Therapy

CHAPTER 18

I drove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

“At least he saw it that way.”

“If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit- those karate dances-”

“Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

“You make it to black belt?”

“Brown.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Not angry enough.”

“I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

“Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

“Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

“Police? What about?”

“Gavin Quick.”

“Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

“Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

“Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it- kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”

Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

Milo said, “Why’s that?”

“Because the idea of my killing anyone- hurting anyone- is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

“Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.

“That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

“The Army?” said Milo.

“Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden stare off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

Conniff smiled. “I guess I’m just not very death-oriented.”

“As opposed to?”

“People who are.”

“You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

Conniff motioned around the dojo. “This? It’s a job.”

Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

“Not killing Gavin Quick.” Conniff relaxed his posture.

“In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

“How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Conniff tightened his black belt and widened the space between his feet. “I mourn Gavin Quick in the sense that I mourn the loss of any human life, but I’m not going to tell you I cared for him. He put Beth through incredible misery. But Beth insisted on dealing with it in her own way, and she was right. The stalking stopped. I had no reason to want to hurt him.”

“Her own way,” said Milo.

“Avoiding him,” said Conniff. “Going through the legal system. I wanted to confront Gavin- on a verbal level. I thought a man-to-man talk might convince him. Beth said no, and I respected her wishes.”

“Man-to-man.”

Conniff rubbed his palms along the sides of his tunic. His hands were small and callused. “Yes, I can get protective. I love Beth. But I didn’t hurt Gavin Quick. I’d have no reason to.”

“Where were you Monday?”

“With Beth. We stayed in. Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust Beth. She’s all about forgiveness, operates at a high level, spiritually.”

“What’d you have for dinner?” said Milo.

“Who remembers… let’s see, Monday, so it was probably leftovers. Sunday we barbecued steaks and had a lot of leftovers… yeah, definitely, leftover steak. I cut it up and sautéed it with peppers and onions, did a stir-fry. Beth cooked up some rice. Yeah, for sure. We stayed in.”

“Ever been in psychotherapy, Mr. Conniff?”

“Why is that your business?”

“Covering bases,” said Milo.

“Well, I find the question kind of intrusive.”

“Sorry, sir, but-”

“I’ll answer it anyway,” said Conniff. “My entire family went into therapy after Bradley died. We all saw a wonderful man named the Reverend Dr. Bill Kehoe, and I talked to him by myself a few times, as well. He was the pastor of our church and a fully qualified clinical psychologist. He saved us from despair. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“That’s the only time you had therapy,” said Milo.

“Yes, Lieutenant. It took a while- a long while- to stop feeling guilty about Bradley’s dying and my surviving, but I got there. Life’s darned good, nowadays.”

Milo reached into his pocket and brought out the death shot of the blonde. “Ever see this girl?”

Conniff studied the picture. “Nope. But I know the look. Pure dead. That’s the look that flavored my childhood. Who is she?”

“Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”

“Sad,” said Conniff. “There are always sad things in this world. The key is to push past all that and lead a spiritual life.”

Back in the car, Milo ran Conniff’s name through the data banks. Two parking tickets.

“No con, but he’s a strange one, no?”

“Tightly wound,” I said.

“The type to clean up carefully.”

“He says he was with Beth.”

“I’ll ask Beth,” he said.

“Her say-so will be enough?”

“Like he said, she operates at a high level.”

A call from the car produced the same story from Beth Gallegos.

Steak stir-fry.

We returned to the station where Milo found a faxed artist’s rendering of the dead girl and a message to call Community Relations.

“Look at this,” he said. “Michelangelo’s rolling in his crypt.”

The drawing was sketchy, lacking in character, useless. He crumpled and tossed it, phoned CR downtown, listened, hung up, grinding his teeth.

“This city, everything’s a goddamn audition. They talked to the papers, and the papers aren’t interested. Maybe it’s even true.”

“I can call Ned Biondi. He retired from the Times a few years ago, but he’d know who to talk to.”

“Now that the PR idiots have given me an official ‘no,’ I can’t just go off and hot-dog. But maybe in a few days, if we still can’t ID her.” He peered at the Timex, muttered, “How’s your time and your intestinal fortitude?”

“A visit to the Quicks?” I said. “Sure.”

“You do tarot readings too?”