Chapter 13
Chapter
We waited until Sean and Moe had covered most of the remaining hoard. With only a few feet to go, no more money, no personal documents.
Cheryl Najarian said, “So what’s the decision about all the junk?”
Milo said, “Changed my mind, sorry. I know it’s a big hassle taking it all back but I can’t see handing some defense attorney an opening about concealed evidence.”
“That’s a big jump forward, Lieutenant.”
“What is?”
“From here to a trial.”
“Optimism, Cheryl. I’ve been told it’s healthy. For how long do you have the moving van?”
“It’s a one-day minimum.”
“You’ve got suits for those two?”
“We do.”
“Then let them earn their keep. Have them pack up everything and take it back. No need to do anything right now, just store it.”
“Makes sense,” said Najarian. Not even close to meaning it.
Back on the sidewalk, Milo walked up to the pair of movers.
“No more boredom, guys.”
“Huh?”
“Get those boxes ready.”
Both men moved their lips. No sound followed but no confusion about intention.
—
At my Seville, he said, “No Social Security on Lynne Matthias, no welfare or disability payments, which you’d expect if she’s impaired. You know what I’m thinking.”
“Homeless.”
“Just what I need.”
A while back we’d worked on multiple murders that took us into the sad, addled world of the homeless. I’d been injured. He’d suffered more than me due to guilt.
I said, “There are other possibilities. Marriage or an out-of-state name change. Out-of-the-country, for that matter.”
“Expat returns to chop off Mommy’s arms. Any insights?”
I hesitated.
“What, Alex?”
“The mutilation was precise with no evidence left behind. I’d expect more gore and disorganization from someone seriously impaired.”
“So who, then—don’t answer that. I can’t deal with the entire world as my suspect pool. And speaking of impairment, let’s segue to my other open case. Could you try to find out if Darren Alberts really is grokked out?”
—
I drove home and phoned Dr. Lee Falkenburg at her office in Beverly Hills. Lee’s a longtime friend and one of L.A.’s top neuropsychologists. Recently, I’d leaned on her for a favor that had strained professional boundaries.
She said, “Uh-oh.”
“This is nothing like before, Lee. I know you evaluated Darren Alberts and wanted to find out if he’s seriously impaired. It was court-ordered, so no confidentiality.”
“They found something else he did?”
“His name came up.”
“In a murder?” said Lee. “Because that’s what your cop buddy does.”
“It’s not even close to that.”
“But…”
“His name came up tangentially.”
“Whatever that means,” she said. “Well, yes. I can see Alberts doing all kinds of bad things. From the case file and his history he’s a grade-A psychopath. How long ago did this tangential thing come up?”
“Couple of months ago.”
“Then no way, Alex. All of us—Arnie Rodriguez, Bill Higgins, and myself—agreed that Alberts’s dementia began at least four years ago, possibly earlier.
Per symptoms charted by his internist and a consulting neurologist, both of whom I happen to know are smart and upright.
Both suggested at the time that Alberts get evaluated but he said no way.
The psychiatrist the D.A. sent to evaluate him felt he could be scamming to stay out of jail but I’d expect that.
Anyway, around two years ago, end-stage dementia set in and it progressed pretty rapidly.
Bowel and bladder incontinence, trouble swallowing, failure to wake up for days at a time, loss of speech, involuntary movements, excessive salivation.
For the past year, he’s been vegetative, Alex. ”
“Got it, thanks.”
“Nasty man,” said Lee. “I don’t believe in karma, but in this case, it’s hard to escape.”