A former patient taunting me for services poorly rendered?

Or something more recent—Donald Dell Wallace, festering up in Folsom, seeing me as his enemy and trying to play with my head?

His attorney, a dimwit named Sherman Bucklear, had called me several times before I'd seen the girls, trying to convince me his client was a devoted father.

“It was Ruthanne neglected them, Doctor. Whatever else Donald Dell did, he cared about them.”

“How was he on child support?”

“Times are rough. He did the best he could—does that prejudice you, Doctor?”

“I haven't formed an opinion yet, Mr. Bucklear.”

“No, of course not. No one's saying you should. The question is, are you willing to form one at all or do you have your mind made up just because of what Donald Dell did?”

“I'll spend time with the girls. Then I'll form my opinion.”

“ 'Cause there's a lot of potential for prejudice against my client.”

“Because he murdered his wife?”

“That's exactly what I mean, Doctor—you know, I can always bring in my own experts.”

“Feel free.”

“I feel very free, Doctor. This is a free country. You'd do well to remember that.”

Other experts. Was this bit of craziness an attempt to intimidate me so that I'd drop out of the case and clear the way for Bucklear's hired guns? Donald Dell's gang, the Iron Priests, had a history of bullying rivals in the meth trade, but I still didn't see it. How could anyone assume I'd make a connection between screams and chants and two little girls?

Unless this was only the first step in a campaign of intimidation. Even so, it was almost clownishly heavyhanded.

Then again, Donald Dell's leaving his ID at the murder scene didn't indicate finesse.

I'd consult an expert of my own. Dialing the West L.A. police station, I was connected to Robbery-Homicide, where I asked for Detective Sturgis.

Milo was out of the office—no big surprise. He'd endured a demotion and six months' unpaid suspension for breaking the jaw of a homophobic lieutenant who'd put his life in danger, then a butt-numbing year as a computer clerk at Parker Center. The department had hoped inertia would finally drive him into disability retirement; the LAPD still denied the existence of gay cops, and Milo's very presence was an assault upon that ostrich logic. But he'd stuck it out and finally gotten back into active service as a Detective II. Back on the streets now, he was making the most of it.

“Any word when he'll be back?” I asked the detective who answered.

“Nope,” he said, sounding put upon.

I left my name. He said, “Uh-huh,” and hung up.

I decided nothing further could be gained by worrying, changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, and trotted out the front door, ready for a half-hour run, knees be damned.