2

Helena Dahl gave me a mourner's account. The rest I got from the papers and from Milo.

The young cop's suicide merited only two inches on page 23 with no follow-up. But the flash-point violence stayed with me and when Milo called a few weeks later and asked me to see Helena, I said, “That one. Any idea yet why he did it?”

“Nope. That's probably what she wants to talk about. Rick says don't feel obligated, Alex. She's a nurse at Cedars, worked with him in the E.R. and doesn't want to see the in-house shrinks. But it's not like she's a close friend.”

“Has the department done its own investigation?”

“Probably.”

“You haven't heard anything?”

“Those kinds of things are kept quiet and I'm not exactly in the loop. Only thing I've heard is the kid was different. Quiet, stuck to himself, read books.”

“Books,” I said. “Well, there's a motive for you.”

He laughed. “Guns don't kill, introspection does?”

I laughed back. But I thought about that.

Helena Dahl called me that evening and I arranged to see her in my home office the following morning. She arrived precisely on time, a tall, handsome woman of thirty, with very short straight blond hair and sinewy arms exposed by a navy blue tank top. The tank was tucked into jeans and she wore tennies without socks. Her face was a lean oval, well-sunned, her eyes light blue, her mouth exceptionally wide. No jewelry. No wedding ring. She gave my hand a firm shake, tried to smile, thanked me for seeing her, then followed me.

The new house is set up for therapy. I take patients in through a side door, crossing the Japanese garden and passing the fish pond. People usually stop to look at the koi or at least comment but she didn't.

Inside she sat very straight with her hands on her knees. Most of my work involves children caught up in the court system and a portion of the office is set aside for play therapy. She didn't look at the toys.

“This is the first time I've done this.” Her voice was soft and low but it carried some authority. An E.R. nurse would make good use of that.

“Even after my divorce, I never talked to anyone,” she added. “I really don't know what I expect.”

“Maybe to make some sense of it?” I said gently.

“You think that's possible?”

“You may be able to learn more, but some questions can never be answered.”

“Well, at least you're honest. Shall we get right into it?”

“If you're ready-”

“I don't know what I am but why waste time? It's… you know about the basic details?”

I nodded.

“There was really no warning, Dr. Delaware. He was such a…”

Then she cried.

Then she spilled it out.

“Nolan was smart,” she said. “I mean seriously smart, brilliant. So the last thing you'd think he'd end up being was a cop- no offense to Rick's friend, but that's not exactly what comes to mind when you think intellectual, right?”

Milo had a master's degree in literature. I said, “So Nolan was an intellectual.”

“Definitely.”

“How much education did he have?”

“Two years of college. Cal State Northridge. Psychology major, as a matter of fact.”

“He didn't finish.”

“He had trouble… finishing things. Maybe it was rebellion- our parents were heavily into education. Maybe he just got sick of classes, I don't know. I'm three years older, was already working by the time he dropped out. No one expected him to join the police. The only thing I can think of is he'd gotten politically conservative, real law-and-order. But still… the other thing is, he always loved… sleaze.”

“Sleaze?”

“Spooky stuff, the dark side of things. As a kid he was always into horror movies, really gross stuff, the grossest. His senior year in high school, he went through a stage where he grew his hair long and listened to heavy metal and pierced his ears five times. My parents were convinced he was into satanism or something.”

“Was he?”

“Who knows? But you know parents.”

“Did they hassle him?”

“No, that wasn't their style. They just rode it out.”

“Tolerant?”

“Unassertive. Nolan always did what he wanted-”

She cut the sentence short.

“Where'd you grow up?” I said.

“The Valley. Woodland Hills. My father was an engineer, worked at Lockheed, passed away five years ago. My mother was a social worker but never worked. She's gone, too. A stroke, a year after Dad died. She had hypertension, never took care of it. She was only sixty. But maybe she's the lucky one- not having to know what Nolan did.”

Her hands balled.

“Any other family?” I said.

“No, just Nolan and me. He never married and I'm divorced. No kids. My ex is a doctor.” She smiled. “Big surprise. Gary 's a pulmonologist, basically a nice guy. But he decided he wanted to be a farmer so he moved to North Carolina.”

“You didn't want to be a farmer?”

“Not really. But even if I did he didn't ask me along.” Her eyes shot to the floor.

“So you're bearing all this alone,” I said.

“Yup. Where was I- oh, the satanic nonsense. No big deal, it didn't last long and then Nolan got back to normal teenage stuff. School, sports, girls, his car.”

“Did he maintain his taste for the dark side?”

“Probably not- I don't know why I brought that up. What do you think about the way Nolan did it?”

“Using his service gun?”

She winced. “I meant so publically, in front of all those people. Like saying screw you to the world.”

“Maybe that was his message.”

“I thought it was theatrical,” she said, as if she hadn't heard.

“Was he a theatrical person?”

“Hard to say. He was very good-looking, big, made an impression- the kind of guy you noticed when he entered a room. Did he milk that? Maybe a bit when he was a kid. As an adult? The truth is, Dr. Delaware, Nolan and I lost touch. We were never close. And now-”

More tears. “As a little kid he always enjoyed being the center of attention. But other times he didn't want anything to do with anybody, just crawled into his own little space.”

“Moody?”

“A family trait.” She rubbed her knees and looked past me. “My dad underwent shock therapy for depression when Nolan and I were in grade school. We were never told what was going on, just that he was going into the hospital for a couple of days. But after he died, Mom told us.”

“How many treatments did he have?”

“I don't know, three, maybe four. When he'd come home he'd be wiped out, fuzzy about remembering- like what you see in head-injury patients. They say ECT works better now but I'm sure it damaged his brain. He faded in middle age, took early retirement, sat around reading and listening to Mozart.”

“He must have been severely depressed to get ECT,” I said.

“Must have been but I never really saw it. He was quiet, sweet, shy.”

“What was his relationship with Nolan?”

“There wasn't much of one that I could see. Even though Nolan was gifted, he was into typical macho stuff. Sports, surfing, cars. Dad's idea of recreation was…”- she smiled-“reading and listening to Mozart.”

“Did they have conflict?”

“Dad never had conflict with anyone.”

“How did Nolan react to your father's death?”

“He cried at the funeral. Afterward, we both tried to comfort Mom for a while, then he just drifted away again.”

She pinched her lower lip. “I didn't want Nolan to have one of those big LAPD funerals, gun salutes, all that crap. No one at the department argued. Like they were happy not to deal with it. I had him cremated. He left a will, all his stuff is mine. Dad's and Mom's stuff, too. I'm the survivor.”

Too much pain. I backtracked. “What was your mother like?”

“More outgoing than Dad. Not moody. On the contrary, she was always up, cheerful, optimistic. Probably why she stroked out- holding it all inside.” She rubbed her knee again. “I don't want to make our family sound weird. We weren't. Nolan was a regular guy. Partying, chasing girls. Just smarter. He got A's without working.”