Killer

CHAPTER 6

I led Connie Sykes toward my office. She took long strides, surging past me and continuing beyond the destination.

As I stopped to open the door, she kept going like a dieseling engine, finally realized she’d overstepped and put the brakes on. Not a hint of embarrassment as she retraced.

I held the door for her. She entered as if she knew the place, chose the precise spot on the leather couch occupied by her sister, and pressed her knees together.

No facial movement, no giveaway tics, the brown eyes remained as still as taxidermy. But as I delayed by shuffling papers, she began wringing her hands just as Ree had. Reached for her hair like Ree. No braid to play with; an arched thumb stroked the bottom of a particularly dramatic wave.

“That,” she said, “was unfortunate. The little contretemps with Medea. I’d like to believe you won’t hold her assertiveness against me.”

“No problem.”

“No problem for you, but for me, it could be a big problem if she mucks things up. I’ve already paid her a fortune and she refuses to guarantee anything close to results. Some racket, this law business, no? We caregivers operate on a higher level.”

If that was a play for common ground it wasn’t backed up by anything close to warmth. She had an odd mechanical way of phrasing her words. Clipped, precise, uniform spacing between words that evoked digital processing.

When I didn’t comment, she tried something that might have ended up as a smile if her lips had gone along with the plan. “Think I should fire her?”

“Not my place to say one way or the other.”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re just Solomon with a Ph.D., trying to figure out how to divide the baby with a minimum of bloodshed.”

I said, “Tell me why you brought the lawsuit, Dr. Sykes.”

“Why?” As if the question was absurd. “Because I had to. In good faith.”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith in optimal child rearing. Dedication to the child. You’ve met my sister.”

I said nothing.

“Soul of discretion, and all that, eh?” Connie Sykes unclasped her briefcase but left it on the floor. “You ask the questions, I give the answers. Fine. But there’s no reason to be cryptic. I know that you’ve met my sister because Medea told me you have. Then again, she was certain you’d talked to that courtroom hack, Ballister. But no matter, even if you haven’t met my sister, you’ve surely read some of the material we’ve sent you. So you understand what I’m dealing with.”

“Which is …”

“Ah, there it is,” she said, “the classic psychiatric riposte, parrying questions with questions. I learned all about that when I rotated through psychiatry in med school. What was it called — patient-directed dialogue?” She crossed her legs. “Not my cup of tea, psychiatry. Too ambiguous. More shamanism than science. I’ve heard that psychologists operate at a more data-based level.”

I said, “What aspect of your sister are you dealing with?”

“Total irrationality. Part and parcel of her psycho-emotional makeup, I’ll leave the specific diagnoses up to you. What may not be evident to you, yet, is that she’s also what used to be called of low moral character. Back when morality counted and every bad act didn’t elicit a disease label. Shall I be specific? She has little or no impulse control. Coupled with a relatively low IQ, the result has not been salutary. In sum, she’s incapable of supporting herself financially and psychologically, let alone of raising a child.”

She removed her glasses, twiddled them by one sidepiece. “Then, there’s the coup de grâce: years of chronic drug addiction and concomitant criminal history.”

“What drug is she addicted to?”

“I don’t know what currently amuses her. But I can tell you that over the years she’s admitted to sampling opiates, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Plus far too much alcohol. Of course she denies all that, now.” She twirled a curl. “If I were you, I’d call for a hair follicle analysis. Clear up that nonsense, once and for all.”

I said, “Does she have any criminal convictions beyond three misdemeanors?”

“Ah,” she said. “So you know about those. Aren’t three misdemeanors sufficient evidence of lack of fitness, nowadays? Or have standards tumbled that low? As an expert, I’m sure you’re aware that for every conviction there are half a dozen offenses never accounted for. Per the FBI.”

“You’ve been doing your research.”

“Am I not obligated to do just that? In the best interests of the child?”

Before I could answer, she said, “Now I’d like to educate you in greater detail regarding my sister’s psychiatric profile.”

My sister. The child.

In her world, names were a nuisance.

At the onset of every evaluation, I work at keeping an open mind, but impressions form and more often than not they’re confirmed by the facts. After a few moments with Connie Sykes, observing the flatness in her eyes, hearing the machine-like diction, I couldn’t help conjuring a pathologist perched on a lab stool, observing a specimen on a slide.

I said, “Go on.”

“First off, she’s an unhealthily dependent individual. And she directs those immature impulses at a particularly unsuitable peer group.”

“Bad friends,” I said.

“She consorts with low-life degenerates whose poor character matches her own. Specifically, we need to be careful about two individuals. Either one of whom could very well be the child’s father.”

Withdrawing a manila file from the briefcase, she placed it on her lap.

“We begin with a disreputable man named William J. Melandrano. Aka ‘Winky.’ Origin of that nickname is still unknown to me but given this person’s obvious attention deficit disorder, I have my theories. Sample two is one Bernard V. Chamberlain. Aka ‘Boris.’ ”

She let out a dry laugh.

I said, “You believe one of them is Rambla’s father.”

“Neither will come forward and attest to such, nor will my sister shed light on the matter, but she’s been intimate with both of them over the years. During the same time period, which should tell you something.”

“You know this because—”

“I’ve seen them with her. The way they touched her. My sister loves attention.” She shuddered.

“Ree won’t confirm paternity.”

“Yet another indication of poor character,” she said. “Isn’t knowledge of paternity any child’s birthright? A vital component of a child’s proper development?”

“Both these men are bad influences but Rambla needs to know which one’s her father.”

“If for no other reason than to be wary.”

“How did you meet Melandrano and Chamberlain?”

“My sister introduced me to them. Prevailed upon me to hear them.” She huffed. “They’re alleged musicians. An alleged band called — are you ready for this? ‘Lonesome Moan.’ The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.”

“Not virtuosos.”

“Good grief,” she said, covering her ears. “The entire situation — my sister’s milieu — is repellent. For her whole life she’s made decisions that have left her bereft of the normal material and emotional nutrients enjoyed by decent individuals. Now she’s made the supreme error of delivering a child out of wedlock. I cannot, in good conscience, visit her sins upon her offspring.”

“You believe she puts Rambla in danger.”

Giving her a chance to use the toddler’s name.

“I don’t believe it, I know it. Because unlike you and the judge and the attorneys — all of whom are intelligent enough and, I hope, well intentioned — I’m the only one able to draw upon a comprehensive data bank that offers the complete picture.”

Her foot nudged the briefcase.

I said, “All those years with your sister.”

“Must you do that?” she said. “Paraphrase everything I say? This isn’t psychotherapy, it’s fact finding.”

I said, “What’s in the briefcase?”

“The chronicle of a lifetime spent with my sister. May I summarize?”

“Please do.”

“I was close to eight when she was born. Soon it became apparent that she wasn’t up to Connor and myself intellectually.”

“Not as smart as her sibs.”

“No doubt you think my remark was unkind. But the facts back it up. I was a straight-A student, graduated as high school salutatorian, and the only reason they didn’t make me valedictorian was I hadn’t accumulated enough ‘social points.’ Whatever that means. I attended Occidental College on a full scholarship, graduated with a four point oh, Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, departmental honors in chemistry, advanced to medical school at UC San Francisco, where I also served my internship and my residency in pathology.”

“You were always academically gifted.”

“Quite. After residency I enjoyed a stint at Harbor General Hospital, then I obtained an executive position with a private lab. Ten years ago, I began my own lab and experienced immediate and consistent success. Currently, I specialize in the analysis of esoteric tropical diseases as well as immune disorders, including but not limited to HIV. My referrals emanate from private physicians and institutions as well as several governmental agencies secure in the knowledge of my total discretion. Since completing my residency, I’ve earned six figures consistently, have invested wisely, and I enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, including ownership of my own thirty-five-hundred-square-foot house in Westwood. I am able to provide anything a child could possibly desire. A fact my sister was well aware of when she abdicated the care of her child to me for three months while she went gallivanting across the country with Melandrano and Chamberlain and engaged in who-knows-what. It was only after she returned and apparently experienced some feeble variant of maternal pangs that she changed her mind and began making a fuss.”

She put her glasses back on, sat back.

Long speech and an obvious invitation for me to ask more about the details of the “fuss.”

I said, “Tell me about your brother.”

“Connor was also an excellent student. Not at my level, but solid A’s and B’s. He attended Cal State Northridge, obtained a degree in accounting. With honors … I’m not certain if it was magna or just cum, but definitely honors, I distinctly remember the asterisk next to his name in his graduation program — a ceremony that my sister did not attend, because, apparently, she had better things to do. More like worse things … in any event, Connor was always a solid boy.”

“He’s an accountant?”

“Much better, Doctor. He’s an executive at a firm up in Palo Alto. Very successful. So you see.”

“You and Connor,” I said. “Then there’s Ree.”

“She was never close to our level and I’m certain the discrepancy affected her. No doubt that’s why she ran away. When she was fifteen. Did she mention that?”

“What led her to run away?”

“You’d have to ask her.” Sly smile. “If you already haven’t. No, won’t fall into that trap, Doctor. Giving you unsubstantiated information — innuendo, rumor. I want you to be certain that when I say something it’s based on fact. Why did she run away? Obviously, she was unhappy.”

“With family life.”

“We had a fine family. If my sister was a poor fit, all the pity for her. But a child shouldn’t be made to suffer.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“Fine people. Working people.”

“What kind of work?”

“Father was a teamster, Mother did bookkeeping.”

“You all got along pretty well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard different?”

“Tell me how you remember family life.”

Her arms clamped across her chest. One foot pushed the briefcase farther to the side. She said, “Fine, but that’s no excuse for her behavior. There were three of us, only one turned out immoral.”

“What’s no excuse?”

“Drinking. They both drank. Not during the day, it never impeded their work, they supported us in fine form during our entire childhoods. We had food on the table, clean clothes, the home was beautifully kept. Mother was a first-rate homemaker. Back when that meant something.”

“They drank recreationally.”

“They drank to wind down after long, grueling workdays. Yes, it was excessive. No, it doesn’t excuse her lifestyle choices. I grew up in the same environment and I am a teetotaler. Furthermore, I’ve never seen Connor indulge in more than a single beer, cocktail, or glass of wine. He says so, explicitly, when waiters attempt to peddle a refill. ‘I’m a one-drink guy.’ So don’t let her avoid responsibility by blaming Mother and Father.”

“Did your parents’ behavior change when they drank?”

“Not really,” she said.

I said nothing.

“I’m telling you, there were no drastic changes, Doctor. Not in a way one would consider unexpected.”

“The change was predictable.”

“She went to sleep. He did, as well.” Tug on a hair wave. “Except for those very few times when his mood got the best of him. In any event, that’s not relevant to the current issue: my sister’s fitness. Or lack thereof.”

I pictured her, sitting at her desk, trying to study. Wondering if tonight books would get turned into confetti.

I’d lived through worse, could well understand wanting to block that out. If she hadn’t decided to wrest her sister’s child away, she’d never have been forced to confront the past.

But …

I said, “Your father’s moods changed when he drank.”

“Wouldn’t anybody’s?” she said. “All right, he could get a bit … surly. But never violent. No matter what you’ve heard.”

“No child abuse.”

“Not one instance. Did she claim that?”

“Still,” I said, “that kind of unpredictability can be frightening to a child.”

“It wasn’t unpredictable, Doctor. One knew that when he drank there was a distinct possibility of some sort of mood upset.”

Now her lips did cooperate and she flashed me a wide, engaging smile.

“In fact,” she said, “the entire issue made me curious. The precise rate of mood upsets. I decided to approach the question scientifically. Began keeping records and attained a result. Thirty-two point five percent of the time he’d grow surly.”

“About a third of the time.”

“Not about, Doctor. Precisely thirty-two point five. My data collection was meticulous. I went over it, trying to see if I could find a pattern. Day of the week, time of day, any other variable. I came up with nothing and I believe it was at that point that I decided to devote myself to science on a cellular level rather than deal with anything as imprecise as human behavior. So you see, Father did me a favor. By directing me to what has turned out to be a rewarding career path, he proved extremely helpful.”

“Lemons into lemonade.”

“Now contrast that, Doctor, with her. Blaming everyone but herself for her deficiencies. It’s fortunate that we’re talking about this because it allows you to delineate the difference between myself and my sister: I face reality, she escapes. Well, this is one time she’s not going to find that quite so easy, eh? Now, what else can I help clarify?”

“Nothing,” I said.

She flinched. Smiled. “I’ve given you more facts than you expected? Well, that’s fine. And here’s a written record of all the background material I’ve just presented verbally, so you can take your time, study carefully, really educate yourself.”

A black-bound folder emerged from the briefcase. She placed it next to my appointment book, squaring the volume’s edges with those of the desk. “This has been a very profitable hour. Good day.”