“I trust Tim has given you a comprehensive tour and has answered all of your questions.”
“He was very helpful.”
“Good,” he drawled, giving the word three syllables. “He’s a very capable young man. I handpick our staff.” He squinted. “Just as I handpick all volunteers. We want only the best for our children.”
He sat back and rested his hands on his belly.
“I’m extremely pleased that a man of your stature would consider joining us, Doctor. We’ve never had a child psychologist in the Gentleman’s Brigade. Tim tells me you’re retired.”
He gazed at me jovially. It was clear I was expected to explain myself.
“Yes. That’s true.”
“Hmm.” He scratched behind one ear, still smiling. Waiting. I smiled back.
“You know,” he finally said, “when Tim mentioned your visit I thought your name was familiar. But I couldn’t place it. Then it came to me, just a few moments ago. You ran that program for those children who were the victims of that day-care scandal, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful work. How are they doing, the children?”
“Quite well.”
“You—retired soon after the program was over, did you?”
“Yes.”
The enormous head shook sadly.
“Tragic affair. The man killed himself, if I recall.”
“He did.”
“Doubly tragic. The little ones abused like that and a man’s life wasted with no chance of salvation. Or,” he smiled, “to use a more secular term, with no chance of rehabilitation. They’re one and the same, salvation and rehabilitation, don’t you think, Doctor?”
“I can see similiarity in the two concepts.”
“Certainly. It depends upon one’s perspective. I confess,” he sighed, “that I find it difficult, at times, to divorce myself from my religious training when dealing with issues of human relations. I must struggle to do so, of course, in view of our society’s abhorrence of even a minimal liaison between church and state.”
He wasn’t protesting. The broad face was suffused with calm, nourished by the sweet fruit of martyrdom. He looked at peace with himself, as content as a hippo sunning in a mudhole.
“Do you think the man—the one who killed himself—could have been rehabilitated?” he asked me.
“It’s hard to say. I didn’t know him. The statistics on treatment of lifelong pedophiles aren’t encouraging.”
“Statistics.” He played with the word, letting it roll slowly off his tongue. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice. “Statistics are cold numbers, aren’t they? With no consideration for the individual. And, Tim informs me, on a mathematical level, statistics have no relevance for an individual. Is that correct?”
“That’s true.”
“When folks quote statistics, it reminds me of the joke about the Okie—Okie jokes were fashionable before your time—woman who had borne ten children with relative equanimity but who became very agitated upon learning she was pregnant with the eleventh. Her doctor asked her why, after having gone through the travails of pregnancy, labor and delivery ten times she was suddenly so distraught. And she told him she had read that every eleventh child born in Oklahoma was an Indian, and durned if she was going to raise a redskin!”
He laughed, the belly heaving, the eyes black slits. His glasses slid down his nose and he righted them.
“That, Doctor, sums up my view of statistics. You know, most of the children at La Casa were statistics prior to their coming here—doctor numbers in the Dependency Court files, codes for the D.P.S.S. caseworkers to catalogue, scores on IQ tests. And those numbers said they were beyond hope. But we take them and we work strenuously to transform those numbers into little individuals. I don’t care about a child’s IQ score, I want to help him claim his birthright as a human being—opportunity, basic health and welfare, and, if you’ll permit a clerical lapse, a soul. For there is a soul in every single one of those children, even the ones functioning at a vegetative level.”
“I agree that it’s good not to be limited by numbers.” His man, Kruger, had been pretty handy with statistics when they served his purpose and I was willing to bet La Casa made use of a computer or two to churn out the right numbers when the occasion called for it.
“Our work is effecting change. It’s an alchemy of sorts. Which is why suicide—any suicide—saddens me deeply. For all men are capable of salvation. That man was a quitter, in the ultimate sense. But of course,” he lowered his voice, “the quitter has become the archetype of modern man, hasn’t he, Doctor? It has become fashionable to throw up one’s hands after the merest travesty of effort. Everyone wants quick and easy solutions.”
Including, no doubt, those who retired at thirty-two.
“There are miracles happening every day, right on these grounds. Children who’ve been given up on gain a new sense of themselves. A youngster who is incontinent learns to control his bowels.” He paused, like a politician after an applause line. “So-called retarded children learn to read and write. Small miracles, perhaps, when measured against a man walking on the moon, or perhaps not.” His eyebrows arched, the thick lips parted to reveal widely-spaced, horsey teeth. “Of course, Doctor, if you find the word miracle unduly sectarian, we can substitute success. That is a word the average American can relate to. Success.”
Coming from someone else it could have been a cheap throwaway oration worthy of a Sunday morning Jesus-huckster. But McCaffrey was good and his words carried the conviction of one ordained to carry out a sacred mission.
“May I ask,” he inquired pleasantly, “why you retired?”
“I wanted a change of pace, Reverend. Time to sort out my values.”
“I understand. Reflection can be profoundly valuable. However I trust you won’t absent yourself from your profession for too long. We need good people in your field.”
He was still preaching, but now mixing it with an ego massage. I understood why the corporate honchos loved him.
“In fact I have begun to miss working with children, which is why I called you.”
“Excellent, excellent. Psychology’s loss will be our gain. You worked at Western Pediatric, didn’t you? I seem to remember that from the paper.”
“There and in private practice.”
“A first-rate hospital. We send many of our children there when the need for medical attention arises. I’m acquainted with several of the physicians on staff and many of them have been quite generous—giving of themselves.”
“Those are busy men, Reverend; you must be quite persuasive.”
“Not really. However, I do recognize the existence of a basic human need to give, an altruistic drive, if you will. I know this flies in the face of the modern psychologies which limit the notion of drive to self-gratification, but I’m convinced I’m right. Altruism is as basic as hunger and thirst. You, for example, satisfied your own altruistic need within the scope of your chosen profession. But when you stopped working, the hunger returned. And here,” he spread his arms, “you are.”
He opened a drawer of the desk, took out a brochure, and handed it to me. It was glossy and well-done, as polished as the quarterly report of an industrial conglomerate.
“On page six you’ll see a partial list of our board.”
I found it. For a partial list it was long, running the height of the page in small print. And impressive. It included two county supervisors, a member of the city council, the Mayor, judges, philanthropists, entertainment biggies, attorneys, businessmen, and plenty of M.D.’s, some of whose names I recognized. Like L. Willard Towle.
“Those are all busy men, Doctor. And yet they find the time for our children. Because we know how to tap that inner resource, that well-spring of altruism.”
I flipped through the pages. There was a letter of endorsement from the governor, lots of photographs of children having fun, and even more pictures of McCaffrey. His looming bulk appeared pinstrip
ed on the Donahue show, in tuxedo at a Music Center benefit, in a jogging suit with a group of his young charges at the victory line of the Special Olympics. McCaffrey with TV personalities, civil rights leaders, country singers and bank presidents.
Midway through the brochure I found a shot of McCaffrey in a room I recognized as the lecture hall at Western Pediatric. Next to him, white hair gleaming, was Towle. On the other side was a small man, froggy, squat, grim even as he smiled. The guy with Peter Lorre eyes whose photograph I’d seen in Towle’s office. The caption beneath the photo identified him as the Honorable Edwin G. Hayden, supervising judge of the Dependency Court. The occasion was McCaffrey’s address to the medical staff on “Child Welfare: Past, Present and Future.”
“Is Dr. Towle very involved in La Casa?” I asked.
“He serves on our board and is one of our rotating physicians. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met. Casually. I know him by reputation.”
“Yes, an authority on behavioral pediatrics. We find his services invaluable.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He spent the next quarter-hour showing me his book, a soft-covered, locally printed volume of saccharine clichés and first-rate graphics. I bought a copy, for fifteen bucks, after he gave me a more sophisticated version of the pitch for cash Kruger had thrown my way. The bargain basement ambience of the office lent credibility to the spiel. Besides, I was O.D’ed on positive thinking and it seemed a small price to pay for respite.
He took the three five-dollar bills, folded them and placed them conspicuously in a collection box atop the desk. The receptacle was papered with a drawing of a solemn-looking child with eyes that rivaled Melody Quinn’s in size, luminosity and the ability to project a sense of inner hurt.
He stood, thanked me for coming, and took my hand in both of his. “I hope we see more of you, Doctor. Soon.”
It was my turn to smile.
“Plan on it, Reverend.”
Grandma was ready for me as I stepped into the waiting room, with a sheaf of stapled booklets and two sharpened number two pencils.
“You can fill these out right here, Doctor Delaware,” she said sweetly.
I looked at my watch.
“Gee, it’s much later than I thought. I’ll have to take a raincheck.”
“But—” She became flustered.
“How about you give them to me to take home? I’ll fill them out and mail them back to you.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that! These are psychological tests!” She clutched the papers to her breast. “The rules are that you must fill them out here.”
“Well, then, I’ll just have to come back.” I started to leave.
“Wait. Let me ask someone. I’ll ask Reverend Gus if it’s—”
“He told me he was going to retire for a period of meditation. I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”
“Oh.” She was disoriented. “I must ask someone. You wait right here, Doctor, and I’ll find Tim.”
“Sure.”
When she was gone I slipped out the door, unnoticed.
The sun had almost set. It was that transitional time of day when the diurnal palette is slowly scraped dry, colors falling aside to reveal a wash of gray, that ambiguous segment of twilight when everything looks just a little bit fuzzy around the edges.
I walked toward my car unsettled. I’d spent three hours at La Casa and had learned little other than that the Reverend Augustus McCaffrey was a shrewd old boy with overactive charisma glands. He’d taken the time to check me out and wanted me to know it. But only a paranoiac could rightfully see anything ominous in that. He was showing off, displaying how well-informed and prepared he was. The same went for his advertising the abundance of friends in high places. It was psychological muscle-flexing. Power respected power, strength gravitated to strength. The more connections McCaffrey could show, the more he was going to get. And that was the way to big bucks. That, and collection boxes illustrated with sad-eyed waifs.
I had the key in the door of the Seville, facing the campus of the institution. It looked empty and still, like a well-run farm after the work’s all done. Probably dinner time, with the kids in the cafeteria, the counselors watching, and the Reverend Gus delivering an eloquent benediction.
I felt foolish.
I was about to open the door when I caught a glimpse of a flurry of movement near the forestlike Grove, several hundred feet in the distance. It was hard to be certain, but I thought I saw a struggle, heard the sound of muffled cries.
I put the car keys back in my pocket and let the copy of McCaffrey’s book drop to the gravel. There was no one else in sight, except for the guard in the booth at the entrance and his attention was focused in the opposite direction. I needed to get closer without being seen. Carefully I made my way down the hill upon which the parking lot sat, staying in the shadow of buildings whenever I could. The shapes in the distance were moving, but slowly.
I pressed myself against the flamingo-pink wall of the southernmost dormitory, as far as I could go without abandoning cover. The ground was moist and mushy, the air rotten with fumes given off by a nearby trash dumpster. Someone had tried to write FUCK in the pink paint, but the corrugated metal was a hostile surface and it came out chicken scratches.
The sounds were clearer and louder now, and they were definitely cries of distress—animal cries, bleating and plaintive.
I made out three silhouettes, two large, one much smaller. The small one seemed to be walking on air.
I inched closer, peering around the corner. The three figures passed before me, perhaps thirty feet away moving along the southern border of the institution. They walked across the concrete of the pool deck and came under the illumination of a yellow anti-bug light affixed to the eave of the poolhouse.
It was then that I saw them clearly, flash frozen in the lemon light.
The small figure was Rodney and he’d appeared suspended because he was being carried in the firm grip of Halstead, the coach, and Tim Kruger. They grasped him under the arms so that his feet dangled inches from the ground.
They were strong men but the boy was giving them a struggle. He squirmed and kicked like a ferret in a trap, opened his mouth and let out a wordless moan. Halstead clamped a hairy hand over the mouth but the child managed to wrench free and scream again. Halstead stifled him once more and it went on that way as they retreated out of the light and my line of vision, the alternating sounds of cries and muted grunts a crazy trumpet solo that grew faint then faded away.
Then it was silent and I was alone, back to the wall, bathed in sweat, clothes clammy and sticking to me. I wanted to perform some heroic act, to break out of the deadening inertia that had settled around my ankles like quick-drying cement.
But I couldn’t save anybody. I was a man out of his element. If I followed them there’d be rational explanations for everything and a herd of guards to quickly turn me out, taking careful note of my face so that the gates of La Casa would never again open before it.
I couldn’t afford that, just yet.
So I stood, up against the wall, rooted in the ghost-town stillness, feeling sick and helpless. I clenched my fists until they hurt and listened to the dry urgent sound of my own breathing like the scraping of boots against alley stones.
I forced the image of the struggling boy out of my mind.
When I was sure it was safe I sneaked back to my car.
17
THE FIRST TIME I called, at 8 A.M., nobody answered. A half-hour later the University of Oregon was open for business.
“Good morning, Education.”
“Good morning. This is Dr. Gene Adler calling from Los Angeles. I’m with the Department of Psychiatry at Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles. We’re currently recruiting for a counseling position. One of our applicants has listed on his resume the fact that he received a master’s degree in counseling education from your department. As part of our routine credentials check I was wonde
ring if you could verify that for me.”
“I’ll switch you to Marianne, in transcripts.”
Marianne had a warm, friendly voice but when I repeated my story for her she told me, firmly, that a written request would be necessary.
“That’s fine with me,” I said, “but that will take time. The job for which this individual has applied is being competitively sought by many people. We were planning to make a decision within twenty-four hours. It’s just a formality—verification of records—but our liability insurance stipulates that we have to do it. If you’d like I can have the applicant call you to release the information. It’s in his best interests.”
“Well … I suppose it’ll be all right. All you want to know is if this person received a degree, right? Nothing more personal than that?”
“That’s correct.”
“Who’s the applicant?”
“A gentleman named Timothy Kruger. His records list an M.A. four years ago.”
“One moment.”
She was gone for ten minutes, and when she returned to the phone she sounded upset.
“Well, Doctor, your formality has turned out to be of some value. There is no record of a degree being granted to a person of that name in the last ten years. We do have record of a Timothy Jay Kruger attending one semester of graduate school four years ago, but his major wasn’t in counseling, it was in secondary teaching, and he left after that single semester.”
“I see. That’s quite disturbing. Any indication of why he left?”
“None. Does that really matter now?”
“No, I suppose not—you’re absolutely certain about this? I wouldn’t want to jeopardize Mr. Kruger’s career—”
“There’s no doubt whatsoever.” She sounded offended. “I checked and double-checked, Doctor, and then I asked the head of the department, Dr. Gowdy, and he was positive no Timothy Kruger graduated from here.”
“Well, that settles it, doesn’t it? And it certainly casts a new light on Mr. Kruger. Could you check one more thing?”
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