“Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”
“One second.”
Seconds later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that you’re a police psychologist?”
“I consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”
“I see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”
“Pardon?”
A beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton alumna.”
“Alumna. A woman.”
“Cherish Daney.”
Pause. “Is Cherish all right?”
“So far.”
“So she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.
“No. Is there some reason you’d think that?”
“The police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about Cherish?”
“I’ve been asked to learn about her background— ”
“In what context?”
“It’s a bit complicated, Dr. Wascomb.”
“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t talk to you over the phone about something complicated.”
“Could we meet face-to-face?”
“To talk about Cherish.”
“Yes.”
“I must tell you, I have nothing but good things to say about Cherish. She was one of our finest students. I can’t imagine why the police would want to learn about her background.”
“Why didn’t she finish her degree?” I said. And who’s Baylord Patterman?
“Perhaps,” said Wascomb, “we should meet.”
“I’ll be happy to come to your office.”
“My office calendar’s quite full,” he said. “Let me leaf through my book . . . it appears as if I have one opening tomorrow. One p.m., my usual lunch break.”
“That would be fine, Dr. Wascomb.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting away from campus,” he said. “But it has to be somewhere close, I’ve only got forty-five minutes . . .”
“I know a place,” I said. “A bit south of you on Brand. Patty’s Place.”
“Patty’s Place . . . haven’t been there in ages. Back when the school was undergoing remodeling I’d sometimes meet there with students— did you know that, sir?”
“No,” I said. “I just like pancakes.”
* * *
Baylord Patterman pulled up five hits on Google. A Burbank-based attorney, he’d been arrested a year ago for running an insurance fraud ring that set up phony traffic accidents. The bust resulted when a fender bender on Riverside Drive turned into an air-bag disaster that killed a five-year-old girl. Patterman, his hired drivers, a couple of crooked chiropractors, and assorted clerical staff were charged with vehicular homicide. Most were pled down to white-collar crimes. Patterman ended up with a conviction for involuntary manslaughter, was disbarred, and sentenced to five years in state prison.
The Fulton Seminary connection appeared in two of the citations: Patterman was the son of a founding trustee of the school and a continuing donor to the cause. Dr. Crandall Wascomb was quoted as being “unaware and appalled” by his benefactor’s dark side.
If he was sincere, I felt sorry for him. All those years pushing virtue and he was going to be disappointed again.
CHAPTER 29
My week for coffee shops.
Patty’s Place smelled of butter and eggs, meat on the grill, pancake batter, the soap-and-water breeze that accompanied a cheery young Latina waitress name-tagged Heather who said, “Anywhere you like.”
The restaurant was half-filled with serious eaters of retirement age. Big portions, tall glasses, grease on chins. To hell with the food nazis. My presence brought down the median age by a decade. I took a booth with a view of the entrance and Happy Heather brought me a mug of dangerously hot coffee unspoiled by pretentious labeling.
Dr. Crandall Wascomb showed up at seven after one, tugging at the knot of his tie and smoothing his white hair. He was short, very thin, wore black-rimmed eyeglasses too wide for his knife-blade face. He had on a brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, lighter brown slacks, and tan loafers. His bright blue tie stood out like a nautical spinnaker.
When his eyes found mine I gave a small wave. He came over, shook my hand, sat down.
The hair was shorter and sparser than in his official photo. His smooth dome was scored by parallel lines. I guessed him at seventy or so. He blended right in with the clientele.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Wascomb.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Do you have preset notions about evangelical Christians, Dr. Delaware?”
“When I judge people it’s by behavior not belief.”
“Good for you.” His eyes didn’t move. Bluer than in the photo. Or maybe they’d absorbed some of the necktie’s intensity. “I assume you checked into the Baylord Patterman issue.”
“I did.”
“I won’t offer excuses but I will explain. Baylord’s father was a fine man, it was he who helped us get started. That was thirty-two years ago. I’d come out from Oklahoma City, worked in the petroleum supply business before going back to school. I wanted to make an impact. Gifford Patterman was that rare man of wealth with an open, warm heart. I was naive enough to think the same applied to his son.”
Heather arrived, pad in hand.
Wascomb said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Are the flannel cakes still fabulous?”
“They’re awesome, sir.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.”
“Full stack or half?”
“Full, butter, syrup, jelly, the works.” Wascomb flashed cream-colored dentures. “Nothing like breakfast in the afternoon to make the day seem young.”
“Something to drink, sir?”
“Hot tea— chamomile if you have it.”
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll try the flannel cakes, too.”
“Good choice,” said Heather. “You’re gonna love your meal.”
Wascomb didn’t watch her leave. His eyes were on his napkin.
I said, “Baylord Patterman let you down.”
“He let Fulton down. The investigation into his activities gave us a black eye because we were the largest beneficiary of his filthy lucre. You can imagine the reaction of some of our other major donors.”
“Race to the exit.”
“Stampede,” said Wascomb. “It hurt. We’re a small school, operating on a shoestring budget. I call us the seminary that does more with less. The only reason we’re able to survive is that we own the land the school sits on and maintenance costs are just about covered by a good Christian woman’s will. Baylord Patterman’s grandmother.”
His tea arrived. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his head and uttered a silent grace before sipping.
“Sorry for your problems,” I said.
“Thank you. We’re getting our head above water. Which is why I chose to meet you here rather than at the school. I simply can’t afford any more bad publicity.”
“I have no intention of giving you any.”
He studied me over his tea. “Thank you. I’m going to deal openly with you because I’m an open person. And frankly, there’s no longer any privacy. Not in the computer age. But that doesn’t mean I can talk freely about a former student without that student’s permission. Not without good reason.”
Holding on to his cup, he sat back in the booth.
I said, “What would be a good reason?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”
“I’m limited in what I can say, too, Dr. Wascomb. There are certain details the police keep to themselves.”
“So this is a homicide case?” He smiled at my surprise. “I took the liberty of researching you, Dr. Delaware. Your consultations to the police seem to center on homicide. That shocked me. I
can’t imagine Cherish involved in anything criminal, let alone homicide. She’s a gentle person. As I told you, one of our finest students.”
“But she didn’t finish her degree.”
“That,” he said, “was most unfortunate. But it had nothing to do with her.”
I waited.
Wascomb looked over at the counter. Heather was standing around, talking to the cashier.
“Doctor?” I said.
“Cherish’s misfortune was somewhat similar to mine,” said Wascomb. “Vis-à-vis Baylord Patterman.”
“She had something to do with the accident scandal?”
“No, I was speaking analogously. The Bible issues repeated exhortations against keeping bad company. Cherish and I failed to heed those warnings, but I was the teacher and she was the student, so I suppose some of her error lies at my door.”
“Cherish got blamed for something a friend did.”
“Cherish was put in an uncomfortable position through no fault of her own.”
Heather brought our food. “Here it is, guys!”
Wascomb smiled up at her. “It smells wonderful, dear.”
Her left eyebrow cocked. “Enjoy.”
He uttered a silent grace, then cut his stack of hotcakes in half, sawing straight through to the bottom. Rotating the plate, he sliced again, then once more until the pile had been sectioned into eighths. Lauritz Montez would approve.
Montez and Wascomb had both chosen to minister to sinners. I supposed they couldn’t be blamed for seeking the illusion of an orderly world.
Wascomb ate with such enjoyment that it seemed a shame to interrupt him. I worked on my own plate, finally said, “Who was Cherish’s bad friend?”
He put his fork down. “This is absolutely necessary for your investigation?”
“I can’t answer that until I know, Doctor.”
“Appreciate your honesty.” He wiped his lips, removed his glasses, touched his temples with his fingertips. “Not a friend. Her husband.”
“Drew Daney.”
Slow nod.
“How’d he get her in trouble?” I said.
“Oh,” said Wascomb, as if the memory made him weary. “I had reservations about him early on. We’re small and chronically short on funds, we need to be selective in who we accept. Our typical student is an honors graduate of a respectable Bible college, trained in the evangelical tradition. Cherish was such an individual. She graduated first in her class from Viola Mercer College in Rochester, New York.”
“And Drew?”
“Drew claimed to have attended a very solid school in Virginia. In truth, he dropped out of high school. That was the extent of his education.”
“He lied on his application.”
“He falsified transcripts.” Wascomb sighed. He pushed his plate away, one-third eaten. “No doubt you think I’m a gullible fool. Or slipshod. Without sounding overly defensive, I would like to stress that this was an aberration. The vast majority of our graduates are out in the world doing the Lord’s work in an exemplary manner.”
“Drew must’ve been good to fool you.”
He smiled. “That’s very kind, sir. Yes, he did say the right things, seemed well-grounded in Scripture. As it turns out, his religious experience was limited to serving as a counselor at several Christian summer camps.”
“He learned the jargon,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“When did all this come out?”
“Seven and a half years ago.”
Precise memory. Six months after Kristal Malley’s murder.
I said, “What caused you to look into his background?”
“Someone else looked into his background,” said Wascomb. “A very angry man who claimed that Drew was committing adultery with his wife.” He winced. “A claim that turned out to be true.”
“Tell me about it.”
He shook his head. Pushed his plate away. “There are issues of respect, here. For innocent people involved— ”
“A half year before you found out about Drew, he and Cherish were involved in a murder case as part of their community service work for Fulton. Counseling a boy who’d killed a toddler. I’m sure you recall that, Dr. Wascomb.”
He blinked twice, started to speak, stopped himself.
“Sir?”
“That poor little girl.” His voice had gone hoarse. “There’s more to that? After all this time?”
“One of the boys who murdered Kristal Malley has been murdered himself.”
Wascomb winced. “Oh, my. Then I suppose I need to be forthright.” He clicked his dentures. “Drew committed adultery with one of the lawyers on that case. A defense attorney.”
“Sydney Weider.”
Nod. “It was her husband who barged into my office with medical reports, raving about the school, my incompetence, how could I train a person like that, I was a hypocrite, all ‘Bible freaks’ were nothing but hypocrites.”
He looked away from me. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Sorry,” I said. But not sorry enough to drop it. “We’re talking about Martin Boestling. A movie producer.”
“A loud man. At the time I thought him crass. After some consideration— after the shock wore off— I considered what he’d endured and felt compassion for him. I called him, tried to apologize. He was gracious, as far as that went.”
“What he’d endured,” I said. “More than adultery.”
He stared.
“You said Boestling brought medical reports. As in lab tests?”
Slow nod. “His own and his wife’s.”
“He’d been infected with something. AIDS?”
“Not that bad,” said Wascomb, “but bad enough. Gonorrhea. His wife had given it to him and Boestling claimed Drew had given it to her.”
Wascomb shook his head. “The implication, of course, was promiscuity. I took a closer look at Drew, learned of his lies, and expelled him. We’ve had no contact since then.”
“And Cherish left with him,” I said. “Because she was a dutiful wife?”
“Because she was ashamed. As I said, we’re a small community.” He fooled with his fork. “How is Cherish, nowadays? Are they still together?”
“They are.”
“Has Drew repented?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I always hoped she’d find peace . . . now you’re here asking questions about her.”
“They may come to nothing, sir.”
“Is she . . . has she maintained herself as a woman of character, Dr. Delaware? Or has Drew’s influence polluted her soul?”
If you only knew. I said, “From what I can tell, she continues to do good works.”
“And him? What’s he up to?”
“The same.”
His eyes got flinty. “There’s a lesson for you, Dr. Delaware. Judging behavior isn’t always sufficient. It’s what’s beneath the surface that matters.”
“How do you measure that, sir?”
“You don’t,” he said. “We don’t.”
He got up to leave. “God does the measuring.”
“One more question, Dr. Wascomb. Cherish told me Troy Turner was buried on the grounds of your school.”
He placed a hand on the table, as if needing support. “That’s partially true.”
“How so?”
“Cherish asked me— begged me. We’ve got a small cemetery in San Bernardino. For faculty and indigent individuals recommended by donors and other trustworthy people. We view it as a community service.”
“Cherish qualified as a trustworthy person.”
“She still does, Dr. Delaware, unless there’s something you tell me that suggests otherwise.”
I didn’t answer.
He said, “Affording that boy hallowed ground was compassion for the sinner. After some deliberation I felt it would be appropriate. We provided the boy with a service.”
“Who attended?”
“Cherish and myself and my wife.”
“Not Drew.”
“Drew, as well,” he said. “He wanted to lead the service. I decided to do it myself.”
Rage Page 23
