Therapy

CHAPTER 15

“Now that,” said Milo, as we left the building, “is what I call a shrink. Unflappable, soft-spoken, analyzing everything.”

“I don’t qualify?”

“You, my friend, are an aberration.”

“Too flappable?”

“Too damn human. Let’s check out Dr. K’s residence. Have time?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s see how the real shrinks live.”

Motor vehicle records put Mary Lou Koppel’s address on McConnell Drive, in Cheviot Hills.

I drove west, past Century City and south to Pico, continued half a mile past Rancho Park and the radar gun of a stone-faced motorcycle cop. Milo waved at the officer, but he didn’t return the gesture. McConnell was a lovely street, hilly and winding and, unlike the horticulturally regimented arteries of Beverly Hills, graced by an adventurous mix of street trees.

Koppel’s house was a two-story brick Tudor set high on a knoll above thirty stone steps. The steep driveway would have been a challenge for a car with a puny engine. No sign of the Mercedes, but the garage door was closed.

Milo said, “Maybe she was more scared of two murders in her practice than she let on and decided to take a little vacation.”

“With no advance notice to her patients?”

“Fear can do that to you.” He eyed the climb. “Okay, pass the pitons and let’s start the climb. How’re your CPR skills?”

He trudged up first, muttering, “At least there’s a view,” and I followed two steps behind. He was huffing and gasping by the time we got to the top.

“With… this,” he panted, “she… doesn’t need… a… damnhomegym.”

Up close, the house was beautifully kept, windows sparkling, copper gutters spotless, carved oak door freshly varnished. Plantings of ferns and elephant ear and papyrus and white roses softened the used-brick front. A stone pot of mixed herbs bathed the covered entrance in fragrance. A multitrunk jacaranda formed the centerpiece of the tiny, perfect lawn. Between its branches was an eastern panorama: the L.A. basin and the San Gabriel Mountains beyond. Despite the smog blanket, staggering. As Milo rang the bell, I stared out at miles of terrain and thought what I always think: way too big for one city.

No one answered. He tried again, knocked, said, “With her car gone, no big surprise, but let’s be thorough.”

We walked around the left side of the house to a small square of backyard dominated by a lap pool and more thick planting. High ficus hedging on three sides prevented scrutiny by the neighbors. The pool was gray-bottomed and immaculate. A covered patio covered a brick barbecue with a built-in chimney, outdoor furniture, potted flowers. A hummingbird feeder dangled from a crossbeam, and, off in a corner, a miniature fountain- a bamboo spout tipping into a tiny barrel- burbled prettily.

The rear wall was a bank of French doors. Three sets were blocked by drapes. One wasn’t and Milo went over and peered in.

“Oh my,” he said.

I went over to have a look.

The back room was set up with white leather sofas, glass side tables, an oak-and-granite wet bar, and a five-foot-wide plasma TV with accompanying stereo gizmos. The TV was tuned to a game show. Ecstatic contestants jumped as if on trampolines. Great color and definition.

Off to the left side, Mary Lou Koppel slumped on one of the sofas, facing us, her back to the screen. Her limbs were splayed, and her head was thrown back, mouth gaping, eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling.

Staring sightlessly. Something long and silver protruded from her chest, and her color belonged to nothing living.

All around her, white leather was blotched rusty red.

We remained outside as Milo called in the techies, the coroner, and two black-and-whites for sentry work. In twenty minutes, the scene was bustling.

The coroner was an Asian woman who spoke little English and slipped away without conferring. The coroner’s investigator, a heavy, gray-mustachioed man named Arnold Mattingly, emerged and said, “Cho says she’s all yours, Milo.”

Milo frowned. “She’s gone?”

“She’s busier than we’ll ever be,” said Mattingly. “Lots of bodies piled up at the morgue.”

“She give you any prelim?”

“Looks like stabbed in the chest with a letter opener, shot through the head. I know you like to draw your own DB chart, but if you want a copy of mine, I’ll xerox it.”

“Thanks, Arnie. Which came first, the stabbing or the shooting?”

“Not for me to guess, and Cho isn’t talking much today.” Mattingly cupped his hand but kept his voice loud. “Her husband left her.”

“Shame,” said Milo.

“Nice lady,” said Mattingly. “It really is. Anyway, you want to know my opinion, there was mucho blood around the knife wound. Copious, as they say. And just a little tiny trickle around the bullet hole, more plasma than red stuff.”

“Her heart was pumping hard when she got stabbed.”

“If I was a betting man,” said Mattingly.

“Small-caliber gun?”

“From the looks of it. Koppel, she’s that psychologist, right?”

“You know her, Arnie?”

“My wife listens to her when she’s on the radio. Says she talks common sense. I say if it’s that common, why do people have to pay her?” He shook his head. “The wife’ll have a fit when I tell her- it’s okay to tell her, right?”

“Go for it,” said Milo. “Call the networks for all I care. Any other ideas?”

Mattingly said, “What, this is guess day?”

“It’s a crappy day. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Humble civil servant like me.” Mattingly scratched his head. “My guess would be her line of work, maybe she got on the wrong side of some crazy person.” He seemed to notice me for the first time. “That make sense, Doc?”

“Perfect sense.”

Mattingly grinned. “That’s what I love about my job. I get to make sense. Then when I get home, I’m an idiot.” He collected his gear and left.

I said, “Call the networks. Maybe this is the hook you need.”

It took a while for the techies to finish printing the house, searching for shoe imprints, blood or other body fluids in remote rooms, signs of forced entry or struggle.

No prints on the letter opener. Nothing else revelatory except for the obvious fact that the opener, antique, bone-handled, with a sterling silver shaft, had come from the desk set in Mary Lou Koppel’s home office.

When the house cleared, Milo began the demeaning rummage that murder victims undergo.

A search of the medicine cabinet in Koppel’s private bathroom produced the usual toiletries along with birth control pills, a diaphragm and condoms (“Careful gal”), OTC allergy medicine, a salve for yeast infections, Tylenol, Advil, Pepto-Bismol, and physician samples of the sleeping pill Ambien.

“All that advice for everyone else, and she has trouble sleeping,” said Milo. “Something on her mind?”

I shrugged.

Her bedroom was a cozy, soft-edged study in sage green and salmon. The quilted spread on the bed was tucked tight, the room perfectly composed.

Milo rifled through a closet filled with red and black. In dresser drawers he found sleepwear that ranged from sensible flannel to skimpy pieces from the Hustler Emporium. He held up a pair of crotchless panties in faux leopard skin.

“You don’t buy this for yourself. Wonder who her love interest is.”

At the bottom of the underwear drawer, he found a silver vibrator nestled in a velvet bag.

“All kinds of love,” he muttered.

I hadn’t liked Mary Lou Koppel much, but exposing the archaeology of her life was depressing.

We left the bedroom and headed back to the office so that Milo could sift through her papers. It didn’t take long for things to get interesting.

Like the rest of the house, the study was tidy. A squared stack of papers sat atop the dainty French revival desk, weighed down by a red crystal paperweight shaped like a rose. Just off center, next to a gilded leather blotter and below the sterling desk set from which the murder weapon had been lifted.

Milo attacked the drawers first, found Mary Lou Koppel’s financial records and tax forms and a stack of correspondence from people who’d tuned in to her media interviews and had strong opinions, pro and con.

Those he bundled together and stashed in an evidence envelope.

He said, “She declared 260 grand a year from treating patients, another 60 from public appearances and investments. Not too shabby.”

Court documents in a bottom drawer summarized a divorce twenty-two years ago.

“The husband was some guy named Edward Michael Koppel,” he said, running his finger along lines of print. “At the time the papers were filed he was a law student at the U… irreconcilable differences, splitting of assets… the marriage lasted less than two years, no kids… onward.”

He returned to the desktop, removed the rose-shaped paperweight, took hold of the paper stack.

On top was Gavin Quick’s chart.