The Clinic

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Maybe she intended to use it as material for the publicity tour.”

  “The dean suspected that, too. He said he warned her that she'd be putting herself in a dangerous position legally. That according to the University lawyers, since she hadn't gotten official approval, she'd been functioning as an independent psychologist when she chaired the committee, not as a faculty member. So if she divulged information she'd be violating patient confidentiality and putting her license in jeopardy. She took issue with that and threatened to hire her own lawyer, but apparently changed her mind because that was the end of it.”

  “It's amazing none of this ever came out after the murder.”

  “Everyone had a vested interest in keeping it quiet. Administration, students— especially the students.”

  He gave me the file. “Read it when you have a chance, let me know what you think. I can't close my eyes to this even though I still like Hubby. Even better, now, because I just got a look at her tax returns.”

  “The book made her rich?”

  He nodded. “But even before then she had some interesting extracurricular activities. Ever hear of Robert Barone?”

  I shook my head.

  “Big-shot lawyer, does criminal defense, porn and censorship, some racketeering cases, some entertainment work— same thing, right? Last year, he paid her forty grand in consulting fees, year before that, twenty-eight.”

  “Diminished-capacity reports?”

  “Probably something like that. Barone has offices here in Century City and up in San Francisco. He isn't returning my calls.”

  Drinking more milk, he said, “Her other consulting client is a Beverly Hills doctor named Milan Cruvic. He's listed in the directory as an OB-GYN and fertility expert. Any idea why a fertility expert would pay a psychologist thirty-six grand a year? Two years in a row?”

  “Maybe she screened candidates for fertility treatment.”

  “Is that Standard Op?”

  “The procedures can be grueling. A thoughtful doctor might want to see which patients could handle them. Or provide counseling for those who couldn't.”

  “So why not just refer to her? Why pay her directly out of his pocket?”

  “Good question.”

  “When I called Cruvic's office his nurse said he was doing public service at some women's clinic. Which could mean abortions— another potential point of hostility if Hope got involved in that, too. Abortion violence hasn't come big-time to L.A. but we get everything, eventually. And that creep on TV— Neese— threw the issue around, pegged her as Ms. Slice-the-Fetus Radical Feminist. Who knows, maybe some nut got mad.”

  “Not Neese, himself,” I said. I told him about confirming the alibi.

  “One down,” he said. “He thought she was psyching him out?”

  “Neese's term. Trying to control him.”

  “So maybe she tried to psych out the wrong person . . . you think the abortion angle's worth pursuing?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Hope was no standard-bearer for the cause and a political killer would have gone public in order to make some kind of statement.”

  “Yeah . . . but I do want to know what she did for Cruvic and Barone. We're talking over a hundred grand in two years. Though after the book, she didn't need it.”

  He pulled photocopied tax returns out of his briefcase.

  “Her last filing. Gross income of six hundred eighty thousand dollars, the bulk of it from advances and royalties and public speaking. The after-tax came out to almost half a mil and it's sitting in a money-market account at Merrill Lynch jointly registered to her and Seacrest. No real debts, she had the Mustang before, and Seacrest inherited the house from his parents. Another half a mil. Not a bad investment to cash in on, especially if the marriage is sour.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Ten years.”

  “How'd they meet?”

  “Seacrest says at the University rec center, swimming.”

  “Was he married before?”

  “Nope, he told Paz and Fellows he'd been one of those “stodgy confirmed bachelors,' unquote. In addition to the five hundred grand, there's more coming to him. Her literary agent wouldn't give me numbers but she did say substantial royalties were likely to come in over the next year or so. Book sales were brisk before the murder, the publisher was about to offer her a deal on a sequel. Hope and Seacrest did estate planning a few years ago, established a marital trust to avoid estate taxes, so Seacrest gets to keep all of it. His income last year was sixty-four gees, all from his University salary. His Volvo's eight years old and he's managed to put away some cash in his faculty pension plan. Plus there's the house. He's written some books, too, but they don't pay royalties. Guess romantic elements of the medieval age can't compete with penis-as-lethal-weapon.”

  “Ten-to-one income ratio,” I said.

  “Another kind of jealousy angle. What if she was going to leave him just as she struck it big? For another guy— your love-sex-betrayal thing, plus all that money sitting there. A temptation, right? And who'd be in a better position to know her habits? To poison the dog? Hope did have one thing right: More women are killed by so-called loved ones than by all the scumbags combined.”

  “Seacrest went all these years without big bucks,” I said. “Has he turned into a high liver recently?”

  “No, on the contrary, nothing's changed about his life: He goes to work each day and comes home. Weekends he stays home. Says he reads and watches TV. Doesn't even rent videos. But if she was cheating on him, no telling what that could do to an old-fashioned confirmed bachelor. Someone who studies romance— don't forget that stab in the heart. The guy's fifty-five, Alex. Maybe he had a midlife crisis. And like I said, I keep thinking he's hiding something.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on, that's the problem. He answers questions but volunteers no info. He never called Fellows and Paz once, to find out how their investigation was going. When I got assigned I phoned him right away and got the feeling I was taking up his precious time. Like he was off somewhere else.”

  “Maybe he's still in shock.”

  “No, this was more like he had better things to do. If someone you loved got sliced up, how would you react? Tell you what, how about I give you a firsthand look? I'm planning to drop in on him tonight, late. Not that I'm out to exploit a pal— if you've got some serious time to invest on the case, I can actually”— he panted—“pay you.”

  He drew a folded form out of his jacket pocket. “Surprise from Uncle Milo.”

  Police ID badge and a consultant contract in triplicate, my name typed on the dotted line. The department was willing to engage me for no more than fifty hours at less than a quarter of my private hourly fee. Small print limited LAPD's liability: If I tripped on a banana peel or got shot, they'd be sympathetic but stingy.

  “It ain't filthy lucre,” he said, “but by department standards it's Supermarket Sweep.”

  “How'd you pull this off?”

  “Lied and told the loo I'd heard radical-feminist-butch-lesbian grumblings about the slow progress of the case. If we didn't make it look like we were doing all we could, we might end up being called before the Police Commission. Told him radical-fem-butch-lesbo types liked shrinks, would take your involvement as proof of expanded sensitivity.”

  “Very creative.”

  “I asked him for a new computer, too, but you were cheaper. You on?”

  “Fifty hours,” I said. “Does that include feeding you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Returning to the fridge, he came back with a slab of brownie.

  “Despite your suspicions of Seacrest,” I said, “I still think you have to seriously consider a delusional stranger.”

  “Why?”

  “There's a cold craziness to that wound pattern. Someone with a deep hatred for women. And we know from the way she set up the committee that Hope could be heavy-handed, so who knows who she offended?
In real life or on the screen. Have you checked for murders with similar wound patterns?”

  “I've gone through three years of Westside cuttings and nothing matches. Tomorrow I try Wilshire Division and whoever else I can finagle into remembering. I also sent out teletypes to other jurisdictions, but so did Paz and Fellows and that brought in nothing. So are you up for meeting Seacrest, tonight? That is, if you and the little woman don't have plans— speaking of which, let me pop back and say hi to her and the pooch. I am neither sexist nor speciesist.”

  4

  As we walked through the garden to the shop, Milo stopped to look at the fish in the pond, then trudged on. His back was bowed and his arms dangled heavily. I wondered when he'd last slept well.

  Robin was at her bench shaping the rosewood sides of a flattop guitar. The new maple floors were spotless except for a pile of shavings swept into one corner. Spike had been sleeping at her feet and he looked up and cocked his broad, flat head.

  Milo gave him a mock-hostile look. Spike came over for a rub.

  Robin held up a finger and continued clamping the sides to a mold. A dozen other instruments in various stages of repair were arranged around the room, but the project she was working on had nothing to do with business. The fire had destroyed my old Martin dreadnought along with a beautiful parlor guitar she'd built for me years ago. I bought another Martin from Mandolin Brothers in Staten Island. Replicating Robin's was her New Year's resolution.

  One last clamp and she was done. Wiping her hands, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Milo's cheek, then mine. Under her apron she wore a black T-shirt and jeans and her hair was wrapped in a red bandanna. Safety goggles and a mask dangled from her neck, both coated with dust.

  Spike started baying like a hound and rolled over. I kneeled and scratched his tummy and he snorted in entitlement. French bulldogs are miniature versions of the English variety but with upright bat ears, a more athletic disposition, and delusions of big-dog grandeur. The best way to describe Spike physically is a Boston terrier on steroids, but his personality's more chimp than dog. He waddled into our lives one day and stayed, deciding quickly that Robin was worth knowing and I was expendable. When he's unhappy about something he pretends to choke. Milo pretends to despise him and always brings treats.

  Now he fished a sandwich bag out of his sportcoat. Dried liver.

  “CanapÉ time, pancake-face.”

  Spike sat motionless, Milo tossed a nugget, and the dog caught it midair, chewed, and swallowed. The two of them glared at each other. Milo rubbed his face. Spike barked. Milo muttered and gave him more liver.

  “Go away and digest.”

  Spike head-butted Milo's foot. Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Milo bent and petted him.

  More barking and butting and feeding. Finally, Milo showed him the empty bag. Spike jumped for it, shook his head, and scattered drool.

  “Enough,” said Robin. “You're increasing the humidity.”

  Spike gazed up at her with big brown eyes. The Orson Welles look— genius disturbed.

  “Stay,” she commanded quietly. The dog obeyed and she added, “Darling.” Slipping her arm around my waist, she said, “So what's new, Milo?”

  More than just good manners. We'd talked more about the murder last night.

  “Plodding along,” he said. “Thought I'd borrow Alex tonight. If you don't need him.”

  “I always need him. Just make sure you return him in one piece.”

  “One piece, fueled, washed, and waxed.”

  After he was gone, I turned to the transcripts of the conduct committee.

  The documents were red-stamped CONFIDENTIAL on each page and preceded by the University's lawyers' warning that publicizing the contents could bring civil prosecution. Next came the lawyers' assessment of blame: sole credit, Professor Hope Devane.

  But two other people had sat as judges along with her: an associate professor of chemistry named Julia Steinberger, and a psychology graduate student named Casey Locking.

  I turned the page. The format surprised me. Face-to-face confrontations between accuser and accused. Hope's academic version of a talk show?

  Case 1:

  Deborah Brittain, a nineteen-year-old sophomore French major, accused Patrick Allan Huang, an eighteen-year-old sophomore engineering major, of following her around in the college library and making “lascivious and suggestive” expressions. Huang denied any sexual interest in Brittain and said she'd “come on” to him by requesting help operating the library's search computers and repeatedly telling him how brilliant he was.

  Brittain said she had indeed asked for help from Huang because “he looked like the kind of guy who'd know about computers,” and had complimented his proficiency because that was “good manners. Why can't a woman be nice without getting harassed?”

  PROF. DEVANE: Any answer to that, Mr. Huang?

  MR. HUANG: My answer is she's a racist, figuring an Asian guy would be a techno-geek and then taking advantage of me. She bugged me, not the opposite. Coming on all friendly, so, yeah, I asked her out. Then she shuts me down and when I don't want to be her data slave anymore she gets pissed and files on me. What a hassle and a half. I didn't come to college for this.

  PROF. DEVANE: What did you go to college for?

  MR. HUANG: To study engineering.

  PROF. DEVANE: There's more to learning than what goes on in the classroom.

  MR. HUANG: All I want to do is study and mind my own business, okay? What this is about is she's a racist.

  MS. BRITTAIN: He is lying! He offered to help. All I needed was a start, I didn't know the program, I was fine after that. But every time he saw me, he'd slither over. Then he asked me out and wouldn't take no for an answer— several times. I'm empowered to say no, right? Why should I have to put up with that? It got to a point where I didn't even want to go to the library. But I had a paper to write on MoliÈre— what's he doing there, anyway? Engineering books are in the Engineering Library. He obviously hangs around to hit on women.”

  More he-said, she-said, no witnesses. Devane asking all the questions, Devane summing up— pointing out that Deborah Brittain had come to her “suffering from extreme stress.”

  She affirmed Brittain's right to study anywhere she pleased, free of harassment, advised her gently to be aware of racial stereotypes that might “elicit miscommunication. Though I'm not saying that's what happened here, Ms. Brittain.”

  Then she lectured Patrick Huang about respecting women's rights. Huang said he knew all that. Devane suggested he think about it, anyway, and warned him that he'd face suspension and possible expulsion if anyone else complained about him. No disciplinary actions taken.

  Case 2:

  A freshman English major named Cynthia Vespucci had attended a pre-Christmas-break party at the Chi Pi Omega fraternity house where she encountered a freshman business major named Kenneth Storm Jr. Recognizing him from high school, she danced with him. “Because even though most of the other guys were getting drunk and freaking out, he was a total gentleman that night.”

  Vespucci and Storm began dating. Nothing sexual occurred until their fourth date, when Vespucci claimed Storm drove her to a remote spot in Bel Air, three miles above campus, and demanded intercourse. When she refused, Storm grabbed her arm. She smelled liquor on his breath, managed to pull away, and told him to let her drive. He then kicked her out of his car and threw her purse out, breaking the strap and scattering the contents, some of which, including her spare change, rolled into a storm drain. Driving off, he left her stranded. She tried gaining entrance to a residence, but all the houses were fenced and gated and no one answered her rings. She was forced to walk home to her sorority, ruining a pair of shoes and “causing me incredible fear.”

  When asked to respond, Kenneth Storm refused, stating, “This is bullshit.”

  Further prodding from Professor Devane produced “What the hell do you expect me to say?”

  At that point, the graduate student, Casey Locking,
entered the dialogue: “Look, guy, I'm a man but I don't have any sympathy for men who rough up women. If what she says is true, you've got a lesson to learn and you're lucky to be learning it young. If you disagree, speak up. But if you choose not to defend yourself, don't complain later.”

  Storm responded with “a train of expletives.”

  Then, surprisingly, Cynthia Vespucci seemed to have a change of heart: “Okay, okay, let's just have nothing to do with each other. Let's just end this.” [Crying]

  PROF. DEVANE: Here's a tissue, Ms. Vespucci.

  MS. VESPUCCI: I'm okay. Let's just forget it.

  PROF. DEVANE: Are you sure, Ms. Vespucci?