"Was he sick?"
"Nothing I could diagnose, but he came to me and complained about feeling weak. Shaky, out of focus. A month before his death, he began experiencing crushing headaches. The obvious possibility was a brain tumor, and I sent him up to the Sansum Clinic for an MRI. Negative, but the consulting neurologist did find some abnormal EEG patterns. But you know EEGs- so crude, hard to interpret. And his bloodwork was normal. I wondered about some late-term amphetamine sequelae. He'd been drug-free for years, but perhaps the self-abuse had taken its toll. Then, a week before the night terrors began, he blacked out."
"Did Marge know about any of this?"
"Pierce insisted on keeping everything from her. Even hid his headache medication in a locked box in his darkroom. I tried to convince him to communicate with her more openly, but he was adamant. Their entire relationship was like that, Alex. Each of them talked to me, and I translated. In that sense, she was the perfect woman for him- stubborn, independent, fiercely private. He could be a profoundly unmovable man. Part of what made him a good detective, I suppose."
"Do you think the night terrors were neurological, or unfinished business come back to haunt him?"
"Maybe both," he said. "Nothing unusual was found at his autopsy, but that means nothing. I've seen postmortem brain tissue that looks like Swiss cheese and turns out the patient was functioning perfectly. Then you come across perfectly healthy cerebral cortexes in people who fall apart neurologically. At the core, we humans defy logic. Isn't that why we both became doctors of the soul?"
"Is that what we are?"
"We are, son- Alex, I am sorry for concealing things from you. At the time I believed it was the right thing to do. But that girl… the killer's still out there." Tears filled his eyes. "One sets out to heal and ends up being complicit."
I placed a hand on his narrow, soft shoulder.
He smiled. "Therapeutic touch?"
"Friendship," I said.
"The purchase of friendship," he said. "Cynics coined the term to demean what we do. Sometimes I wonder about the direction my own life has taken…"
We strolled toward the gravel pathway.
I said, "What kind of relationship did Schwinn and Burns develop?"
"Once I knew Pierce could be trusted, I brought him out here. They began talking. Relating. Pierce ended up helping Bill. He'd come out from time to time, clean the house, wheel Bill around."
"And now Pierce is gone, Burns remains as the last living witness to the Ingalls murder."
Bert stared at the earth and kept walking.
I said, "You call him Bill. What's his new surname?"
"Is that important?"
"It's going to come out, eventually, Bert."
"Is it?" he said, lacing his hands behind his back. He steered me toward the open space at the front of the house. "Yes, I suppose it is. Alex, I know you need to talk to him, but as I told you, he has very little time left, and like most ex-addicts, his self-assessment is brutal."
"I'll be mindful of that."
"I know you will."
"When we spoke earlier," I said, "you made a point of mentioning that heroin addicts were unlikely to be violent. You were trying to steer me away from Burns's trail. Caroline Cossack's, as well, by pointing out to me that females were unlikely to be involved in that kind of sexual homicide. All true, but how'd they end up witnessing the murder?"
"Bill came upon the scene once the poor girl was dead, saw what had been done to her."
"Was Caroline with him?"
He hesitated. "Yes. They were together at the party. She was allowed to be at the party because he was supervising her."
"Supervising?"
"Keeping an eye on her. Her brothers paid him for that."
"Drug pusher baby-sitting the strange little sister?" I said.
Bert nodded.
I said, "So she tagged along with Burns, followed her brothers and their pals to the neighboring estate, came upon the kill spot. The killers saw them, had to be worried they'd unravel. Caroline, because her psychiatric history made her unreliable, Burns because he was a junkie. But instead of eliminating Caroline, they hospitalized her. Probably because even though the Cossacks had participated in murder, they couldn't quite bring themselves to murder their sister. They would've killed Burns, but he disappeared into the ghetto, and being rich white kids, they had no easy way to find him. Burns was scared, tried to make a big score, took too many risks and got arrested, made quick bail thanks to LAPD connections and Boris Nemerov's goodwill, and vanished again. But then, a few months later, he surfaced- got himself a job at Achievement House so he could see Caroline. The boys found out and decided the big step had to be taken. But before they could arrange the hit, Burns was gone again. He and Caroline managed to remain in contact. Eventually, he got her out of Achievement House, and the two of them hid out in Watts. How am I doing so far?"
"A-plus, Alex. As always."
"But something doesn't make sense, Bert. Why would Burns put himself in terrible jeopardy by wangling a job at Achievement House? Why in the world would he risk his life?"
Bert smiled. "Irrational, wasn't it? That's what I mean about human beings being hard to categorize."
"Why'd he do it, Bert?"
"Very simple, Alex. He loved her. Still does."
"Present tense?" I said. "They're still together? Where is she?"
"They're very much together. And you've met her."
He brought me back into the house. The front room was empty and the push door remained shut. Bert held it open, and I stepped into a corn yellow bedroom not much bigger than a closet.
Tiny bathroom off to one side. In the sleeping area were two single beds placed side by side, each made up with thin, white spreads. A stuffed bear sat atop a low dresser painted hospital green. The wheelchair was positioned at the foot of the nearer bed, and the man who called himself Bill remained seated, the nearly empty Snapple bottle in one hand, the other grasped by the pudgy, white fingers of a heavyset woman wearing an oversize, royal blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Her downturned eyes were aimed at the bedspread, and my appearance didn't cause them to shift. She had a pasty, acne-scarred face- raw bread dough, pocked by airholes- and her flat nose nearly touched her upper lip. Faded brown hair striped with silver was tied back in a stub of a ponytail.
Aimee, the cook at the Celestial Café. She'd prepared my crepes, doubled my portion without charging me extra, remained virtually mute.
Just as I'd finished my meal, Bert had come in. Nice coincidence; now I knew it had been anything but.
Marian Purveyance had owned the café until Aimee Baker took over.
He gives people things.
I said, "Didn't know you were a restaurateur, Dr. Harrison."
Bert flushed nearly as purple as his jumpsuit. "I used to fancy myself an investor, bought up a few local properties."
"Including the land this house stands on," I said. "You even transplanted agaves."
He kicked one foot with the other. "That was years ago. You'd be amazed at the appreciation."
"If you ever sold anything."
"Well… the time has to be right."
"Sure," I said, and I found myself throwing my arms around the old man.
Aimee turned, and said, "You're nice."
Bill said, "Which one you talking about, baby?"
"Both," she said. "Everyone's nice. The whole world is nice."
CHAPTER 39
Detective III Craig Bosc whimpered. Vomit flecked his well-formed lips.
Milo said, "I'll be right back. Don't think of leaving, lad."