Obsession

“Seems to be. Maybe he should practice what he preaches. He’s one of you guys.”

Before setting out for the Valley, I pulled Dr. Byron Stark’s stats from the psychology licensing board Web site. Twenty-eight years old, B.A., Cornell, Ph.D., University of Oregon, postdoc at the Portland V.A., freshly certified.

His building was a six-story mirrored cube on Ventura and Balboa that had all the charm of a head cold. The door said Advent Behavioral Group. Stark’s was the last of fourteen names. Six psychiatrists, eight psychologists, specialties in eating disorders, substance abuse, strategic management, career guidance, “life coaching.”

Stark’s single-window office and hard beige furniture fit his status.

He was midsized and narrow-shouldered, wore a blue minicheck buttondown shirt, maroon tie, and pressed khakis. A round, pink baby-face was topped by a beige crew cut. A fuzzy goatee looked glued on. Beneath the wisps, his small mouth seemed permanently pursed; the resulting look of disapproval wouldn’t serve him well with patients.

When I’d started out, I’d tried to ward off the Doctor, how old are you?s with facial hair. I have a heavy beard and sometimes it worked. Stark would need another source of gravitas.

Petra, Milo, and I crowded in front of his desk.

She said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doctor.”

Stark said, “Byron’s fine.”

Boyish voice. Use the title, kid. Harness every bit of placebo.

“I didn’t expect a symposium, Detective Connor.”

Petra said, “It’s an important case. We brought our psychological consultant.” She introduced me.

He said, “What do you do for them, profiling?”

I shook my head. “Formal profiling’s pretty much useless when it comes to solving crimes. I weigh in on a case-by-case basis.”

“I considered a forensics fellowship until I read up on profiling and found it basically without merit. Talk about restricted sampling.”

We traded jargon for a while. Stark relaxed. When he broke to take a phone call-something about billing for inpatient services-Petra gave me a go-ahead nudge.

“Sorry,” he said, hanging up. “Still learning the system.”

I said, “We appreciate your talking to us about Peterson Whitbread.”

“It’s funny to hear you say that. I never thought this day would come.”

“Why’s that?”

“Right after the girls disappeared, my father called the police. They were totally unresponsive.”

“The girls…”

Stark’s mouth compressed to a pink bud. “You’re not here about that.”

Milo said, “We’re here to listen, Doctor.”

Stark laughed. “I agreed to this because I thought someone was finally going to investigate, like one of those cold cases on TV.” To Petra: “That was the clear implication you gave me, Detective Connor.”

“What I told you was the truth, Dr. Stark. We’re looking into Peterson Whitbread’s background. Our immediate focus is on several crimes he’s suspected of committing recently, but we’re certainly interested in anything he might’ve done in the past. If you have knowledge of a crime, you need to tell us.”

“Unbelievable,” said Stark. “So he’s suspected of something new. No big revelation, his tendencies were obvious even to me.”

“Even?”

“I was a senior in high school.”

I said, “You’re the same age as Pete.”

“I am, but we didn’t hang out. My parents were teachers who took out loans so my brother and I could attend Burton Academy and Harvard-Westlake. All my spare time was spent studying. Pete always seemed to be out on the street. I’m not sure he even attended high school.”

“What tendencies did you notice?”

“Antisocial personality,” said Stark. “He lurked around the neighborhood at all hours, with no clear purpose. Smiled a lot but there was no warmth to it. He was blithe to the point of recklessness-would smoke dope openly, just amble up my block toking away, not even trying to hide it. Other times, he’d walk around with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his rear pocket.”

“Not much parental supervision.”

“None that I ever saw. My mother said his mother was an airhead more concerned with fashion than child- rearing. I was fifteen when we moved in, my brother a year younger. Mom sized up the situation pretty quickly and forbade both of us from having anything to do with him.”

I said, “Some teens would rebel at that kind of restriction.”

“Some would, I didn’t,” said Stark. “He was clearly someone who wouldn’t be good for me. And that was buttressed by what happened a few months after we moved in. There were a bunch of burglaries in the neighborhood. Nighttime break-ins, while people were sleeping. My parents were convinced Pete had something to do with it. My dad, in particular, was certain he had criminal tendencies.”

“Why?”

“Pete sassed him a couple of times. And I wouldn’t discount Dad’s opinion. He worked as a high school counselor, had experience with acting-out adolescents.”

Milo said, “Tell us about the girls.”

“There were two of them, the summer before my senior year they lived above Mrs. Whitbread and Pete. Older than me, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. A few months later-after I took my SATs but before I went on a college tour, so it would have to be late September or early October-they disappeared. Dad tried to spur some police interest but couldn’t get anyone to take him seriously.”

Petra said, “Where can I reach your father?”

“Eugene, Oregon. His and my mom’s pensions stretch a lot further up there, so after I graduated they sold me their place and got a house with acreage.”

“Names and number, please.”

“Herbert and Myra Stark. I can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate. When the police didn’t get back to Dad about the girls, he got so irate he complained to his councilman. But no help there, either. No one cared.”

Petra said, “What were the girls’ names?”

“I never knew their surnames, their first names were Roxy and Brandy. We knew that because they’d shout to each other, didn’t matter what time of day. Bran-deee, Rox-eee.”

“What did they do for a living?”

“My parents said those were stripper names, they had to be strippers, but I had my doubts.”

“Why?”

“Strippers would work at night, right? But those two had irregular hours. Sometimes they’d be gone during the day, other times, at night. They always left together, arrived together. Weekends they’d sleep in, never show themselves. During the week they’d be out, working and partying.”

“Tell us about the partying.”

“I don’t know for a fact, I’m using logic. They’d drive up three, four a.m., race the engine, slam the car door, and if that hadn’t woken us, their laughter and chattering did the trick. They were extremely raucous and from the way they slurred their words, high on something.”

“Your parents ever complain?”

“Never, not their style. Instead, they fumed and gossiped and regaled Galen and me with morality tales using the girls as negative examples. Of course, the end result was to get Galen and me interested. A couple of wild girls living right across the backyard? But we never tried to talk to them, even if we’d had the guts there was no opportunity. When they were home, we were at school, and when we were home they were sleeping or out.”

Milo said, “They’d come and go together in the same car?”

“Every time I saw.”