Therapists become therapists because down deep they feel that people are really good and have the capacity to change for the better. The notion that there exist individuals who are simply evil - bad people - and that such evil cannot be explained by any existing combination of nature or nurture is an assault upon a therapist's sensitivities. The psychopath is to the psychologist and the psychiatrist what the terminal cancer patient is to the physician: walking, breathing evidence of hopelessness and failure.

I knew such evil people existed. I had seen a mercifully small number of them, mostly adolescents, but some children. I remember one boy, in particular, not yet twelve years old, but possessed of a cynical, hardened, cruelly grinning face that would have done a San

Quentin lifer proud. He'd handed me his business card - a bright rectangle of shocking pink paper with his name on it, followed by the single word Enterprises.

And an enterprising young man he had been. Buttressed by my assurances of confidentiality, he had told me proudly, of the dozens of bicycles he had stolen, of the burglaries he had pulled off, of the teenage girls he had seduced. He was so pleased with himself.

He had lost his parents in a plane crash at the age of four and had been brought up by a baffled grandmother who tried to assure everyone - and herself - that down deep he was a good boy. But he wasn't. He was a bad boy. When I asked him if he remembered his mother, he leered and told me she looked like a real piece of ass in the pictures he had seen. It wasn't defensive posturing. It was really him.

The more time I spent with him, the more discouraged I grew. It was like peeling an onion and finding each inner layer more rotten than the last. He was a bad boy, irredeemably so. Most likely, he would get worse.

And there was nothing I could do. There was little doubt he would end up establishing an anti - social career. If society was lucky, it would be limited to con games. If not, a lot of blood would be shed. Logic dictated that he should be locked up, kept out of harm's way, incarcerated for the protection of the rest of us. But democracy said otherwise, and, on balance, I had to admit it shouldn't be any other way.

Still, there were nights when I thought of that eleven - year - old and wondered if I'd be seeing his name in the papers one day.

I set the nine files aside.

Milo would have more of his work cut out for him.

10

Three days of the old wear - downtheshoe - leather routine had worn Milo down.

"The computer was a total bust," he lamented, flopping down on my leather sofa. "All of those bastards are either back in the joint, dead, or alibied. The coroner's report has no forensic magic for us. Just six and a half pages of gory details telling us what we knew the first time we saw the bodies: Handler and Gutierrez were hacked up like sausage filler."

I brought him a beer, which he drained in two long gulps. I brought him another.

"What about Handler? Anything on him?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, you were definitely right in your initial impression. The guy was no Mr. Ethical. But it doesn't lead anywhere."

"What do you mean?"

"Six years ago, when he was doing hospital consultations, there was a bit of a stink - insurance fraud. Handler and some others were running a little scam. They'd peek their heads in for a second, say hello to a patient, and bill it as a full visit, which I take it is supposed to be forty - five or fifty minutes long. Then they'd make a note in the chart, bill for another visit, talk to the nurse, another visit, talk to the doctor, etc." etc. It was big bucks - one guy could put in for thirty, forty visits a day, at seventy, eighty bucks a visit. Figure it out."

"No surprise. It's done all the time."

"I'm sure. Anyway, it blew wide open because one of the patients had a son who was a doctor, and he started to get suspicious, reading the chart, seeing all these psychiatric visits. Especially 'cause the old man had been unconscious for three months. He griped to the medical director, who called Handler and the others in on the carpet. They kept it quiet, on the condition that the crooked shrinks leave."

Six years ago. Just before Handler's notes had started to get slipshod and sarcastic. It must have been hard going from four hundred grand a year to a measly one hundred. And having to actually work for it. A man could get bitter…

"And you don't see an angle in that?"

"What? Revenge? From whom? It was insurance companies that were getting bilked. That's how they kept it going so long. They never billed the patients, just billed insurance." He took a swig of beer. "I've heard bad things about insurance companies, pal, but I can't see them sending around Jack the Ripper to avenge their honor."

"I see what you mean."

He got up and paced the room.

"This goddamn case sucks. It's been a week and I've got absolutely zilch. The captain sees it as a dead end. He's pulled Del off and left me with the whole stinking mess. Tough breaks for the faggot."

"Another beer?" I held one out to him.

"Yeah, goddammit, why not? Drown it all in suds." He wheeled around. "I tell you, Alex, I should have been a schoolteacher. Viet Nam left me with this big psychic hole, you know? All that death for nothing.

I thought becoming a cop would help me fill that hole, catch bad guys, make some sense out of it all. Jesus, was I wrong!"

He grabbed the Coors out of my hand, tilted it over his mouth, and let some of the foam dribble down his chin.

"The things that I see - the monstrous things that we supposed humans do to each other. The shit I've become inured to. Sometimes it makes me want to puke."

He drank silently for a few minutes.

"You're a goddamn good listener, Alex. All that training wasn't for naught."

"One good turn, my friend."

"Yeah, right. Now that you mention it, Hickle was another shitty case. I never convinced myself that was suicide. It stunk to high heaven."

"You never told me."

"What's to tell? I've no evidence. Just a gut feeling. I've got lots of gut feelings. Some of them gnaw at me and keep me up at night. To paraphrase Del, my gut feelings and ten cents."

He crushed the empty can between his thumb and forefinger, with the ease of someone pulverizing a gnat.

"Hickle stunk to high heaven, but I had no evidence. So I wrote it off. Like a bad debt. No one argued, no one gave a shit, just like no one'll give a shit when we write off Handler and the Gutierrez girl. Keep the records tidy, wrap it up, seal it, and kiss it goodbye."

Seven more beers, another half - hour of ranting and punishing himself, and he was stoned drunk. He crashed on the leather sofa, going down like a B - 52 with a bellyful of shrapnel.

I slipped his shoes off and placed them on the floor beside him. I was about just to leave him that way, when I realized it had turned dark.

I called his home number. A deep, rich male voice answered.

"Hello."

"Hello, this is Alex Delaware, Milo's friend."

"Yes?" Wariness.

"The psychologist."

"Yes. Milo's spoken of you. I'm Rick Silverman."

The doctor, the mother's dream, now had a name.

"I just called to let you know that Milo stopped by here after work to discuss a case and he got kind of - intoxicated."

"I see."

I felt an absurd urge to explain to the man at the other end that there was really nothing going on between Milo and me, that we were just good friends. I suppressed it.

"Actually, he got stoned. Had eleven beers. He's sleeping it off now. I just wanted you to know."

"That's very considerate of you," Silverman said, acidly.

"I'll wake him, if you'd like."

"No, that's quite all right. Milo's a big boy. He's free to do as he pleases. No need to check in."