The Clinic

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Very close. Between Santa Monica Boulevard and Olympic, just a mile or so south of the University, in a district of small postwar homes and a few much larger fantasy projects.

  Garbage day in the neighborhood. Overflowing cans and corpulent lawn bags shouted out pride of consumption. Squirrels scavenged nervously. At night, their rat cousins would take over. Years ago the people of California had voted to reduce predatory property-tax rates and the politicians had meted out punishment by eliminating rodent control and other services. Like tree trimming. Money seemed to be available for other things, though: Last year after a storm I'd watched a thirteen-man city crew take four entire days to chop down and haul half a fallen pine.

  Walter Bowlby's residence was a tan bungalow with a black shingle roof. The lawn was shaved close as a Marine recruit, more gray than green. A wide front porch played host to potted plants, an aluminum chair, and a small blue bike with training wheels. An old brown Ford Galaxie sat in the driveway. I walked up a strip of cement to the door. An enamel plaque, the kind you get at a carnival or an amusement park, said THE BOWLBYS! No one answered the bell or my knock.

  I was back in the Seville and about to drive away when a blue-and-white van approached from Olympic and pulled in behind the Ford. Two bumper stickers: GO DODGERS. BUY UNION. It came to a smoking, shuddering stop and the driver's door opened.

  A dark-mustachioed, bowlegged man in his forties got out. He wore a white nylon polo shirt with a horizontal green stripe that Milo would have liked, pleated off-white pants, and black work shoes. His arms were thick and sunburned but his frame was narrow. The beginnings of a gut swelled the green stripe and a cigarette pack pouched his shirt pocket. Twirling his car keys, he stood there examining the lawn, then he touched the cigarettes, as if to make sure they were still there, and turned as Tessa Bowlby came out of the front passenger door.

  She looked to be wearing the same dark, baggy sweater and pipestem jeans I'd seen her in at the Psych Tower, and her complexion was even chalkier. She kept her back to the mustachioed man and slid open the van's rear door, allowing a pleasant-looking gray-haired woman in a red tank top and jeans to climb out. The woman looked tired. Gray hair but a young face. In her arms was a black-haired boy around four.

  The child appeared to be sleeping but suddenly he squirmed and kicked, throwing the gray-haired woman off-balance. Tessa braced her and said something. The mustachioed man had pulled out a cigarette and now he just stood there as the gray-haired woman handed the child to Tessa.

  Tessa broke into a smile so sweet and sudden it chilled me painfully, like ice cream eaten too fast.

  She hugged the boy tight. He was giggling and still squirming. Tessa looked too frail to handle him, but she managed to hold on to him, planting her feet, tickling, laughing. His sneakered feet churned air and finally stopped. She nuzzled him and cut across the grass, carrying him to the porch.

  All four of them went up the steps and the man put a key in the door. The little boy started squirming again and Tessa put him down. He ran straight to the blue bike and tried to get on, nearly falling. Tessa put him on the seat, held him, removed him. He tried to climb atop the porch rail and began laughing as Tessa rushed to hold his hand.

  The man and the woman entered the house, leaving the door open. The boy was walking atop the rail, holding Tessa's hand. Suddenly, he jumped off. She caught him. He shimmied down her leg and he ran for the door. As she turned, she saw me.

  That same look of panic.

  She stared as the boy ran inside. Touched her cheek, stood there for a second, and ran in, herself.

  The mustachioed man had come out a second later. Reminding myself I was legit, I stayed there.

  He came toward me, swinging thick arms. When he was ten feet away, he stopped and surveyed the Seville from grille to taillight. Then he walked around the front of the car, stepping out into the street and making his way to the driver's window.

  “I'm Walt Bowlby. My daughter says you're the police.”

  No challenge in his voice, just the weak hope that maybe it wasn't true. Up close his skin was leathery. A thin gold chain circled his neck. Chest hairs sprouted around it.

  I showed him my ID. “I'm a police consultant, Mr. Bowlby.”

  “A consultant? Is there a problem?”

  “I came here to talk to Tessa.”

  “Could you tell me about what, sir?”

  “There was a crime near campus involving a professor of Tessa's. We're talking to anyone who knew the victim.”

  His shoulders dropped. “The lady professor. Tessa really doesn't know nothing about that and she's pretty— you know— upset.”

  “About the murder?”

  He touched the cigarette pocket again, pulled out a softpack of Salems, then patted his pants for matches.

  I found a book in the glove compartment and lit him up.

  “Thanks. Not exactly about the professor. She . . .” He looked back at the house. “Mind if I get in your car, sir?”

  “Not at all.”

  He walked around the back and took the passenger seat, touching the leather. “Nice shape, always liked this model— seventy-eight?”

  “Nine.”

  He nodded and smoked, blowing it out the window. “GM built it on a Chevy Two chassis, which lots of people thought was a mistake. But they hold up. This belong to the city, one of those impounds?”

  “No, it's mine.”

  “Had it long?”

  “A few years.”

  Another nod. He looked at the floorboards. “Tessa had a problem. Do you know about that?”

  Not knowing if Tessa had told him about the rape, I said, “A problem Professor Devane helped her with?”

  “Yeah. She . . . she's very bright. Tessa. Almost a genius IQ. When she wanted to drop out we asked why but she wouldn't tell us, just said she wanted to move back home. We were surprised, my wife and me, because she'd been the one made such a fuss about living on her own. Finally she broke down and cried and told us about the— you know. The assault. And how the professor hauled the guy up on charges. And then she got murdered. At first it sounded so wild we didn't know what to believe. Then we saw the news about the murder.”

  “What was wild, the murder or the rape?”

  He inhaled a lot of smoke and held on to it for a long time. “Tell the truth, sir, all of it.”

  “Did you have doubts Tessa had been attacked?”

  He stuck his arm out the car and flicked ashes. “How do I put this— I love my daughter a lot but she's . . . she's really smart, always was. Right from a baby. But different. She gets in these low moods. Depression. Since she's been little, always moody. And then she goes into her own little world— a real good imagination. Sometimes . . .” He shrugged and smoked. The cigarette was nearly down to the filter.

  “Her imagination can get wild,” he said.

  “Has she accused others of raping her, Mr. Bowlby?”

  He sighed, took another drag, looked at the butt, and squeezed it out between his fingers. I slid open the ashtray and he dropped it in.

  “Thanks. Mind if I light up another?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Disgusting habit. I quit every day.” He laughed.

  I smiled and repeated my question.

  He said, “We used to live out in Temple City, the police there probably still got records. Though maybe not, 'cause the boy was a minor, I heard they don't keep records on minors.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Tessa's almost twenty and she was twelve at the time, so eight years. The boy— we knew his family, I worked with his father at Ford, back when they had a plant in Montebello— the boy was a little older. Thirteen, I think. The families were close. We were all camping at Yosemite. Supposedly it happened in a tent, the two of them stayed behind while the rest of us went to the dump looking for bears. But the thing was, Tessa never said nothing til we got back home. Three or four days later. The Temple City police said it was really
the park rangers' jurisdiction but they brought the boy in anyway for questioning. Then they said they thought he was innocent but we could pursue it if we wanted. They also said we should have a psychiatrist see Tessa.”

  Hollowing his cheeks, he sucked hungrily on the second cigarette and let the smoke trail out of his mouth. His teeth were brown, widely spaced. Veins bulged in the heavy, sunburned arms, and the tips of his nails were coal-black.

  “She's— the thing is, sir, Tessa's smart, even with her problems, she always did great in school. Straight A's. Great imagination . . . we were hoping . . . I'd really prefer if you don't talk to her, sir. She's such a nice kid but delicate. Raising her's like walking a tightrope. One of her doctors said that to us. Said she's fragile. I can't see what good it would do to talk to her.”

  “So you do have doubts. About both stories.”

  He flinched. “I honestly don't know what to believe. The boy denied it completely and he never got in any other trouble that I know of. Joined the Navy last year, doing beautifully, got married, had a kid.”

  He looked miserable. I thought of Reed Muscadine's assessment of Tessa: serious problems.

  “Has Tessa made other accusations, Mr. Bowlby?”

  Another very long pause. He picked something out of his teeth and flicked it out the window.

  “I guess you'll find out anyways, so I might as well tell you.”

  He started to smoke but instead made a gulping sound that caught me off-guard. A hand shot up and visored his eyes.

  “She accused me,” he said, in a shaky voice. “Two years later, when she was fourteen. We already had her to a psychiatrist because she was talking about hurting herself, not eating— you see how skinny she is. She used to have that disease, anorexia. Thinking she was fat, doing jumping jacks all day. She started that at around fourteen, was down to fifty pounds. The psychiatrist put her in a hospital and they fed her with an IV, gave her some counselor to talk to and that's when she started claiming she remembered.”

  The hand pulled away. His eyes were moist but he looked right at me.

  “She said it happened when she was little— a baby, two or three.” He shook his head. “It's not true, sir. They believed me— the hospital and the police and my wife. The law said they had to investigate and I went through the whole thing. It was pure hell. Temple City police, again. A Detective Gunderson. Nice guy, maybe he's still there. Anyway, the bottom line was that it was Tessa's imagination. It just runs away with itself. When she was a real little kid she'd watch something on TV, then wanna be it— cartoon characters, whatever. You understand? Flying around being Supergirl, whatever. So all I can figure is she musta saw some movie and started to believe something had happened to her.”

  He smoothed his mustache. “Before I got married I was a rough kid, spent a little time at the Youth Authority for burglary. But then I accepted my responsibilities, learned mechanics— I'm telling you all this so you see I'm straight. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “The thing is, with Tessa, you can never be sure what she's gonna do. After the investigation, she admitted she was wrong, said she felt guilty and wanted to kill herself. Her mom and I told her that would be the worst thing and we still loved her. To make matters worse, the insurance money for the hospital ran out and we had to take her home just then, when things were bad. The hospital said watch her closely. We didn't let her out of our sight. Then we did family counseling at a county clinic and she seemed to take to that, we thought she was okay. And to show you how smart she is, she got good grades through all of it, got accepted to the U. We thought everything was okay. Then, this year, she announces she's coming home. Then she breaks down and tells us about the rape thing. Some guy on a date. I told her I believed her but . . .”

  He stubbed the second butt out in the ashtray. “If I was sure it was true, I'da looked for the guy, myself. But I know she falsely accused me. And that boy. So what was I to think? And she never complained right away, not til she heard that professor lecturing. Then the professor gets murdered. I heard that, I got scared.”

  “Scared in what way?”

  “Guy like me, high-school dropout, I used to think college was safe. Then you hear about something like that.”

  “Did Tessa tell you anything about Professor Devane?”

  “Just that she liked her. For believing her. She never thought anyone would believe her again. Then she got into what she'd said about me and started crying real hard. Saying she's sorry, doesn't want to be the girl who cried wolf. I told her, honey, what's past is past, you tell me this happened, I believe you, let's go to the police and nail the sucker. But she got really scared about that, said no, no one would believe her, it was a waste of time, there was no evidence, it was date rape, anyway, and no one took that seriously.”

  “Except Professor Devane.”

  “Except her. Yeah. I think that's the only reason she brought it up to us— the professor had been killed, she was scared. I said, are you telling me you think the guy who . . . assaulted you mighta killed her? But she wouldn't answer that, just kept saying the professor had believed her, treated her good and now she was dead, life sucked, the good die young, that kind of stuff. Then she said, I changed my mind about coming home, Daddy, I'm going back to the dorm. And she left. We let her go but we called her the next day and she didn't answer. So we went over there and found her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. All this food all around her— trays of food, but she hadn't eaten any of it. She was just staring at the ceiling. We'd seen her that way, before. When she stopped taking her medicine.”

  “What medicine is that?”

  “Used to be Nardil, then Tofranil, then Prozac. Now she's on something else— Sinequan? When she takes it, she does pretty good. Even with all the problems she's still pulling B's, which is amazing in my opinion. If she didn't have problems, she'd be straight A's. She's a smart girl, always was. Maybe too smart, I don't know.”

  He held his hands out, palms up.

  “So you found her in bed,” I said. “Not eating.”

  “We checked her out of the dorm and took her home. She was only in two classes, anyway, 'cause her doctor didn't want her to be pressured. We said why don't you drop out for a quarter, you can always come back. She said, no, she wanted to keep going. And her doctor said that was a good sign— her being motivated. So we let her.”

  He turned to me. “She's enrolled but she doesn't do nothing. No reading, no homework.”

  “Does she still go to classes?”

  “Sometimes. My wife drives her and picks her up. Sometimes she sleeps in and doesn't go. We don't like it but what can we do? You can't watch 'em twenty-four hours. Even the psychiatrist says so.”

  “So she's still seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Not regularly but we still call him because he's a nice guy, kept seeing her even after the money ran out. Dr. Emerson, out in Glendale. You want to talk to him, be my guest. Albert Emerson.” He recited a number that I copied.

  “Did he ever give you a diagnosis?”

  “Depression. He says she uses her imagination to protect herself.”

  He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

  “Rough,” I said.

  “Them's the breaks. My little boy's great.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Be four next month— big for his age.”

  “Any other children?”

  “No, just the two. We weren't sure we should have more 'cause of all the time we put into Tess. And she— my wife— has got a retarded brother, lives in an institution. So we didn't know if there was something inbred or anything.”

  He smiled. “Then we got surprised.”

  “Nice surprise,” I said.

  “Oh yeah. Robbie's a great little guy, throws a ball like you wouldn't believe. Being with him's about the only thing that makes Tess happy. I let her baby-sit but I keep an eye out.”

  “For what?”

  “Her moods. He's a happy kid and I wan
t to keep it that way. Like when we were watching the news about that professor and Tess started to scream, it got Robbie really upset. That's how I calmed her down. Telling her, honey, get a grip, look at Robbie. After that she was okay. After that she didn't even want to talk about it. She's calmed down, so far so good. But I keep my eye out.”

  18

  I had him write me out permission to speak to Dr. Albert Emerson and drove home. Robin's truck was gone and I found a note in the kitchen saying she'd left to do some emergency repair work for a country singer out in Simi Valley and would be back by seven or eight.

  I called the psychiatrist, expecting a service or a receptionist, but he answered his own phone in an expectant, boyish voice— someone ready for adventure.