When The Bough Breaks

Milo ordered something called a San Francisco Deluxe Omelette. It turned out to be a bright yellow horror stuffed with spinach, tomatoes, ground beef, chilies, onions and marinated eggplant. He dug into it with relish while I contented myself with a steak sandwich and a Coors. In between bites he talked about the Handler murder.

"It's a puzzler, Alex. You've got all the signs of a psychotic thrill killer - both of them trussed up in the bedroom, like animals ready for the slaughter. And stuck about five dozen times. The girl looked like she ran into Jack the Ripper with her - "

"Spare me." I pointed to my food.

"Sorry. I forget when I'm talking to a civilian. You get used to it after wading in it for a few years. You can't stop living, so you learn to eat and drink and fart through all of it." He wiped his face with his napkin and took a long, deep swallow of his beer. "Anyway, despite the craziness, there's no sign of forced entry. The front door was open. Normally that would be very puzzling. Except in this case with the victim being a psychiatrist, it might make sense, his knowing the bad guy and letting him in." "You think it was one of his patients?"

"It's a good possibility. Psychiatrists have been known to deal with crazies."

"I'd be surprised if it turned out that way, Milo. Ten to one Handler had a typical West Side practice - depressed middle - aged women, disillusioned executives, and a few adolescent identity crises thrown in for good measure."

"Do I detect a note of cynicism?"

I shrugged.

"That's just the way it is in most cases. High priced friendship - not that it's not valuable, mind you. But there's very little real mental illness in what most of us - psychiatrists, psychologists - see in practice. The real crazies, the really disturbed ones, are hospitalized."

"Handler worked at a hospital before he went out on his own. Encino Oaks."

"Maybe you'll dig up something there," I said doubtfully. I was tired of being the wet blanket so I didn't tell him that Encino Oaks Hospital was a repository for the suicidal progeny of the rich. Very little sexual psychopathy, there.

He pushed his empty plate away and motioned for the waitress.

"Bettijean, a nice slab of that green apple pie, please."

"A la mode, Milo?"

He patted his gut and pondered.

"What the hell, why not. Vanilla."

"And you, sir?"

"Just coffee, please."

When she had gone he continued, thinking out loud more than talking to me.

"Anyway, it appears as if Dr. Handler let someone in to his place sometime between midnight and one and got ripped up for his efforts."

"And the Gutierrez woman?"

"Your quintessential innocent bystander. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She was Handler's girlfriend?"

He nodded.

"For about six months. From the little we've learned she started out as a patient and ended up going from couch to bed."

A not uncommon story.

"The irony of it was that she was hacked up worse than he was. Handler got his throat slit and probably died relatively quickly. There were a few other holes in him but nothing lethal. It looks as if the killer took his time with her. Makes sense if it's a sexual crazy."

I could feel my digestive process come to a halt. I changed the subject.

"Who's your new love?"

The pie came. Milo smiled at the waitress and attacked the pastry. I noticed that the filling was indeed green, a bright, almost luminescent green. Someone in the kitchen was fooling around with food dyes. I shuddered to think what they could do with something really challenging, like a pizza. It would probably end up looking like a mad artist's palette.

"A doctor. A nice Jewish doctor." He looked heavenward. "Every mother's dream."

"What happened to Larry?"

"He's gone off to find his fortunes in San Francisco."

Larry was a black stage manager with whom Milo had conducted an on - again, off - again relationship for two years. Their last half - year had been grimly platonic. "He's hooked up with some show sponsored by an anonymous corporation. Something racy for educational television, along the lines of "Our Agricultural Heritage: Your Friend the Plough." Hot stuff."

"Bitchy, bitchy."

"No, really, I do wish the boy well. Behind that neurotic exterior was genuine talent."

"How did you meet your doctor?"

"He works the Emergency Room at Cedars. A surgeon, no less. I was following up an assault that turned into manslaughter, he was commandeering the catheters, and our eyes locked. The rest is history."

I laughed so hard the coffee almost went up my nose.

"He's been out of the closet for about two years. Marriage in medical school, messy divorce, excommunication by family. The whole bit. Fantastic guy, you'll have to meet him."

"I'd like to."

"Give me a few days to slog through Morton Handler's life history and we'll double."

"It's a deal."