“Needle marks are easy to miss, particularly with so much lividity. And a ‘Y’ incision in the chest cavity might obliterate any such puncture and possibly any chipped bone.”
I didn’t have a comment.
“That’s all we have for you, Mr. Heller.”
“Time for the blindfold again?”
“Yes. The literal one. We hope, Mr. Heller, that we’ve removed the figurative blindfold, and restored your vision.”
CHAPTER 22
In the light of the three-quarter moon on this clear August night, the two-story Monterey-style Spanish colonial, with its floor-length cantilevered balcony and thickness of trees out front, played games of light and shade, the stucco cut by dark wood trim, greenery glimmering with a slight breeze, ivory touches here and there, splotches of black elsewhere.
Here, on Franklin Street in Santa Monica, lived Dr. Ralph R. Greenson and his wife, Hildi (their son and daughter off at college); they enjoyed a nice backyard hilltop view of the ocean a few miles west, the Brentwood Country Club and golf course nearby. Maybe they belonged, unless it was restricted.
On a clear night like this, you had a nice backyard view of the Pacific Palisades, too. And I can report this because the back way was how I entered the house. There were glass doors off the garden patio, with an easily picked lock, and if Greenson had an alarm, it was a silent one. I was prepared to take my chances.
The Greensons were out for the evening, though they should be home soon. I’d followed them to La Scala- Marilyn’s favorite Italian restaurant, by the way-where their mid-evening reservations indicated they weren’t planning to take in a movie. I supposed a jazz or folk music club was a possibility.
Still, I figured they’d be home soon.
No dog greeted me, so the dog biscuit laced with chloral hydrate (a nice ironic touch, I thought) went unused, stuck in a pocket of my black zippered Windbreaker. Which went with my black slacks, black polo, and black Keds-I looked like a cross between a ninja and a tennis coach. The nine-millimeter Browning was in my waistband.
A few lights were on and I was immediately struck by how the living room-with its open rough-hewn-beamed ceiling, big fireplace trimmed in colorful Mexican tiles, and antique wooden table-resembled Marilyn’s on Fifth Helena. The decor of the big room, which took up half of the first floor, had clearly influenced her.
The kitchen had more of those tiles, but the den was a small, cozy, predictably book-lined affair, with a massive old desk with wormholes and lots of character. A typing stand beside the desk with a stack of manuscript pages indicated a work in progress. A black couch was opposite the desk along a shaded window. Was this for home visits by patients?
I stretched out on the couch, fairly sure I wouldn’t fall asleep. I had the nine-millimeter in my right hand, draped across my lap. Maybe Greenson would find that significant; he’d studied with Freud, after all. But sometimes a nine-mil is just a nine-mil.
The sound of a garage door opening stirred me-despite my confidence, I had gotten drowsy, dangerous for a housebreaker-and I could hear them coming in and talking in soft, muffled tones about nothing special. They were in the living room, just beyond the cracked den door.
His wife said she was going on upstairs to sleep, and Greenson, in that first tenor touched by both Brooklyn and Vienna, said he’d be up soon. He wanted to do a little writing.
To his credit, he didn’t yell in surprise or fear, seeing me. Not even in outrage at his home being invaded. He was in a black-and-white houndstooth sport coat, pretty snazzy, a gangster-ish black shirt with white tie, and gray slacks. The tie he’d been in the process of loosening as he entered his den.
“I guess I should have expected this,” he said.
“Why? It was just this evening I decided to stop by. I was planning a night out with my son.”
“This is about me refusing to see you.”
“I never got that far, to be refused.”
He shut the door, shrugged. “Well, it’s fair to say I’ve been avoiding you. I know of your reputation, Mr. Heller, but I hardly think you’re here to do me any harm.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“If you were going to kill me, you would not do it where my wife would be an innocent victim in whatever confused scenario you have contrived.”
I sat up on the edge of the couch. “Wow. That’s very analytical of you, Doc. Have a seat.” I indicated his desk with a friendly wave of the nine-millimeter.
“You don’t need that gun.”
“I was thinking of asking you about that, Doc. See, this is the gun my father used to kill himself. He was disappointed in me for joining the Chicago PD. He was a leftist, a real true Marxist, so you can identify. And ever since, this is the only gun I’ve carried. I like to call it the only conscience I have. What do you make of that, Doc?”
He had seated himself in his comfortable leather chair, which swiveled and rocked. But he wasn’t rocking. The dark eyes in his somber face-made more mournful by the bandito curve of black mustache that provided such stark contrast to his white hair-were trained on me. His hands were folded. He appeared relaxed. He wasn’t.
“I don’t think you’re a good candidate for therapy, Mr. Heller,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you seem rather too attached to your neurosis. I would say, on some level, in certain instances at least, it provides a sort of engine for your activities.”
“Bingo. Do you mind if I get comfortable?”
“Certainly not,” he said, dryly sarcastic. “You are, after all, a guest in my home.”
I got up, moved the couch around so I could face him more easily, and stretched out again. The weapon in hand I kept against my side, away from the door. He frowned, noting this.
“In case your wife comes checking,” I explained. “Just say I’m a patient. Emergency situation.”
“I wouldn’t be entirely lying, would I?”
“Not really.”
He shifted, settled in the chair, somehow found a sardonic smile for me. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Heller?”
“You can answer some questions, in a while… but first, just do what makes you the big bucks-listen. No note-taking necessary.”
He nodded in acceptance.
“Now, you can interrupt or interpose a thought or question at any time. You and I, Doc, we don’t stand on ceremony. We share a common goal, or at least we once did.”
His eyebrows went up questioningly.
“Marilyn’s well-being,” I said. “She was your patient, and she was my client. And I believe you did care about her. That you did try to help her. I mean, you are in a sense the hero of this story-you saved her from a number of overdoses, I understand. You weaned her off drugs. You helped build up her confidence and self-worth.”
“I’m not a hero, Mr. Heller, but I did do those things.”
“Trouble is, you’re also an egomaniac, at least as big a one as me-that’s a layman’s usage, Doc, not a diagnosis-plus you are one controlling son of a bitch. That’s my diagnosis, by the way. You tried to better yourself through your famous patient. You wheedled and wormed your way into aspects of her life that should have been off-limits-interfering with her movie studio, putting a personal spy in her home, even controlling her interaction with people like Ralph Roberts and Whitey Snyder, who were always supportive influences.”
Greenson sighed. “I did those things as well.”
Was he playing me?
“And, Mr. Heller, I crossed other boundaries of the patient/doctor compact. I often brought Marilyn into my own home, made my family her surrogate one. This I think may have been ill-advised, but it was, as you say,
