Dr. Death (Alex Delaware) by Jonathan Kellerman

A brutalized corpse discovered in a remote region of the Hollywood Hills plunges psychologist detective Alex Delaware into a landscape of rage and madness as he struggles to solve this most baffling of homicides. To some, Eldon Mate was evil personified. Others saw the former physician as a saint. But one thing was clear: Dr. Death had snuffed out the lives of dozens of human beings and now someone had turned him into a victim. When Mate is found mutilated in a rented van, harnessed to his own killing machine, Delaware is asked to aid his old friend, homicide cop Milo Sturgis, in the hunt for the death doctor?s executioner. But Alex harbors secrets of his own that threaten to derail the partners? friendship as well as the increasingly complex investigation. With page-turning suspense and vivid portraits of L.A.?s darkest side, perennial bestseller Jonathan Kellerman?s latest tale of psychopathology taken to the extreme delivers an unforgettable journey into the most sinister corners of the human mind. Editorial Reviews Review Intriguing . . . Stylish . . . A brazenly clever denouement. -The New York Times [A] ROLLER-COASTER PLOT . . . JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED. -People No one does psychological suspense as well as Jonathan Kellerman. Dr. Death is a terrifying voyage to the outer limits of madness. -Detroit Free Press GRIPPING. -Entertainment Weekly From the Inside Flap corpse discovered in a remote region of the Hollywood Hills plunges psychologist detective Alex Delaware into a landscape of rage and madness as he struggles to solve this most baffling of homicides. To some, Eldon Mate was evil personified. Others saw the former physician as a saint. But one thing was clear: Dr. Death had snuffed out the lives of dozens of human beings and now someone had turned him into a victim. When Mate is found mutilated in a rented van, harnessed to his own killing machine, Delaware is asked to aid his old friend, homicide cop Milo Sturgis, in the hunt for the death doctor?s executioner. But Alex harbors secrets of his own that threaten to derail the partners? friendship as well as the increasingly complex investigation. With page-turning suspense and vivid portraits of L.A.?s darkest side, perennial bestseller Jonathan Kellerman?s latest tale of psychopathology taken to the extreme delivers an unforgettable journey into the most sinister corners of t From the Back Cover Intriguing . . . Stylish . . . A brazenly clever denouement. -The New York Times [A] ROLLER-COASTER PLOT . . . JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED. -People No one does psychological suspense as well as Jonathan Kellerman. Dr. Death is a terrifying voyage to the outer limits of madness. -Detroit Free Press GRIPPING. -Entertainment Weekly About the Author Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including thirteen previous Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher's Theater, a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and Billy Straight, featuring Hollywood homicide detective Petra Connor. His most recent novel is Monster. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children's books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Irony can be a rich dessert, so when the contents of the van were publicized, some people gorged. The ones who'd believed Eldon H. Mate to be the Angel of Death. Those who'd considered him Mercy Personified grieved. I viewed it through a different lens, had my own worries. Mate was murdered in the very early hours of a sour-smelling, fog-laden Monday in September. No earthquakes or wars interceded by sundown, so the death merited a lead story on the evening news. Newspaper headlines in the Times and the Daily News followed on Tuesday. TV dropped the story within twenty-four hours, but recaps ran in the Wednesday papers. In total, four days of coverage, the maximum in short-attention-span L.A. unless the corpse is that of a princess or the killer can afford lawyers who yearn for Oscars. No easy solve on this one; no breaks of any kind. Milo had been doing his job long enough not to expect otherwise. He'd had an easy summer, catching a quartet of lovingly stupid homicides during July and August--one domestic violence taken to the horrible extreme and three brain-dead drunks shooting other inebriates in squalid Westside bars. Four murderers hanging around long enough to be caught. It kept his solve rate high, made it a bit--but not much--easier to be the only openly gay detective in LAPD. Knew I was due, he said. It was the Sunday after the murder when he phoned me at the house. Mate's corpse had been cold for six days and the press had moved on. That suited Milo just fine. Like any artist, he craved solitude. He'd played his part by not giving the press anything to work with. Orders from the brass. One thing he and the brass could agree on: reporters were almost always the enemy. What the papers HAD printed was squeezed out of clip-file biographies, the inevitable ethical debates, old photos, old quotes. Beyond the fact that Mate had been hooked up to his own killing machine, only the sketchiest details had been released: Van parked on a remote section of Mulholland Drive, discovery by hikers just after dawn. DR. DEATH MURDERED. I knew more because Milo told me. The call came in at 8 P.M., just as Robin and I had finished dinner. I was out the door, holding on to the straining leash of Spike, our little French bulldog. Pooch and I both looking forward to a night walk up the glen. Spike loved the dark because pointing at scurrying sounds let him pretend he was a noble hunter. I enjoyed getting out because I worked with people all day and solitude was always welcome. Robin answered the phone, caught me in time, ended up doing dog-duty as I returned to my study. Mate's yours? I said, surprised because he hadn't told me sooner. Suddenly edgy because that added a whole new layer of complexity to my week. Who else merits such blessing? I laughed softly, feeling my shoulders humping, rings of tension around my neck. The moment I'd heard about Mate I'd worried. Deliberated for a long time, finally made a call that hadn't been returned. I'd dropped the issue because there'd been no good reason not to. It really WASN'T any of my business. Now, with Milo involved, all that had changed. I kept the worries to myself. His call had nothing to do with my problem. Coincidence--one of those nasty little overlaps. Or maybe there really are only a hundred people in the world. His reason for getting in touch was simple: the dreaded W word: whodunit. A case with enough psychopathology to make me potentially useful. Also I was his friend, one of the few people left in whom he could confide. The psychopathology part was fine with me. What bothered me was the friendship component. Things I knew but didn't tell him. COULDN'T tell him.