Survival of the Fittest by Jonathan Kellerman

psychologist.”
    “Sure,” I said. “That and the tie.”
       
    I got home at two-thirty. Robin and Spike were out and I drank a beer, went through the mail, paid some bills. Helena Dahl had phoned an hour and a half ago—not long after her session—leaving her work number. And Dr. Roone Lehmann had returned my call.
    The Cardiac Care Unit clerk told me Helena was in the middle of a procedure and couldn’t come to the phone. Leaving my name, I phoned Lehmann.
    This time no service; an answering tape with a low, dry-but-mellow male voice picked up, and as I introduced myself, the same voice clicked in.
    “This is Dr. Lehmann.”
    “Thanks for getting back to me, Doctor.”
    “Certainly. Officer Dahl’s sister called, too, but I thought I’d speak with you first. What exactly is she after?”
    “Some understanding of why he killed himself.”
    “I sympathize,” he said. “Of course. But can we ever really understand?”
    “True,” I said. “Did Nolan leave any clues?”
    “Was he despondent or profoundly depressed, overtly suicidal or making oblique cries for help? Not when I saw him, Dr. Delaware, but—hold on.”
    He was off the line for thirty seconds, came back sounding rushed. “I’m sorry. Something came up and I can’t talk at length right now. Not that I could, anyway. Even though the patient’s dead and even though the courts have been hacking away at confidentiality, I’m one of those old-fashioned fellows who takes our vows seriously.”
    “Is there anything you can tell me that might help her?” I said.
    “Anything,” he repeated, drawing out the word. “Hmm .   .   . let me think on that—do you ever get downtown? I could give you a few moments. Because I’d rather not discuss these things on the phone. A police case and all that, the current climate. One never knows where the media lurks.”
    “Do you see lots of police cases?”
    “Enough to be cautious. Of course, if it’s too much of a problem to drive all the way—”
    “No problem,” I said. “When?”
    “Let me check my calendar—I do want to emphasize that I can’t promise anything until I go over the file. And I’d prefer not to speak to the sister directly. Please tell her we talked.”
    “Sure. Have you had problems with these types of cases?”
    “Not .   .   . as a rule. Ounce of prevention and all that—there’s something you might want to consider, Doctor. As the sister’s therapist. The search for understanding is normal, but the value of digging things up varies from case to case.”
    “You don’t think this case merits it?”
    “What I’m .   .   . let’s just say Officer Dahl was .   .   . an interesting fellow. Anyway, I’ll leave it at that, for the moment. I’ll be in touch.”
       
    An interesting fellow.
    Warning me?
    Some dark secret that Helena was better off not knowing?
    I thought of what I’d learned about Nolan.
    Mood swings, sensation seeking, sudden shifts to political extremes.
    Had he stepped over the line—in the course of police work? Something best left unexplored?
    Something political—on the fringe?
    A police case and all that. The current climate.
    Videotaped beatings of suspects, cops sitting around as rioters torched the city, bungling of evidence in major cases, case after case of felonious cops caught in the act. LAPD was as popular as an abortionist at the Vatican.
    The media lurking.
    Had Lehmann been involved in other cop cases that had left him gun-shy?
    Whatever the reason, he was definitely trying to steer me away from a psychological autopsy of Nolan.
    The department hadn’t argued when Helena had chosen to skip the full-dress funeral.
    Eager to move things along?
    Nolan, bright, different because he read books.
    Alienated.
    The switch from West L.A. to Hollywood.
    Because he liked action?
    Illegal action?
    Had he gotten himself into something that left suicide the only option?
    As I thought about it, Helena phoned, sounding