'No. I work mostly with children.'
'Deviant children?'
'All kinds of children.'
'Where'd you go to school?'
'UCLA.'
'Great school.'
'I agree.'
'The kids you treat, any of them do violent things - chop up small animals, tear the wings off of flies?'
'I can't talk to you about my cases.'
'Go to any Bruin games?'
'Once in a while.'
'What about Cadmus? Was he into sports?'
'How would I know that?'
'You ever know him to do anything violent or weird -besides being sexually deviant?'
'Not to my knowledge.'
'Nothing like that ever came up in treatment?'
'That's confidential.'
He cracked his gum and looked annoyed.
'This is a homicide investigation, sir. We can do the paper work and get the information anyway.'
'Then you'll have to do that.'
He flushed with anger.
'You want to know who you're protecting? He butchered those - '
'Cal' - Cash broke in - 'the doctor's only doing what he has to.' He smiled at me over tinted lenses. 'Got to play it by the book. Right, Doctor?'
On the surface it seemed a hackneyed skit, standard good cop - bad cop stuff, but the hostile stare Whitehead threw at the other man made me wonder.
'Right,' I said, looking away to avoid the appearance of
camaraderie.
Whitehead pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit out of his pants pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and added them to the cud in his mouth. His jaws made little wet noises.
'Sure,' he said, giving me a cold, knowing smile. 'By the book. Tell me, sir, how long have you known he was sexually deviant?'
I didn't answer.
He stared at me hard. Then, suddenly, like a dog peeing to mark his turf, he made a show of getting comfortable: leaning back; spreading his arms along the back of the couch; stretching and crossing his legs. His shins were coated with ginger-pink hair.
'You know,' he said, 'you can always tell a fag cutting. They slice deeper and more often. Seventy, eighty, a hundred wounds on one body. Why do you suppose that is, sir?'
'I wouldn't know.'
'No?' he said with mock disappointment. 'I thought you might. One of the psychiatrists I asked about it said it had something to do with repressed rage. All those pretty boys act sweet and gentle, but they've got this shitload of rage boiling inside. So they chop each other into hamburger. That make sense to you?'
'No single rule ever explains an entire group.'
'Uh-huh. Just thought you might have an opinion on
it.'
He rolled his tongue inside his cheek and feigned contemplation. 'What about Cadmus? Do you see him as someone carrying around a lot of repressed rage?'
'Like I said before, no diagnoses from a phone call.'
'You tell that to Horace Souza, too?'
'My conversation with Mr. Souza is - '
'Confidential,' he mimicked. 'You're a pretty stubborn guy, sir.'
'It's not a matter of stubbornness. It's professional ethics.'
'Doctor-patient stuff?'
'Right.'
'But he's not your patient anymore?'
'Correct.'
'What is he then?'
'I don't understand what you're asking.'
The cold smile surfaced again.
'He called you even though he's not your patient. Are you friends or something?'
'No.'
'So the call was out of the clear blue?'
'I'm not sure why he called. Maybe he remembered me as someone he could talk to.'
'After five years.'
'Right.'
'Uh-huh. Tell me, did he ever mention the name Ivar Digby Chancellor?'
'No.'
'Richard Emmet Ford?'
'No.'
'Darrel Gonzales? Matthew Higbie?'
'No.'
'Rolf Piper? John Henry Spinola? Andrew Terrance Boyle? Ray ford Bunker?'
'None of those.'
'How about these: Rusty Nails, Tinkerbell, Angel, Quarterflash?'
'No.'
'Never mentioned any of them?'
'Not a one.'
'You know who those people are?'
'I assume they're victims of the Lavender Slasher.'
'They're victims all right. Of little Jimmy Cadmus. Your former patient.'
He'd shot questions at me that were oblique and out of context in an attempt to throw me off guard and establish psychological dominance. I was familiar with the technique, having seen it used by Milo and some of the more devious psychotherapists. But while Milo was a virtuoso who capitalised upon an uncanny ability to appear stupid and inept before moving in for the kill, Whitehead seemed genuinely inept. His tangents had led nowhere, he'd learned close to nothing, and now he was frustrated.
'This guy you're protecting,' he said angrily, 'let me tell you what he did. First he strangled them; then he cut their throats ear to ear. The 'second smile' the lab boys call it. He gave 'em all nice big smiles. After that he went to work on the eyes. Popped 'em out with his fingers and pureed 'em. Then down to the other balls.'
He recounted the details of the killings, growing progressively angrier with each lurid disclosure, glaring at me as if I'd wielded the knife. I found the intensity of his hostility puzzling. I hadn't been able to help him because I knew next to nothing. He was convinced I was stonewalling, and I could understand his frustration. But frustration alone didn't account for the naked contempt in his eyes.
When the recitation of horrors was over, he took Cash's notes from the smaller man's lap and read them slowly. The Beverly Hills detective looked bored and began fidgeting, a one-man band of narcissistic mannerisms - smoothing his razor-cut; scrutinising his manicure; removing his rosy glasses, holding them up to the light, spitting on them, and wiping them lovingly. Then he got up and walked around the room.
'This is very nice,' he said, eyeing a collection of framed ivory miniatures. 'Indian?'
'Persian.'
'Very nice.'
