Beyond Blame

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “How?”

  “By listening to people like Mr. Richards. And Ms. Renzel, before she died. Do you know about that?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, they’re the greatest. Really. I mean, they do so much for others and hardly get any money at all for doing it, and hardly any thanks, either. I mean, I think they’re the real Christians, don’t you? Instead of those TV preachers who try to get you to believe that God wants you to be rich or something? Don’t you think?”

  I did and I told her so. Sandra went back to her typing. I looked around the office and tried to decide what kind of information she might be able to give me. “If I wanted to know if someone had ever been counseled at the center,” I said finally, “where would those records be kept? Here? Or somewhere else?”

  “They’re over—” But she caught herself before she’d done any more than swirl a hundred and eighty degrees in her steno chair. “I’m not supposed to say anything about our records. They’re confidential. Mr. Richards is a bear about that. So … you’re not from the police, are you?”

  “Nope. I’m a friend of the Renzels’. Dianne’s parents.”

  “Poor Dianne.” The pity seemed real. “And poor street people. Next to Mr. Richards, she was the best thing that ever happened to them. I just can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Can you believe her husband killed her?”

  Sandra frowned. “I don’t know. I never met him, but I suppose so. I mean, the marriage thing gets pretty intense sometimes, don’t you think? My folks fought a lot. So, you know.”

  “Did you know Dianne very well?”

  “Not really. I mean, she’d counsel me sometimes. About my personal life. Working here, I mean, it gives you some weird ideas, you know? You start looking at people funny. Wondering what they really do for kicks. Guys and stuff, you know? I kind of have trouble keeping any kind of relationship going.”

  I’d had that trouble for thirty years but I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I started to make another try for the records or at least the ones Dianne Renzel had kept on the people she’d counseled. But before I could get my question asked, Sandra’s phone squealed as though someone had stepped on it.

  Sandra picked it up, mumbled something I didn’t get, then said my name, then listened. A few seconds later she replaced the receiver. “You can go in now. Second door on the right.” She looked beyond me. “Mrs. Randall? It will be a few more minutes.”

  “What’s her problem?” I whispered.

  “Her Rolfer ran off with all her money.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her Rolfer. That’s a massage technique, kind of, except it treats your psychic pains as well as your physiological ones.” I looked to see if she was serious. She evidently was. “But this guy wasn’t a certified Rolfer,” Sandra went on. “He was just a phony Rolfer. You’ve got to watch out for those healer types, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t know but I could guess. I said goodbye to Sandra and went through the second door to my right and found Pierce Richards.

  He was still dressed in his mismatched cords and still wore the ecclesiastical aspect of the saint his receptionist had just declared him to be. His office was appropriately ascetic, spare and unadorned but for a map of Berkeley tacked to the wall and a snapshot of a smiling Dianne Renzel that was preserved in a gold frame on the far corner of his government-surplus desk.

  Richards saw me notice the photograph. “It wasn’t there when she was alive,” he said, softly yet proudly, as though he was grateful that death had made her his property.

  I sat in the chair reserved for clients in crisis. Richards perched on the corner of his desk and looked down on me with a focused frown. “I still don’t know what it is you’re trying to do,” he said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention back at the courthouse. There was too much else to think about. Too much to try to understand.” He smiled weakly. “Too much to try to forgive.”

  “One thing I’m trying to do is get a better picture of Dianne Renzel. She’s still fuzzy to me. Now that her husband’s been arrested, you seem to be the best source of information.”

  Richards rested his chin in his palm. “Dianne was, well, the single most important thing about her was that she was always trying to do what was right. I mean, we all try to do that, I suppose, but Dianne agonized over it. Take abortion. Some people see it as a simple matter—murder, or free choice. But it’s not that simple, really, and Dianne knew it and was tortured by it. She lost some friends by refusing to come out with a doctrinaire position, but …” Richards grimaced at the memory.

  “She had a husband who slept with everything that moved,” I said. “Yet she stayed with him. How do you explain that?”

  “I struggled with that for a long time. I mean, I first asked Dianne to marry me more than three years ago. She refused. She loved him, is what it amounted to, and she was willing to overlook almost anything to fulfill her vows.” Richards shook his head as though he still couldn’t understand it. “She wanted nothing for herself. I gave her a present once and she scolded me for not donating the money to the center. She made me take it back. I told her I did, but I kept it.” Richards began to cry but he spoke through his tears. “She was an excellent counselor because she had no ego. Nothing her clients said threatened her in any way. I mean psychologically. She was completely open, completely secure, completely genuine. Thus her husband’s infidelity didn’t hurt her the way it hurts most women. She was more concerned with Lisa and her husband than she was with herself. I … That’s just the way she was. It sounds corny, but it’s true. And it used to drive me crazy, sometimes.”

  “But eventually she slept with you. What I want to know is why.”

  “Why she began an affair?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I didn’t ask … a gift horse and all that.”

  “But something must have happened, don’t you agree?”

  He thought about it. “Possibly. I just don’t know.”

  “How about enemies? Did she have any you know of?”

  “No. None.” He made it seem against the laws of nature.

  “How about other lovers?”

  “No. Impossible. No.”

  “Any close woman friends besides her neighbor, Phyllis Misteen?”

  “Not especially. Not that I know of.” Richards dried his eyes on his sleeve and frowned again. “Look. What are you getting at, Tanner? I still don’t know where you’re going with all this.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. When I saw you at the courthouse, I didn’t know where I was going myself. But now I do.”

  “I don’t understand. What …?”

  I held up a hand. “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Richards. I’m working for the Renzels, Dianne’s parents. Do you know them?”

  He shook his head. “Only through Dianne’s descriptions. She admired them very much. Particularly her mother.”

  “Well, at first the Renzels hired me to find the killer. Then, after Usser was arrested, they wanted me to make sure he didn’t try to get off on a phony insanity plea. I—”

  “My God,” Richards interrupted, his voice a startled squawk. “Of course that’s what he plans. I should have seen it before now. What a diabolical man he must be.”

  Richards closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Wait a minute,” I said quickly. “After I saw you in court I had a chance to do some thinking. And what I decided was, number one, Usser didn’t do it. Even though he told me he did. And number two, the case doesn’t have anything to do with all the love affairs Professor Usser et ux managed to accumulate over the past few years, including the one you were a willing participant in.”

  Richards had opened his eyes and was squinting in confusion. “But why would Usser say he did it if he didn’t?”

  “Because he’s trying to protect someone.”

  “But who?”

  “I think it’s his daughter. So my next question for you is, what was going on b
etween Lisa and Dianne? Were they fighting, and if so, why? And how serious was it?”

  Richards clasped his hands around a knee and began to rock back and forth as he tried to form his answer. “I want to help you, of course. If matters are truly as you say, and Usser is innocent, then of course.… But I can’t believe the police would—”

  “The police aren’t used to guys like Usser admitting to crimes they haven’t committed.”

  Usser hadn’t confessed anything to the cops, not as far as I knew, but he hadn’t done anything to exculpate himself, either. All I cared about was getting Richards to think about someone other than Usser as the killer. “Lisa and Dianne,” I prompted. “What was going on there?”

  Richards hesitated. “I just don’t know what I can ethically tell you, is the problem. Dianne spoke to me in confidence about her family. I’m not sure I could—”

  “She wasn’t a client, Richards. She was a friend. Someone murdered her. Something she said to you might ultimately identify her killer. I can’t think of any reason for you not to come forward in those circumstances.”

  “But—”

  “Morality is nice, Richards, except when it furthers immorality.”

  He finally surrendered, though not without some qualms. “Lisa went through a rather radical change in personality a few months ago,” Richards began slowly, his words weighted with reluctance. “She began to do poorly at school, although all her achievement and basic skills tests register her as genius level. She began to skip classes and roam the streets, usually with a tough crowd. She took drugs and made little attempt to hide the fact. She flaunted it, almost, as though she was trying to punish the people who loved her. Dianne was extremely upset, needless to say. But it is often true that those who effectively counsel others are rather inept at ordering their own lives. That seemed to be true here. Lisa and Dianne fought bitterly. One or the other would frequently end up in tears. And the situation just got worse. They took Lisa out of Berkeley High. And Lawrence put her back in therapy with a psychiatrist named Lonborg, but none of it seemed to help.”

  “What caused all this? Did Dianne have any idea? Was it just adolescent weirdness?”

  Richard shook his head. “She thought it was more than that, but I don’t think she knew exactly what it was.” Richards paused. “She thought it had something to do with her husband. Apparently Lisa had worshiped her father for years, and then suddenly turned on him, began behaving in ways that were calculated to destroy their relationship.”

  I thought for a minute, then voiced an idea that had been tugging at me ever since I’d met with Usser at the courthouse. “Usser’s highly sexed,” I said. “He’s having affairs with half a dozen women, probably.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So I was wondering if there was any chance he abused Lisa. Molested her sexually.”

  Richards froze in place. The passage of time helped my suggestion grow increasingly probable. “Surely that’s impossible,” he said finally. “Surely a man like that couldn’t—”

  “Come on, Richards. Perversion isn’t limited to the ignorant and the poor.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes, of course.”

  “Did Dianne ever consider that possibility?”

  “No. I’m sure she didn’t. She loved him, as I told you.”

  “If that really was the problem, and Dianne found out about it, that would give Usser a hell of a motive for killing her. For doing, in other words, what I just told you I didn’t think he’d done.”

  Richards nodded silently, still reeling from my speculations. “But let’s put that aside for a minute,” I went on.

  “But the authorities,” Richards blurted. “You should notify them, do something. He should be charged with assault. I mean, he’s out there again, and so is Lisa.”

  “I don’t know if Usser’s done anything like that or not. The only one who does is Lisa. When I leave here, I’m going to try to find her. She told the police that Usser killed her mother. Maybe that’s why she said it, to pay him back for what he did to her. But let’s assume none of that happened, and Usser really is innocent. Then the killer might be someone Dianne met here at the center. Someone she angered because of something she said or did in the course of her work.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Richards protested meekly. “Dianne was a skilled counselor.”

  “She was killed in a brutal, savage manner, Richards. The police photos upset an assistant D.A. I know, and she’s been looking at murder victims for twenty years. So talk to me. Some loonies must roll in here from time to time. Did any of them have a mad on for Ms. Renzel?”

  “No. I can think of no one.”

  “Then let’s look at the records.”

  “What?”

  “Her records. She made notes, right? Of the people she counseled? Let’s check the logs for the month before she died, and get the files of any repeat visitors and see what she had to say about them. See if there were any threats, see if she was frightened, see what was going on.”

  “No.” The word was the first cruel utterance I’d heard from him.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You’re talking about our official records now, patient records, not my private conversations with Dianne. I can’t disclose those to you. The center’s credibility would be totally destroyed if I did that. Our clients rely on our discretion. Without it we will have no clients.”

  “I think I can persuade the cops to get a court order.”

  “I’d fight it with every breath in my body. And even if they won, it wouldn’t do them any good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because our counselors make their notations in code. A code known only to them. It’s a device I suggested just to avoid intrusions such as the one you are suggesting.”

  “Code? But how does anyone else read them?”

  “They don’t.”

  “So if someone leaves, like Dianne, the new counselor has to start from scratch with all the carry-over patients?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. It’s the price we pay to preserve our rights that the Fourth Amendment secured before the current court began to render it a nullity.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just the names, then. No files. Just a list of the repeaters over the past few months.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, tell me this. Did Ms. Renzel ever talk to you about a guy named Nifton? He calls himself the Maniac.”

  “I know Nifton.”

  “Lisa Usser has joined his merry band. Did Dianne know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she worried about it?”

  “Of course. Nifton was not a stable individual.”

  “Did she try to put a stop to it? Try to keep Lisa from seeing him?”

  “I’m not sure. My impression was, now that I think about it, that Dianne felt Nifton was protecting Lisa in some way, that if she was determined to live on the street, then it was good that Nifton was looking after her.”

  “Did you or Dianne counsel Nifton professionally?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Just let me check her records. I won’t disclose anything I learn. I’m good at keeping my mouth shut, Richards. It’s part of the job description. So …”

  “No. You will have no access to records of any kind. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a rather pathetic woman waiting for me to tell her how she’s going to survive without her life savings.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Richards followed me into the waiting room. Behind me, I could hear him introduce himself to the weeping woman and invite her into his office. I found reasons to linger until the two of them had disappeared, then went back to the counter and leaned on it.

  Sandra was still pecking at her typewriter. Six seconds after I started staring at her she looked up. “Do you need something?”

  �
�Do you know a guy named Nifton? He’s twenty-five or so, big.” Sandra’s look was blank. “He calls himself the Maniac.”

  She smiled and nodded. “The Maniac. Sure. What a strange guy.”

  “He comes in here once in a while, doesn’t he?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Did he come to see Ms. Renzel?”

  “No. Not especially. I mean, he hardly ever talks to anyone. Anyone in particular, I mean. Usually he just talks to whoever’s sitting over there.” She gestured toward where the weeping woman had been sitting.

  “What does he say to them?”

  “Crazy stuff, mostly. He likes to see who’s in trouble, especially the young ones. Then he tries to get them to come to him for help, instead of us. He tells them to come over to the park, that he’ll show them how to find life after death. That’s what he always says—‘death before life.’”

  “Does he ever get violent?”

  “Not really. He’s scary, sometimes, when he starts ranting and raving. But he never actually does anything.”

  “And he never met privately with Ms. Renzel?”

  Sandra shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Were you working the day Dianne Renzel died?”

  “That was a Friday, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “I don’t work Fridays. I’m in seminar all day.”

  “How about Dianne’s daughter, Lisa? Did the Maniac ever mention her?”

  “I don’t think so. The one who always asks about Lisa is Cal. Do you know him?”

  I nodded. “So he comes in a lot?”

  Sandra nodded again. “Ms. Renzel always talked to him, tried to calm him down. I think she was kind of a mother to Cal. I think he was more her child than Lisa was, in some ways.”

  “How about a girl named Sherry Misteen? Did she ever come in for counseling?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did Lisa Usser come in?”

  “Only once, I think. She was with this doctor. I think he was a psychiatrist.”