Read Online Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
Tags: Alex Delaware
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A diamond glinted on her ring finger. Her sleeveless dress was bright blue, modest for that era.
Another elf. Marriage of the leprechauns.
They say couples who live together long enough start to look like each other. Richard and Joanne had begun that way but diverged.
I turned to the second photo, a washed-out Polaroid. A subject who resembled no one.
Long-view of a king-size bed, shot from the foot. Rumpled gold comforter strewn across a tapestry-covered bed bench. High mound of beige pillows propped against the headboard. In their midst, a head floated.
White face. Round. So porcine and bloated the features were compressed to a smear. Bladder-cheeks. Eyes buried in folds. Just a hint of brown hair tied back tight from a pasty forehead. Pucker-mouth devoid of expression.
Below the head, beige sheets rose like a bell-curved, tented bulk. To the right was an elegant carved nightstand in some kind of dark, glossy wood, with gold pulls. Behind the headboard was peach wallpaper printed with teal flowers. A length of gilded frame and linen mat hinted at artwork cropped out of the photo.
For one shocking moment, I wondered if Richard Doss had a postmortem shot. But no, the eyes were open . . . something in them . . . despair? No, worse. A living death.
"Eric took it," said Doss. "My son. He wanted a record."
"Of his mom?" I said. Hoarse, I cleared my throat.
"Of what had happened to his mom. Frankly put, it pissed him off."
"He was angry at her?"
"No," he said, as if I were an idiot. "At the situation. That's how my son deals with his anger."
"By documenting?"
"By organizing. Putting things in their place. Personally, I think it's a great way to handle stress. Lets you wade through the emotional garbage, analyze the factual content of events, get in touch with how you feel, then move on. Because what choice is there? Wallow in other people's misery? Allow yourself to be destroyed?"
He pointed a finger at me, as if I'd accused him of something.
"If that sounds callous," he said, "so be it, Doctor. You haven't lived in my house, never went through what I did. Joanne took over a year to leave us. We had time to figure things out. Eric's a brilliant boy— the smartest person I've ever met. Even so, it affected him. He was in his second semester at Stanford, came home to be with Joanne. He devoted himself to her, so if taking that picture seems callous, bear that in mind. And it's not as if his mother minded. She just lay there— that picture captures exactly what she was like at the end. How she ever mobilized the energy to contact the sonofabitch who killed her I'll never know."
"Dr. Mate."
He ignored me, fingered the silver phone. Finally our eyes met. I smiled, trying to let him know I wasn't judging. His lids were slightly lowered. Beneath them, dark eyes shone like nuggets of coal.
"I'll take those back." He leaned forward, holding out his hand for the pictures. Again, I had to stand to return them.
"How did Stacy cope?" I said.
He took his time zipping open the purse and placing the snapshots within. Crossing his legs yet again. Massaging the phone, as if hoping a call would rescue him from having to answer.
"Stacy," he said, "is another story."
6
I BOOTED UP the computer. Eldon Mate's name pulled up over a hundred sites.
Most of the references were reprints of newspaper columns covering Mate's career as a one-way travel agent. Pros, cons, no shortage of strong opinions from experts on both sides. Everyone responding on an intellectual level. Nothing psychopathic, none of the cold cruelty that had flavored the murder.
A "Dr. Death Home Page" featured a flattering photo of Mate, recaps of his acquittals and a brief biography. Mate had been born in San Diego sixty-three years ago, received a degree in chemistry from San Diego State and worked as a chemist for an oil company before entering medical school in
Another elf. Marriage of the leprechauns.
They say couples who live together long enough start to look like each other. Richard and Joanne had begun that way but diverged.
I turned to the second photo, a washed-out Polaroid. A subject who resembled no one.
Long-view of a king-size bed, shot from the foot. Rumpled gold comforter strewn across a tapestry-covered bed bench. High mound of beige pillows propped against the headboard. In their midst, a head floated.
White face. Round. So porcine and bloated the features were compressed to a smear. Bladder-cheeks. Eyes buried in folds. Just a hint of brown hair tied back tight from a pasty forehead. Pucker-mouth devoid of expression.
Below the head, beige sheets rose like a bell-curved, tented bulk. To the right was an elegant carved nightstand in some kind of dark, glossy wood, with gold pulls. Behind the headboard was peach wallpaper printed with teal flowers. A length of gilded frame and linen mat hinted at artwork cropped out of the photo.
For one shocking moment, I wondered if Richard Doss had a postmortem shot. But no, the eyes were open . . . something in them . . . despair? No, worse. A living death.
"Eric took it," said Doss. "My son. He wanted a record."
"Of his mom?" I said. Hoarse, I cleared my throat.
"Of what had happened to his mom. Frankly put, it pissed him off."
"He was angry at her?"
"No," he said, as if I were an idiot. "At the situation. That's how my son deals with his anger."
"By documenting?"
"By organizing. Putting things in their place. Personally, I think it's a great way to handle stress. Lets you wade through the emotional garbage, analyze the factual content of events, get in touch with how you feel, then move on. Because what choice is there? Wallow in other people's misery? Allow yourself to be destroyed?"
He pointed a finger at me, as if I'd accused him of something.
"If that sounds callous," he said, "so be it, Doctor. You haven't lived in my house, never went through what I did. Joanne took over a year to leave us. We had time to figure things out. Eric's a brilliant boy— the smartest person I've ever met. Even so, it affected him. He was in his second semester at Stanford, came home to be with Joanne. He devoted himself to her, so if taking that picture seems callous, bear that in mind. And it's not as if his mother minded. She just lay there— that picture captures exactly what she was like at the end. How she ever mobilized the energy to contact the sonofabitch who killed her I'll never know."
"Dr. Mate."
He ignored me, fingered the silver phone. Finally our eyes met. I smiled, trying to let him know I wasn't judging. His lids were slightly lowered. Beneath them, dark eyes shone like nuggets of coal.
"I'll take those back." He leaned forward, holding out his hand for the pictures. Again, I had to stand to return them.
"How did Stacy cope?" I said.
He took his time zipping open the purse and placing the snapshots within. Crossing his legs yet again. Massaging the phone, as if hoping a call would rescue him from having to answer.
"Stacy," he said, "is another story."
6
I BOOTED UP the computer. Eldon Mate's name pulled up over a hundred sites.
Most of the references were reprints of newspaper columns covering Mate's career as a one-way travel agent. Pros, cons, no shortage of strong opinions from experts on both sides. Everyone responding on an intellectual level. Nothing psychopathic, none of the cold cruelty that had flavored the murder.
A "Dr. Death Home Page" featured a flattering photo of Mate, recaps of his acquittals and a brief biography. Mate had been born in San Diego sixty-three years ago, received a degree in chemistry from San Diego State and worked as a chemist for an oil company before entering medical school in
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