THURSDAY AT 8:45 A.M. I called Alice Zoghbie, got the same taped message. Fifteen minutes later, I caught a newsbreak. Different reporter, same I've-got-a-scoop smile. Another backdrop that I recognized.
'… the woman, Amber Breckenham, claims that in addition, Haiselden regularly abused her and her daughter during their relationship. We're here at Haiselden's house, where neighbors say he hasn't been seen for well over a week. At the moment this remains a civil case, and no word has come down from LAPD as to whether a criminal investigation will be pursued. From Westwood, with another bizarre twist on the murder of death doctor Eldon Mate, I'm Dana Almodovar, On-the-Spot News.'
Shift to the weather report. Hazy skies, low sixties to mid-seventies, for the fortieth day in a row. I played with the remote, finally found a complete story on one of the networks specializing in lurid.
Amber Breckenham, thirty-four, the manager of one of Roy Haiselden's laundromats, in Baldwin Park, had filed a civil suit against her former boss. A shot of Breckenham walking into court with her attorney showed a tall, thickly built bleached blonde. Holding her hand was a dark-haired girl, eleven or twelve. The child kept her head down, but someone called her name-'Laurette!'-and she looked up just long enough for the camera to capture a glimpse of pretty African features and straightened hair brushed back from a high, smooth brow.
Breckenham's story was that she'd had a seven-year affair with Haiselden, during which time he'd claimed to be investing her money but had, in fact, embezzled. Furthermore, he'd abused her physically and intimidated Laurette psychologically. The suit was for five million dollars, most of it punitive damages.
Haiselden's reason for cutting town? Scratch one murder suspect?
But if Amber Breckenham's charges were true, it indicated Mate had been less than a sterling judge of character. Had he misjudged fatally?
Or had choosing Joanne Doss been his big mistake?
And what had been Joanne's mistake-the sin, if there was one, that had caused her to turn herself into the creature in Eric's Polaroid?
I left the house, drove to the U. for my second trip to the research library in as many days.
Only one reference to Joanne's death, a page-20 story in the Times:
Body Found in Desert Motel
Attributed to Dr. Mate's Machine
LANCASTER.
A motel maid entering to clean a room at the Happy Trails Motel on the outskirts of this high desert community discovered the fully clothed body of a Pacific Palisades woman early yesterday morning. While no sightings of 'death doctor' Eldon Mate's van in the vicinity have been reported, toxi-cologic analysis of the blood of Joanne Doss, 43, indicating the presence of two drugs used consistently by the self-styled euthanist, as well as puncture marks suggesting intravenous injection, and the absence of forced entry or struggle, have led Sheriff's detectives to suspect assisted suicide.
Lead investigator David Graham stated, 'She looked peaceful. Classical music was playing on the radio and she'd eaten a last meal. From what I understand, Dr. Mate encourages his patients to listen to music.'
Ms. Doss, married to a businessman and the mother of two, was reported to have suffered from deteriorating health, and would be the forty-eighth person whose death Mate has facilitated. Given Mate's success in avoiding conviction, and most recently, his indictment, authorities say it is unlikely criminal charges will be filed.
No follow-up, not even an obituary for Joanne.
No attempt by Mate to claim credit. Maybe I'd missed something. I spent another half hour combing the data banks. Not a single additional line on Joanne Doss's final night. Because by victim number forty-eight, Mate and the Humanitron were no longer news?
Mate had hooked two additional travelers to his machine before ending up in the van himself.
The van. When had he stopped using motels?
Using Mate's name as a keyword and limiting my search to three months before and after Joanne's death, I pulled up three references.
Traveler forty-seven, seven weeks before Joanne: Maria Quillen, sixty-three, terminal ovarian cancer, her body deposited at the front door of the County Morgue wrapped in a frilly pink comforter. Mate's business card tucked into the folds. Driven in the rented van where Mate had helped her die.
Mate informed the press of the details.
Number forty-nine, one month after Joanne. Alberta Jo Johnson, fifty-four, muscular dystrophy. A black woman, the papers specified. Mate's first African American. As if her death represented a new variant of affirmative action. Her corpse had been left at the Charles Drew Medical Center in South L.A., similarly wrapped.
Another van job. Another statement by Dr. Mate.
Now my pulse was racing. I found the fiftieth traveler, a man named Brenton Spear. Lou Gehrig's. Van. Press conference.
Three people with definitive diagnoses. Three van jobs, three public statements-Mate chasing the press because, I was right, he loved the attention.
No word out of him on Joanne. No van.
Joanne's death didn't fit.
I kept searching till I found the last time he'd used a motel.
Number thirty-nine, a full two years before Joanne. Another Lou Gehrig's patient, Reynolds Dobson, dispatched in a Cowboy Inn up near Fresno.
I reread the account of Joanne's final night. No sight-ings of Mate in the vicinity. Attribution to Mate because circumstances had pointed to him.
Cheap motel, the risk of a traumatized maid. After nearly a year's success with motor vehicles, it didn't make sense.
Mate hadn't taken credit for Joanne, because he knew he didn't deserve it.
Then why hadn't he come out and denied his involvement?
Because that would have made him look foolish. Displaced.
Someone horning in, a new Dr. Death, just as I'd guessed.
Broken stethoscope. Someone-Michael Burke?- making his grand entry by bathing himself in the blood of his predecessor. Hacking off Mate's manhood- you could deny Freud had ever existed and still understand that.
But how had Joanne gotten in contact with the person who'd accompanied her to the Happy Trails Motel?
Maybe I had it all wrong and Mate had known. Had allowed his apprentice to strike out on his own.
I considered that. Joanne, ready to die, calling Mate and talking instead to an underling-let's say Burke. Mate supervising, judging Burke's readiness. Unaware Burke was already an expert in the fine art of cellular cessation.
Then I remembered Michael Burke's affinity for older, seriously ill women-patients he met in hospitals-and a whole different scenario flashed.
Joanne, shuffled from doctor to doctor, enduring batteries of medical tests. MRIs, CAT scans, lumbar punctures. Procedures carried out in hospitals.
I pictured her, bloated, pain-racked, regressed to silence, waiting in yet another antiseptic waiting room for the next round of indignities, as people in white coats hurried by, no one noticing her.
Then someone did. A charming, helpful young man. MD on his badge, but he took the time to talk. How wonderful to finally encounter a doctor who actually talked!
Or perhaps Burke had been more than a drop-in. Maybe he'd actually carried out some of the tests.
Working as a technician, because he hadn't figured out a way, yet, to bogus a new medical diploma but was well-qualified to obtain a paramedical job.
Either way, I needed to learn where Joanne had been evaluated. Richard could tell me, but Richard was indisposed. Bob Manitow would also know, but there was no reason to think he'd even take my call. Whatever the reason for his antipathy, his wife didn't share it.
I'd phone Judy, find some pretense for asking about Joanne's hospital experiences-wanting to know more so I could help the kids. Especially now that Richard was in jail. I'd also try to learn more about the stress fractures that had worked their way through the Doss family. Maybe her family, as well. About why her husband was so angry.
Better a face-to-face, a chance to read nonverbal cues. Could I get Judy out of chambers long enough? She and
