When The Bough Breaks

"Handler's a psychiatrist."

"Psychiatrist, psychologist. Minor semantic distinction at this point. What he is, is dead. Throat slashed, a little bit of evisceration tossed in. Along with a lady friend - same treatment for her but worse - sexual mutilation, nose sliced off. The place where it happened - his place - was an abattoir."

Abattoir. Milo's master's degree in American Lit asserting itself.

I put down my coffee cup.

"Okay, Milo. I've lost my appetite. Now tell me what all of that has to do with me."

He went on as if he hadn't heard me.

"I got called on it at five a.m. I've been knee - deep in blood and crud since then. It stunk in there - people smell bad when they die. I'm not talking decay, this is the stench that sets in before decay. I thought I was used to it. Every so often I catch another whiff and it gets me right here." He poked himself in the belly. "Five in the morning. I left an irritated lover in bed. My head feels ready to implode. Gobs of flesh at five in the morning. Jesus."

He stood and looked out the window, gazing out over the tops of pines and eucalyptus. From where I sat

I could see smoke rising in indolent swirls from a distant fireplace.

"It's really nice up here, Alex. Does it ever bore you, being in paradise with nothing to do?"

"Not a hint of ennui."

"Yeah. I guess not. You don't want to hear any more about Handler and the girl."

"Stop playing passive - aggressive, Milo, and spit it out."

He turned and looked down at me. The big, ugly face showed new signs of fatigue.

"I'm depressed, Alex." He held out his empty cup like some overgrown, slack - jawed Oliver Twist. "Which is why I'll tolerate more of this disgusting swill."

I took the cup and got him a refill. He gulped it audibly.

"We've got a possible witness. A kid who lives in the same building. She's pretty confused, not sure what she saw. I took one look at her and thought of you. You could talk to her, maybe try a little hypnosis to enhance her memory."

"Don't you have Behavioral Sciences for that?"

He reached into his coat pocket and took out a handful of Polaroids. "Look at these beauties."

I gave the pictures a second's glance. What I saw turned my stomach. I returned them quickly.

"For God's sake, don't show me stuff like that!"

"Some mess, huh? Blood and crud." He drained his cup, lifting it high to catch every last drop. "Behavioral Science is cut down to one guy who's kept busy weeding weirdos out of the department. Next priority is counseling the weirdos who slip through. If I put in an application for this kind of thing I'll get a request to fill out another application form. They don't want to do it. On top of that, they don't know anything about kids. You do."

"I don't know anything about homicide."

"Forget homicide. That's my problem. Talk to a seven - year - old."

I hesitated. He held out his hands. The palms were white, well - scrubbed.

"Hey, I'm not expecting a total freebie. I'll buy you lunch. There's a fair - to - middling Italian place with surprisingly good gnocchi not far from the…"

"Not far from the abattoir?" I grimaced. "No thanks. Anyway, I can't be bought for noodles."

"So what can I offer you by way of a bribe - you've got everything - the house in the hills, the fancy car, the Ralph Lauren gear with jogging shoes to match. Christ, you've got retirement at thirty - three and a goddamn perpetual tan. Just talking about it is getting me pissed."

"Yes, but am I happy?"

"I suspect so."

"You're right." I thought of the grisly photos. "And I'm certainly not in need of a free pass to the Grand Guignol."

"You know," he said, "I'll bet underneath all of that mellow is a bored young man."

"Crap."

"Crap nothing. How long has it been, six months?"

"Five and a half."

"Five and a half, then. When I met you - correct that, soon after I met you, you were a vibrant guy, high energy, lots of opinions. Your mind was working. Now all I hear about is hot tubs, how fast you run your goddamned mile, the different kinds of sunset you can see from your deck - to use your jargon, it's regression. Cutesy - poo short pants, roller - skating, water play. Like half the people in this city, you're functioning on a six year - old level."

I laughed.

"And you're making me this offer - to get involved in blood and crud - as a form of occupational therapy."

"Alex, you can break your ass trying to achieve Nirvana Through Inertia, but it won't work. It's like that Woody Alien line - you mellow too much, you ripen and rot."

I slapped my bare chest.

"No signs of decay yet."

"It's internal, comes from within, breaks through when you're least expecting it."

"Thank you, Doctor Sturgis."

He gave me a disgusted look, went into the kitchen and returned with his mouth buried in a pear.

"S'good."

"You're welcome."