After seating herself she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and passed it from hand to hand, kneading and squeezing.

“This must be really hard on you,” I said.

Tears oozed out of her eyes. Up went the handkerchief.

“He’s a crazy man, Doctor. He’s been getting crazier all along and now he won’t let me go without doing something really crazy.”

“How have the kids been doing?”

“April’s a little clingy — you saw her out there. She gets up a couple of times at night, wants to come into our bed. But she’s a sweet thing. He’s my problem, just angry all the time, refusing to mind. Yesterday he said the ef word to Carlton.”

“What did Carlton do?”

“Told him he’d whip him if he did it again.”

Great.

“It’s not a good idea to get Carlton involved in discipline at this point. Having him there is a big adjustment for the kids in the first place. If you let him take over they’ll feel abandoned.”

“But Doctor, he can’t use language like that!”

“Then you need to handle it, Mrs. Moody. It’s important for the children to know that you’re there for them. That you’re in charge.”

“Okay,” she said, without enthusiasm, “I’ll try it.”

I knew she wouldn’t comply. The word try was the tipoff. In a couple of months she’d be wondering why both children were ornery and miserable and impossible to manage.

I did my job anyway, telling her that both of the children could benefit from professional help. April, I explained, showed no serious problems but was insecure. Therapy for her was likely to be short-term and could reduce the risk of more severe problems in the future.

Ricky, on the other hand, was a troubled little boy, full of anger and likely to run away again. She interrupted at that point to blame the running away on the boy’s father and said that come to think of it he reminded her of his father.

“Mrs. Moody,” I said, “Ricky needs the chance to blow off steam on a regular basis.”

“You know,” she said, “Carlton and him are starting to get along better. Yesterday they were playing catch in the backyard and having a great time. I know Carlton’s gonna be a good influence on him.”

“Great. But that won’t take the place of professional help.”

“Doctor,” she said, “I’m broke. Do you know how much lawyers cost? Just being here today is draining me dry.”

“There are clinics that operate on a sliding scale based on ability to pay. I’ll give some numbers to Mr. Worthy.”

“Are they far? I don’t drive freeways.”

“I’ll try to find one close to you, Mrs. Moody.”

“Thank you, doctor.” She sighed, picked herself up, and let me hold the door for her.

Watching her trudge down the hall like an old woman it was easy to forget she was twenty-nine years old.

I dictated my findings to Mal’s secretary as she typed silently on a court stenographer’s machine. When she left he brought out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and poured us each a couple of fingers.

“Thanks for coming by, Alex.”

“No problem, but I don’t know that it did any good. She won’t follow through.”

“I’ll see to it that she does. Tell her it’s important for the case.”

We sipped Scotch.

“Incidentally,” he said, “the judge hasn’t gotten any nasty surprises so far — apparently Moody’s crazy but not stupid. But she’s mega-pissed about the whole thing. She called the D.A. and ordered him to get someone on it. He dumped it on Foothill Division.”

“Who said they’d been looking for him already.”

“Right.” He looked surprised. I told him about Milo’s call to Fordebrand.

“Very impressive, Alex. More?” He picked up the bottle. I declined a refill. Good Scotch is hard to resist but talking about Moody reminds me of the importance of staying clear-headed.

“Anyway, Foothill claims to be looking for him seriously but they think he’s gone into Angeles Crest.”

“Wonderful.”

Angeles Crest National Forest is 600,000 acres of wilderness bordering the city to the north. The Moodys had lived in nearby Sunland, and the forest would be familiar territory to Richard, a natural place to escape. Much of the acreage was impenetrable except on foot and a man could stay lost there for as long as he pleased. It was a haven for hikers, campers, naturalists, and climbers, as well as for packs of outlaw bikers who partied all night and sacked out in caves. And its ravines and washes were favorite dumping spots for bodies.

Just before we’d scuffled in the court parking lot, Moody’d talked about surviving in the wilderness, clearly including his children in the fantasy. I let Mal know that.

He nodded grimly.

“I’ve instructed Darlene to take the kids and get out of town for a while. Her folks have a farm up near Davis. They’re leaving today.”

“Won’t he be able to figure that out?”

“If he comes out in the open. I’m hoping he decides to play mountain man for a while.”

He threw up his arms.

“It’s the best I can do, Alex.”

The conversation was taking an unsettling turn. I got up to go and we shook hands. At the door I asked him if he’d ever heard of a lawyer named Norman Matthews.

“Stormin’ Norman? That’s a golden oldie. I went up against him at least a dozen times. Biggest ballbreaker in Beverly Hills.”

“He was a divorce lawyer?”

“The best. Super-aggressive, had a reputation for getting his clients what they wanted no matter who he offended in the process. Handled lots of Hollywood dissolutions with big bucks at stake and got to thinking of himself as a star. Very image conscious — an Excalibur and a Corniche, conspicuous clothes, blonds on each arm, blew Dunhill latakia through a thousand-dollar meerschaum.”

“He’s a bit more spiritual nowadays.”

“Yeah, I heard. Got a weird group down on the border. Calls himself Grand Noble Poobah or something like that.”

“Noble Matthias. Why’d he leave law?” He laughed uneasily.

“You might say it left him. This was five or six years ago. It was in the papers. I’m surprised you don’t remember. Matthews was representing the wife of some playwright. The guy had just hit it big — a smash on Broadway — after ten years of eating air sandwiches. At that point the wife found another loser to mother and filed. Matthews got her everything — a huge chunk of royalties from the play and a healthy percentage of everything the guy would bring in for the next ten years. It was a publicized case and there was a press conference scheduled on the courtroom steps. Matthews and the wife were headed there when hubby came out of nowhere with a twenty-two. He shot them both in the head. She died but Matthews squeaked by after half a year of touch and go. Then he dropped out of sight, resurfaced a couple of years later as a maharishi. Your basic California story.”

I thanked him for the information and turned to leave.

“Hey,” he asked, “why the interest?”

“Nothing important. His name came up in conversation.”

“Stormin’ Norman,” he smiled. “Sanctification through brain damage.”