Breakdown, p.12
Breakdown, page 12
Out of the bag came a brown leather card case. She slid the top card to me.
Vice President for Management.
“Basically, I gatekeep. Joel and Greer are constantly being hit on. Unsolicited scripts, requests for meetings, investment schemes. You develop a sense of who to let through, try not to offend those you block.”
“How’d you go from P.A.’ing to that?”
“I sensed the show would be canceled and literally begged for them to keep me on. I told them I’d do anything and they took me up on it. Had me cleaning the offices at night. That freed up my days so I went back and finished my B.A., then I added postbac courses in management. I guess that impressed them because they started giving me more responsibility.”
She smiled. “Greer also gave me some grooming tips. One thing led to another, and here I am.”
“How’d you know the show would be canceled? What I read said it was a surprise.”
“Where’d you read it? On some website? All that’s nonsense, Doctor. Everyone knew. It was clear our numbers weren’t good enough and the network was bored with us.”
The food came. She picked. “I’m still unclear about how Zelda died.”
“So am I. She was found on a stranger’s property with no obvious external wounds.”
“A stranger? That sounds like her arrest—breaking into her boyfriend’s.”
“Apparently it became a pattern, Karen. She was arrested for trespassing a few days before she died.”
“Out on the street,” she said. “I guess anything can happen out there. How long’s she been that way?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Starting with what happened to her after the cancellation.”
“Sorry, I can’t.”
“What about the problems you mentioned? What you thought could lead to suicide.”
“Nothing specific regarding suicide,” said Karen Jackson. “I just remember being told she was odd. By everyone on the set. When she came home to live with Ovie again, she didn’t say a word to me. No thanks, no questions about how he was doing. She just unpacked her bags as if she clearly expected me to leave. So I did.”
“We haven’t been able to locate any family members. Are you aware of any?”
“Sorry, no. Have you spoken to anyone from the show?”
“Steve Beal. He recalls her having strong mood swings.”
“Steve,” she said. “How’s he doing?”
“Selling real estate.”
“Yes, that would fit—he considered himself quite the salesman, especially when it came to selling himself. After Sub died, he kept hectoring Joel and Greer about casting him in another series.”
She shook her head. “Worst approach, the hungrier you are, the faster people run from you. I’m glad Steve found another outlet.”
“When you were watching Ovid, did he mention family?”
“Never. Let me ask you something: Zelda’s mental illness, is there a serious chance she could’ve hurt him?”
“There’s no evidence of that.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible, Karen.”
“Well, I’m going to help you. First thing when I get back, I’ll talk to Joel and Greer.”
“Appreciate it. What about the other actors? Did any of them have a relationship with Zelda?”
“You mean romantic?”
“Romantic, platonic. I’m looking for anyone she’d confide in.”
“There was no one I saw. She was a loner and the show was run pretty business-like, not much socializing. Dr. Delaware, is there a chance Ovie got sick, too? Mentally, I mean. Genetics being what it is?”
“Again, anything’s possible,” I said. “But like you said, he was a pretty together five-year-old.”
Giving her a pat answer. But genetics could be a factor. And while some schizophrenics showed early signs of being odd, others didn’t.
Reassurance was what Karen Jackson had been after. “I bet he’s doing great. Wherever he is.”
“Karen, I can use your help finding the rest of the cast.” I told her about my calls to London and North Carolina, asked if talking to Justin Levine would be useful.
She said, “Justin was a kid himself. Mostly he tried to skateboard everywhere. He made it to Brown? Never knew he had the smarts. Robert was a nice guy, soft-spoken, he and Diana stuck together—they were an item off camera, too. Shay was well behaved, just like her character, and I never saw her hang with Zelda, but you could try. If she knew something, I’m sure she’d tell you.”
“What about other people on the set? Writers, camera staff?”
“That would be a huge list, Doctor, you have no idea how many people it takes to churn—” World-weary smile. “To create. But, again, I’d doubt any of them would know much. On some shows there’s a lot of interaction between the writers and the actors, constant rewriting. SNL’s like that. Joel and Greer don’t work that way. You get the script with ample time to get familiar with it, study your lines, and deliver them.”
I said, “Keeping the herd under control.”
“Pardon?”
“Alfred Hitchcock’s approach. He said, ‘Actors should be treated like cattle.’ ”
“Did he?” said Karen Jackson. “Well, he created some pretty great stuff.”
—
I quizzed her a bit more, paid for lunch despite what sounded like sincere objections, and walked her to her Lexus SUV.
She said, “First thing when they’re available, I’ll talk to the bosses.”
I believed her. Nice to have something to believe in.
CHAPTER
18
As I walked in my front door, my mobile chirped. True to her word, Karen Jackson.
I said, “That was quick.”
“But unfortunately not too helpful, Dr. Delaware. Joel and Greer have no inkling about Zelda’s personal life. Greer did say that Zelda being ‘different’ was the reason she cast her as Corinna.”
“Corinna was an especially eccentric character?”
“Considering the type of show it was? No, not really. Corinna was basically a slut with a low I.Q. Greer’s point was that Zelda had a talent for getting weird on demand, probably because she was odd in the first place. So they decided to capitalize on that. I know it sounds exploitative, but that’s the way it is, Dr. Delaware. Like you said, cattle.”
“Appreciate your trying, Karen.”
“One more thing, I couldn’t find Zelda’s contract but I did come across her health insurance application and on it she listed her agent as Stan Guest. I’ve never heard of him and he doesn’t come up in any of our records, so he may no longer be in the industry. Greer didn’t remember him at all and Joel has a vague memory of his being ‘a minor-league old guy.’ But maybe you can locate him and he’ll be able to tell you something.”
“Again, Karen, thanks.”
“One more thing, talk about a warning sign,” she said. “The form asks for family members and Zelda listed ‘father of my only son.’ She put down his name as Joseph Bethlehem, living at her address. I searched, just in case, but of course it wasn’t real. Guess she saw herself as the Virgin Mary.”
And eventually, God.
“She was so ill, Doctor. Nobody noticed.”
—
Twenty-three Stan or Stanley Guests floating in cyberspace. Of the three in California, Stanley Z., seventy-one, at a Northridge address kicked out by a real estate site, seemed the most likely. Number listed in the directory; maybe he was still trolling for business.
The man who picked up said, “Guest residence, Jamal.”
“Mr. Guest, please.”
“What about?”
“This is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m looking for a Stan Guest who represented a patient. Was Mr. Guest once a TV agent?”
A beat. “Yeah, so?”
“The patient just passed away and—”
“Sir. Stan can’t tell you anything, he’s got Alzheimer’s end stage.”
“Sorry to hear that. Are there family members I could talk to?”
“The guy who was his partner bailed after the first six months.”
“And you—”
“I’m a home-hospice worker.”
“So Mr. Guest is nonverbal.”
“Sir. He’s non-everything.”
—
Joseph Bethlehem.
Lou Sherman had missed the extent of Zelda’s disease and I’d returned a five-year-old to her custody.
Don Quixote whispered in my ear: “Give it up, fool. You’re only going to feel worse.”
I called in for messages. Two from lawyers, whose questions I took care of quickly. Saving the best for last: Milo, a few minutes ago.
He said, “There’s someone you’ll want to meet. Can you be in Culver City in, say, thirty?”
“I was just there.” I started to summarize the talk with Karen Jackson.
He said, “This might be worth a return trip.”
—
Dr. William Bernstein, senior pathologist at the crypt, was midfifties, built strong and blocky, with a wide pug-nosed face crowned by kinky gray-blond hair. Square steel-rimmed bifocals were a bad cosmetic choice but they did the job, magnifying pale-blue eyes that remained skeptical when at rest.
He sat at a sidewalk table in front of a gourmet sandwich shop named Lauren’s. Four blocks east of where I’d met Karen Jackson.
Lauren was Bernstein’s wife, a pretty brunette twenty years his junior. She owned the place and worked the counter with a young Latin guy. Bernstein was here because her car was in the shop and he’d quit work early to drive her home.
“Wild Bill beckons, you obey,” Milo had explained. “He’s got no patience for bullshit or anything else.”
Bernstein acknowledged both of us with what would’ve been a minimal nod if he were in the mood to burn calories. A tall beer and a pressed sandwich sat in front of him. Impressive creation, the sandwich, a twelve-inch roll teeming with meat and cheese, pickles and peppers. Half eaten, but Bernstein hadn’t unfolded his napkin. His black suit, white shirt, and red tie were spotless.
He looked at me and said, “The psychologist,” turned to Milo and said, “You.”
Milo eyed the sandwich. “Cuban?”
“Cuban expatriate, it started as a Florida thing, feeding the cigar rollers. She’s taken it to a new level, this is her upgrade of mixto, veal instead of ham, sliced sweetbreads instead of tongue. Fifteen bucks. Buy one, it’s worth it.”
Milo said, “Sure,” and went to comply.
Bernstein cocked an eyebrow at me.
I said, “Just had lunch.”
“Your loss.” He got up, told the counter-boy something, returned, took two surgical bites, and said, “She’s a genius.”
Seconds after Milo’s return, the counter-boy hurried over with his sandwich, glancing nervously at Bernstein. Bernstein ignored him, Milo said, “Thanks,” and the kid scurried off.
“New hire,” said the pathologist. “We’ll see.” To Milo: “Eat.”
Wild Bill commands, you ingest.
As Milo got to work chomping, Bernstein finished his food and his beer, flicked the napkin open the way a magician unfurls a silk handkerchief, and set about dabbing his mouth for no apparent purpose.
Milo put down his sandwich.
“Don’t stop on my account,” said Bernstein. “Knowing you, you’ll probably want another.” His smile was stingy, knowing, sour. “No discounts for bulk purchase. Heh.”
Refolding the napkin into a square as equilateral as his glasses, he said, “Colchicine. Get your pad out, I’ll spell it for you.”
CHAPTER
19
As Milo copied, the counter-boy came over. “Is everything—”
Bill Bernstein waved him away. “Just as I thought, an alkali, plant-based, extracted from meadow saffron. It shows up in herbal medicines, can also be used for gout and other inflammation, but if my toes hurt, I’d sure as hell take something else. Victim Chase didn’t look like a candidate for gout but you never know, so I checked. Negative. Do you have any knowledge of her self-administering herbals?”
Milo turned to me.
I said, “With her mental status, anything’s possible.”
Bernstein said, “Talk about a politician’s answer.”
“I was wondering about pica. She had a history of trespassing in strangers’ yards so she could’ve eaten something in the garden.”
“You know her to have a history?”
“No, but if she ate dirt—”
“Irrelevant, colchicine’s not in dirt, she’d have to eat the plant. It happens: Back-to-nature morons spot something that looks like a yummy onion, go home and stir-fry it with tofu or organic dandelions or whatever.” He ran a finger across his throat. “You can landscape with the darn thing, it’s also called autumn crocus, has a flower if you’re into flowers. Like oleander—a killer. But they still use it for hedges. All sorts of nasty stuff looks nice.”
Milo said, “There were flower beds but I have no idea if saffron was included.”
“Not saffron, that’s an edible spice, from a different type of crocus. Meadow saffron. Col-chi-cine, write it down.”
“I already have.”
“Then go ask the owner if she’s growing it and if she doesn’t know, look up a picture of the darn thing and go see for yourself.”
“Will do,” said Milo. “Though there was no sign of disturbance in the garden.”
“My C.I. told me it’s a huge backyard.”
“More like an estate.”
“My point,” said Bernstein. “You’re telling me you covered every inch?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought,” said Bernstein. “Well, my job’s done. Cause of death is colchicine poisoning, whether manner is suicide or an accident is likely to remain undetermined unless you do your job and produce evidence.”
The door to the restaurant opened and Lauren Bernstein danced out, lively, light-footed, smiling. “Hi, guys.” She kissed the top of her husband’s head and rested a hand on his shoulder.
He said, “Lieutenant Sturgis is going to have another sandwich.”
Her eyes widened.
So did Milo’s. He said, “First one was great, I’ll doggie-bag and have something for later.”
“Everyone blames gluttony on their dogs,” said Bernstein. “Easy targets, they’re stupid and can’t talk back.”
“Oh, honey,” said Lauren. “Sure, Lieutenant, coming up.”
Bernstein watched her walk away, muttering “Love her,” as if pressured to admit it. Removing his glasses, he said, “Here’s something else to chew on, pun intended: Victim Chase’s time of death is between two and six hours before the body was discovered. If she ingested a heavy dose, death could’ve been relatively quick, as in within that time frame. But it can also be a drawn-out process. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea that can go on for days and then your organ systems fail. Basically, you fall apart, it’s an unpleasant death, that’s why she had that rictus on her face. In her case, the process could’ve sped up because apart from the candy bar, which was incompletely digested, her stomach was empty. But, still, a homeless psychotic thrashing around in your backyard, you’d think the homeowner would notice.”
“The homeowner was away, in the desert.”
“Working on a melanoma?” said Bernstein. “Okay, so much for that. Anyway, this wasn’t easy for Victim Chase but she probably did it to herself, wittingly or otherwise. FDA can’t get it together to regulate herbals, all kinds of garbage finds its way in. I had a poisoned DB turn up near the court building on Hill and Washington. You know the one, spillover from downtown, not a decent restaurant in sight.”
Milo said, “Mostly warehouses.”
Bernstein said, “Whoever put a court there is a moron. One time I thought of taking a walk, waiting to be called to testify. Idiot gang types lolling around, so much for exercise. Anyone, someone thought it would be a great idea to dump a body there after hours. COD turned out to be a toxic alkaloid, which is what got me thinking about Victim Chase.”
Milo said, “The same poi—”
“Did I say that? Totally different poison. Last one before that, couple years ago, I had a fourteen-year-old girl, stupid parents pay a fortune for private school tuition and go buy her a headache remedy from a moron on Venice Beach. Turns out that particular shipment contained arsenic way above what was needed to kill their kid.”
He shook his head. “Maybe they have a dog to blame it on.”
—
We left Bernstein standing next to his wife, looking awestruck as she whispered in his ear.
Milo said, “One of a kind.”
I said, “Patients who don’t talk back, he can get away with it.”
He chuckled, turned serious. “What he said about her suffering. That was hard to hear.”
Fools write books about madness being an elevated mental state or an alternative form of creativity. It’s not, it’s anguish.
I said nothing and we walked to our cars.
Milo placed the second sandwich on the passenger seat. “Guess there’s nothing much more to do but concentrate on the kid. Should you choose.”
“I choose.”
“Big surprise.”
—
Back home I was surprised to learn that Shay McNamara had returned my call from Asheville and Robert Adjaho had phoned from London. Late, across the pond. I tried Adjaho first.
This time a man answered at the Ashanti Theatre, a voice recalling Olivier on a particularly good day.
“Doctor, this is Robert. I’m sorry to hear about Zelda, though I don’t see how I can help you. Was it suicide?”
Same question, over and over. Everyone had known.
I said, “Most likely she died accidentally.”
“From what?”
“Poison.”
“Not self-administered?”
“It looks as if she ate the wrong plant.”
“I see. Actually, I don’t.”
“She’d been mentally ill for a while, Mr. Adhajo. Ended up swallowing something she shouldn’t have.”
“Yes…the reason I mentioned suicide was back when we worked together she seemed extremely troubled. My father’s a psychologist. Don’t want to presume, but perhaps I picked up some knowledge.”
