“Almost?”
Usser shrugged and rubbed a palm across his face. “I’m not perfect and neither are my juries. And sometimes winning simply means they get to know they’ll stay alive instead of residing on Death Row.”
“So there are a few people out there who might have reason to think you did less for them than you promised, or at least less than they expected you to do. Someone who spent some time in jail and thinks you should have prevented it from happening, for example.”
“I suppose one or two of my former clients might feel that way.”
“Give me a name.”
Usser gestured helplessly. “I can’t. Not off the top of my head. It’s just so … preposterous … that someone would take out their animosity toward me on poor Dianne.”
“Preposterous people are your specialty, aren’t they, Professor?”
The question lay undisturbed for several seconds. Dr. Lonborg opened his mouth to say something, then abandoned the idea. When Usser showed no signs of speaking, I did what I usually do when given the opportunity—I asked another question: “Have you even considered the possibility that one of your clients did it?”
He shook his head, not meeting my eyes.
“Would you start considering it now? Would you go through your files this evening and see if any names pop out at you? And give me a list of everyone who ever made a threat of any kind against you, no matter how trivial it might have seemed at the time?”
“I don’t … I’m so busy, I …”
“I don’t have to remind you that every day that passes makes the likelihood of finding your wife’s killer that much smaller, do I, Professor? Or that if the killer’s grudge was against you and not your wife, he might not be satisfied with what he’s done to date?”
Usser lowered his head to his hands. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this. As though there’s some … some fiend running around, trying to ruin my life.” He shuddered briefly and Lonborg patted his shoulder to calm him down. The condescending gesture seemed to work. “I’ll do what I can,” Usser managed finally. “By this weekend at the latest.”
“Fine. How about over at the law school? Anyone there have a grudge against you that he might have satisfied by murdering your wife?”
The question was blatant, but Usser let it pass. Finally he was thinking about the problem and not about its cause. “That’s even more ridiculous than your other idea,” he said.
“It doesn’t seem so ridiculous to me. Some guy down at Stanford killed his math professor for giving him a C, and admits he might well kill someone else on the faculty if they ever put him on parole. It’s not such a big jump from there to killing a professor’s wife to punish her husband for failing him in class.”
“I’m sure I know no one at the law school who’s capable of that, even remotely.” Usser glanced at Lonborg, who nodded approval of the answer. I doubted either of them was as naive as they were pretending to be. Still, madness is always denied, is somehow the last resort, as though all of us fear a personal psychotic stain from the mere acknowledgment of its existence.
“We’ve talked about you,” I continued, “now how about your wife? Who might have been angry enough at her to do something like that?”
Lonborg couldn’t restrain himself. “Please, Mr. Tanner. Surely even you must realize how terrible it is for Larry to think of Dianne in this context.”
“It’s all right, Adam,” Usser said, then looked at me directly for the first time. “Dianne encountered some very disturbed people in her job, Mr. Tanner. She spent many hours at the crisis center, both day and night. Some of her clients were, well, capable of almost anything. I suppose if I were honest I’d admit that I think it might have been one of them, a client at the center who imagined Dianne had wronged him somehow, who inserted her into some paranoid fantasy and thought he had to kill her to save himself.”
“Any names?”
“No. We didn’t talk about our work that much at home. We tried to keep our professional and private lives separate. We weren’t always successful, but we tried.”
“Who would know the details of that part of her life.”
“Her supervisor, I suppose. Pierce Richards.”
“Anyone else?”
“I’m not sure. Various staff members, but there’s such a high turnover down there, I’m not sure who’s still available.”
“All right. Now. How about her personal life, Mr. Usser? Anything going on there that might be helpful?”
“Come now, Tanner,” Lonborg interrupted. “Enough surely is enough, even from you.”
“Mr. Usser’s a grown man, Doctor,” I said. “If his wife was having an affair and it turned sour, I’m sure he realizes that information would be crucial in a case like this.”
I’d asked my question indirectly, and Usser answered it by shaking his head. “We were very happy,” he said softly. “Very, very happy. That’s all I can say.”
Usser was in tears. Lonborg was looking at me with acid eyes. I decided to give up. “Okay. I’ll let you go. But keep my questions in mind, Mr. Usser. If anything comes to you, please give me a call. I’m in the San Francisco phone book. And one last thing. I’d like to talk to your daughter this afternoon. Can you tell me where I can find her after school?”
Lonborg immediately leaned over and whispered something in Usser’s ear. From his look it was an urgent, vital something. Usser listened, then nodded. “You must leave Lisa out of this, Mr. Tanner,” Usser said firmly. “I will not permit you to grill her about her mother’s death.”
“I’ll be tactful,” I said. “Sometimes it helps if they talk about it.”
“No!” Usser thundered. “My daughter is a fragile child. She has been in therapy with Dr. Lonborg for several years. Every time she seems poised at a breakthrough, something happens to set her back. Dianne’s death has been a major block to her development. Dr. Lonborg assures me it is not permanent, but I simply will not have you jeopardizing her treatment or driving her toward even more outlandish behavior by inflicting additional psychic injury. If you attempt to see her, I’ll take whatever steps are required to ensure that she’s left alone.”
Usser’s heated words caused heads to turn our way. He was so clearly upset that I willingly surrendered. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” I said to him. “But my clients have rights in this matter too. I’m sure you understand.”
Usser didn’t say a word. Lonborg draped an arm around his shoulder and patted him as if he were a tyke who’d lost his dog. I was out of the restaurant before I realized I hadn’t ever gotten lunch.
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About the Author
Stephen Greenleaf (b. 1942), a former lawyer and an alumnus of the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop, is a mystery and thriller writer best known for his series of novels starring PI John Marshall Tanner. Recognized for being both literate and highly entertaining, Greenleaf’s novels often deal with contemporary social and political issues.
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