Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Jana, startled: “I said forget it, enough of this shit! Let's talk about fun stuff, what I was doing at the fucking party.”

  Sharon: “All right. What were you doing?”

  Jana, baffled; after a long silence: “I don't . . . remember. Aw, it was probably boring anyway—any party she'd go to had to be.”

  A door had been opened; Sharon restrained herself from nudging it further. She let Jana ramble on, waited until all her anger dissipated, then ended the session, certain that a breakthrough had taken place. For the first time in more than three years, J. had allowed the twins to coexist. And had offered a new clue: The word partner seemed to have strong emotional loading. Sharon decided to pursue that, brought it up the next time she hypnotized J.

  “What's that, doctor? What did you just say?”

  Sharon: “Partners. I suggested that you and Jana are something more than just sisters. Or even twins. Perhaps you're partners. Psychological partners.”

  J. is thoughtful, silent, starts to smile.

  Sharon: “What's funny, J.?”

  “Nothing. I suppose you're right—you usually are.”

  Sharon: “But does it make sense to you?”

  “I suppose so, though if she is my partner, she's certainly a silent one. We never talk. She refuses to talk to me.” Pause. Her smile widens. “Silent partners. What business are we in?”

  Sharon: “The business of living.”

  J., amused: “I suppose so.”

  Sharon: “Would you like to talk more about that? About being a silent partner?”

  J.: “I don't know. I guess so . . . Maybe not. No. She's so rude and unpleasant, I really can't tolerate being around her. Let's change the subject, if you don't mind.”

  J. didn't show up for the next session, or the next. When she finally reappeared, two months later, she seemed composed, claimed her life was going great, she just needed a tune-up.

  Sharon resumed hypnotherapy, continued her attempt to get the “twins” to meet. Five more months of frustration, during which Sharon began thinking of herself as a failure, wondered if J.'s needs couldn't be better served by another therapist, “one with more experience, perhaps a male.”

  But Kruse encouraged her to continue, advising still more reliance on nonverbal manipulation.

  Another month of status quo and J. disappeared once again. Five weeks later she materialized, bursting into the office while Sharon was seeing another patient, calling that woman a “fucking wimp,” telling her, “your problems don't mean diddly,” and ordering her out of the office.

  Despite Sharon's attempt to take charge of the situation, the other patient ran out crying. Sharon told J. never to do that again. J. became Jana and accused Sharon of being “an evil and selfish cunt. You're a fucking manipulating cunt out to get everything I own, everything I am. All you want to do is bleed me fucking dry!” After threatening to sue Sharon and ruin her, she stormed out of the office.

  And never returned.

  End of treatment. Time for the failing therapist to ruminate.

  A hundred-page discussion section. A hundred pages of Monday-morning quarterbacking. The end point: Sharon's realization that her attempt to reconcile J. and Jana had been doomed to failure at the outset because the “twins” were “intractable psychic enemies; the triumph of one necessitated the death of the other—a psychological death, but one that had to be so vivid, so decisive that it might have been a literal demise.”

  Instead of seeking integration, she realized now, she should have worked at strengthening good J.'s identity, teamed up with the good twin to destroy the “destructive, flagrantly disturbed Jana.”

  “There's no room,” she concluded, “in this young woman's psyche for any type of partner, let alone the conflictual, silent partners represented by the splits of her personality. The nature of human identity is such that the business of living is, must be, a solitary process. Lonely at times, but enriched by the strength and satisfaction that comes from self-determination and a fully integrated ego.

  “Alone, we're born; alone, we die.”

  One hell of a case. If there had ever been a case.

  I knew J. I'd made love to her, danced with her out on a terrace.

  I knew Jana, too, had watched her throw strawberry daiquiris against a fireplace, wiggle out of a flame-colored dress and do with me what she wanted.

  A chapter on the psychology of twins, yet never once had Sharon acknowledged in print that she had a twin. Her own silent partner.

  Denial? Deceit?

  Autobiography.

  She'd delved into her own tormented psyche, created a phony case history and passed it off as doctoral research.

  Working it through. Some sort of avant-garde therapy?

  Just like the porn loop.

  Kruse had been her chairman.

  It stank of Kruse.

  But what of Shirlee? The real silent partner. Had Sharon abandoned her to a silent, dark world?

  And who the hell was “Jasper”?

  And deep thanks to Alex, who, even in his absence, continues to inspire me.

  Demure, passive, ladylike “J.” Old-fashioned views about sex and romance . . . though she'd been sexually active with a man she cared deeply about . . . the relationship ending after intrusion by Jana.

  I hefted the dissertation. Four hundred-plus pages of soul-dredging, pseudoscholarship. Lies.

  How the hell had she gotten away with it?

  I thought I knew a way to find out.

  Chapter

  26

  Before I left, I called Olivia's office.

  “Sorry, darling, system's still down. Maybe by the end of the day.”

  “Okay, thanks. I'll call you later.”

  “One more thing—that hospital you were looking for in Glendale? I spoke to a friend of mine, used to work at Glendale Adventist. She said there was a place on Brand named Resthaven Terrace that closed down just recently. She used to consult to them, doing their Medi-Cal management.”

  “Closed down completely?”

  “That's what Arlene said.”

  “Where can I reach Arlene?”

  “St. John's, in Santa Monica. Assistant director of social services. Arlene Melamed.”

  She gave me the number and said, “You're really hot to find this Shirlee gal, aren't you?”

  “It's complicated, Olivia.”

  “It always is with you.”

  I called Arlene Melamed's office and used Olivia's name to get through her secretary. Seconds later, a woman with a strong voice said, “Mrs. Melamed.”

  I introduced myself, told her I was trying to trace a former patient who'd been at Resthaven Terrace.

  “Treated when, Doctor?”

  “Six years ago.”

  “That's before my time. I didn't start there until a year ago.”

  “This patient had multiple disabilities, needed chronic care. She could very well have been there a year ago.”

  “Name?”

  “Shirlee Ransom, two e's in Shirlee.”

  “Sorry, doesn't ring a bell—not that that means much. I wasn't doing any casework, just paper shuffling. What ward was she in?”

  “One of the private rooms—back of the building.”

  “Then I certainly can't help you, Doctor. I worked only with the Medi-Cal cases, trying to get the billing system in shape.”

  I thought for a moment. “She had an attendant, a man named Elmo. Black, muscular.”

  “Elmo Castelmaine.”

  “You know him?”

  “After Resthaven closed he came to work for me at Adventist. A very fine man. Unfortunately we had budgetary problems and had to let him go—he didn't have enough formal education to satisfy Personnel.”

  “Do you have any idea where he's working now?”

  “After the layoff he got a job at an old-age home in the Fairfax area. I have no idea if he's still there.”

  “Do you recall the name of that place?”

  �
��No, but hold on. He's in my Rolodex. He was such a nice man, I'd planned to keep in touch with him in case something came up. Ah, here it is: Elmo Castelmaine, King Solomon Gardens, Edinburgh Street.”

  I copied down the address and number and said, “Mrs. Melamed, when did Resthaven close?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “What kind of a place was it?”

  “I'm not sure what you mean.”

  “Who ran it?”

  “A corporation. National outfit called ChroniCare—they owned a string of similar places all over the West Coast. Fancy-looking operation, but they never got their act together running Resthaven.”

  “Clinically?”

  “Administratively. Clinically they were adequate. Not the best, but far from the worst. Business-wise, the place was a disaster. Their billing system was a complete mess. They hired incompetent clerical help, never even came close to recovering most of the money the state owed them. I was brought in to straighten it out, but it was an impossible assignment. There was no one to talk to—the home office was out in El Segundo; nobody ever returned calls. It was as if they really didn't care about turning a profit.”

  “After it closed, where did the patients go?”

  “Other hospitals, I suppose. I quit before that.”

  “El Segundo,” I said. “Do you know if they were owned by a larger corporation?”

  “Wouldn't surprise me,” she said. “Nowadays everything is.”

  I thanked her, called my broker, Lou Cestare, in Oregon, and confirmed that ChroniCare was a subsidiary of the Magna Corporation.

  “But forget about buying in, Alex. They never went public. Magna never does.”

  We chatted a while; then I signed off and phoned King Solomon Gardens. The receptionist confirmed that Elmo Castelmaine still worked there. But he was busy with a patient, couldn't come to the phone right then. I left a message for him to call me regarding Shirlee Ransom and set out for campus.

  I got to Milton Frazier's office by two. The Office Hours card on the door was blank. A knock produced no response, but the door was unlocked. I opened it to find the Ratman, wearing a stiff tweed suit and rimless half-glasses, hunched over his desk, using a yellow felt-tip pen to underline sections of a manuscript. The window shades were partially drawn, giving the room a sallow cast. Frazier's beard was disheveled, as if he'd been picking at it.

  My “Hello, Professor” produced a scowl and a wave of his hand that could have meant anything from Come In to Get the Hell Out of Here.

  A stiff-backed chair faced the desk. I sat down and waited as Frazier continued to underline, using graceless slashing movements. The desk was stacked high with more manuscripts. I leaned forward and read the title of the one on top. A textbook chapter.

  He edited; I bided my time. The office had beige walls, a dozen or so diplomas and certificates, double-stacked metal bookshelves over cracked vinyl flooring. No custom interior design for this department head. Lined up on one of the shelves was a collection of glass beakers—animal brains floating in formaldehyde. The place smelled of old paper and wet rodent.

  I waited for a long time. Frazier finished with one manuscript, lifted another from the stack, and began working on it. He made more yellow marks, shook his head, twisted his beard hairs, showed no intention of stopping.

  “Alex Delaware,” I said. “Class of '74.”

  He sat up sharply, stared at me, straightened his lapels. His shirt bagged; his tie was a hand-painted horror just ancient enough to have come back into fashion.

  He studied me. “Hmm. Delaware. Can't say that I remember.”

  A lie, but I let it pass.

  “I thought you were a student,” he said. As if that explained his ignoring me. Eyes back on the manuscript, he added, “If it's an associateship you're after, it will have to wait. I'm not seeing anyone without an appointment. Publisher's deadline.”

  “New book?”

  Headshake. “Revised edition of Paradigms.” Slash, flip.

  Paradigms of Vertebrate Learning. For thirty years, his claim to fame.

  “Tenth edition,” he added.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose congratulations are in order. However, one almost regrets obligating oneself to a new edition when the onerousness of the task becomes apparent—strident demands by commercially motivated publishers to include new chapters, regardless of the lack of rigor with which they are obtained or the coherence with which they are presented.”

  He slapped the stack of chapters. “Enduring all this rubbish has shown me just how low standards have sunk. The American psychologist trained after 1960 hasn't a clue about proper research design, nor the ability to construct a grammatical sentence.”

  I nodded. “Damned shame when standards sink. All sorts of strange things start to happen.”

  He looked up, annoyed, but listening.

  I said, “Strange things like an unqualified attention-seeker making department head.”

  The marker froze, midair. He tried to stare me down but his eye contact was spotty. “Given the circumstances, that's an exceptionally rude remark.”

  “Doesn't change the facts.”

  “Exactly what's on your mind, Doctor?”

  “How Kruse managed to bend all the rules.”

  “This is in exceedingly poor taste. What's your concern with all this?”

  “Call me a concerned alumnus.”

  He sucked his teeth. “Any complaints you may have had against Professor Kruse have been rendered moot by his untimely death. If, as you contend, you're truly concerned about the department, you won't occupy my time or anyone else's on trivial personal matters. We're all frightfully busy—this whole horrid affair has greatly disrupted the scheme of things.”

  “I'll bet it has. Especially for those members of the faculty who'd counted on all that Blalock money. Kruse's death has put all of you in jeopardy.”

  He put the marker down, fought to keep his hand steady.

  I said, “With the rug pulled out from under you, I can see why you'd have to get that tenth edition rolling.”

  Moving stiffly, robotically, he leaned back in his chair, trying to look casual but coming across deflated. “You think you're such a bright boy, don't you? Always did. Always barreling your way through everything—‘doing your own thing.' ”

  “And here I thought you didn't remember.”

  “Your rudeness jogged my memory, young man. I recall you quite clearly now—the precocious three-year man. In case you don't know, I was opposed to letting you finish early, even though you completed your requirements. I sensed that you needed seasoning. Maturity. Obviously the passage of time alone hasn't solved that problem.”

  I moved to the edge of my chair, picked up the yellow marker and put it down. “The issue, Professor, isn't my maturity. It's the sorry state of your ethics. Selling the department to the highest bidder. How much did Kruse pay to have you step down and let him take over? Was it in a lump sum or monthly installments? Check or credit card? Or did he bring you cash in a plain brown bag?”

  He paled, started to rise from his chair, sank back down and shook a wobbly finger at me. “Watch your tongue! Don't be crass!”

  “Crass,” I said, “is a quick-buck, mail-order stop-smoking scheme targeted at the sucker market. What kind of scientific rigor did you muster to come up with that one?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it, moved his head and shoulders in a way that made his clothing seem to swallow him up. “You've no comprehension of the situation, Delaware. Not a whit.”

  “Then educate me. What was the payoff?”

  He swiveled away, stared at a thousand books, pretended to be studying the spine on one of the volumes.

  “If you're clogged,” I said, “let me prime your pump. Kruse funded your little stab at free enterprise—all the ad money, the printing, the manufacture of the tapes. Either his own money or he tapped Mrs. Blalock. What did it come out to—ten thousand? Fifteen?
He spent more on his summer wardrobe. But for you it would be major venture capital.”

  He said nothing.

  “No doubt he was the one who suggested the con in the first place,” I said. “Ads in the back of the magazine that ran his column.”

  More silence, but he'd gone pale.

  “Add to that the nonstop flow of Blalock money for your academic research and it was a sweet deal for both of you. No more brown-nosing for grants or pretending to be relevant for you. And Kruse got tenure, instant respectability. In order to avoid wagging tongues and petty jealousies, he probably arranged some funding for the other faculty members too. All you rigorous researchers would be coasting—doing your own thing. Though I suspect the rest of the senior staff would be surprised to learn how much extra Kruse kicked back to you—make for a terrific staff meeting, wouldn't it, Professor?”

  “No,” he said feebly. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. My regimen for smokers is based on sound behavioral principles. Obtaining private endowments for research is a time-honored tradition. Given the state of our national economy, it's certainly the wave of the future.”

  “You were never one for the future, Frazier. Kruse shoved you into it.”

  “Why are you doing this, Delaware? Attacking the department? We made you.”

  “I'm not talking about the department. Just you. And Kruse.”

  He made cud-chewing motions with his lips, as if trying to bring up the right word. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak. “You'll find no scandal here. Everything's been done through proper channels.”

  “I'm willing to test that hypothesis.”

  “Delaware—”

  “I spent the morning reading a fascinating document, Frazier. ‘The Silent Partner. Identity Crisis and Ego Dysfunction in a Case of Multiple Personality,' et cetera. Ring a bell?”

  He looked genuinely blank.

  “The doctoral dissertation of Sharon Ransom, Ph.D. Submitted to the department in partial fulfillment. And approved—by you. A single case study, not a shred of empirical research—a clear violation of every rule you pushed through. You signed your name to the damn thing. How'd she get away with it? How much did Kruse pay you to bend that far?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “allowances are made.”