“It is a long shot, but why not— Mrs. Green. Yeah, I've got her on my to-call list.”
It took fifteen minutes for him to phone back and this time there was melody in his voice.
“American Derringer, model one, takes .22 long-rifle ammo, which is exactly what was pulled out of Locking's head. She hadn't fired it since she took shooting lessons two years ago. And Muscadine did have a key to her house. She ran to look for the gun, found it in the kitchen drawer where she left it, but it looked cleaner than she remembered. Freaked her out. I told her not to touch it and she said she wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.”
“He cleaned it,” I said. “Too smart for his own good.”
“Let's not celebrate yet, but I'm going over in person to pick it up, take it to ballistics. Thank you, your excellency, salaam, salaam.”
“So what do I do about P.D. Oster?”
“Shine him on.”
Two hours later he said, “Ballistics match, and Deputy D.A. Schwartz would like to have a word with you.”
I knew Leah Schwartz from a previous case. Young and smart, with curly blond hair, huge blue eyes, and, sometimes, a sharp tongue. She came on the phone sounding ready to run a marathon.
“Hi, again. Thanks for the gun tip, I should put you on retainer.”
“Talk is cheap.”
She laughed. “So's the city. In terms of Ronnie Oster, maybe you should talk to him. Especially now that we've got the .22.”
“Why?”
“Because up to now Muscadine's refused to say a word about the crime. Maybe you can get him to spill.”
“If he does, it's confidential.”
“Not if Oster uses you on the stand. Or even deposes you. Because discovery goes both ways, now, thanks to the voters, so once Oster opens up the door about Muscadine's mental status, I can cross-examine you and get anything you learn out in the open.”
“And if Oster doesn't put me on the stand?”
“Why wouldn't he?”
“Because I'm no fan of diminished capacity and I won't testify Muscadine was insane.”
“Oster knows that, that's probably why he mentioned mental anguish, not dim cap. And I'll grant Muscadine his anguish. The bastard was harvested. If you get up there and talk about mental anguish, we'll have big fun on cross getting into all the details. Another thing you can do is write a report if Oster doesn't have the smarts to specifically ask you not to. Do it the minute you have a chance because once it's written down, it exists as discovery material. If Oster puts you on his witness list, or uses you in the preliminary hearing, let's say to get special housing for Muscadine in the psych ward, your work product is probably fair game.”
“Probably?”
“We'll squabble but I've got confidence.”
“I don't know, Leah.”
“No one's asking you to lie. The guy was anguished. But not enough to excuse four murders. And the way things are going, we can only present two of them— Devane and Locking— to the jury. I don't know about you, but the thought of Mandy Wright and the DiNapoli woman never coming to light doesn't do much for my appetite. You can make a difference here. Use your therapeutic skills, open Muscadine up. It's not like you'd be forcing yourself on him, they invited you— hell, Oster pressured you. Open his client up wide enough, I can probably get a warrant to X-ray him.”
“What if he confesses, Oster tells me to put nothing in writing and never puts me on the stand?”
“Then we lose nothing, you make some expert-witness money, we go with the bike and the gun and see how far we can take it. But I think you can get him to use you. Examine Muscadine and tell Oster the truth: His client's been through hell. But don't call Oster right away to say yes, that would look too cute. Wait a day or two, then be reluctantly willing.”
“So I'm a pawn.”
She laughed. “For justice.”
39
Dr. Albert Emerson got back to me that evening, just after nine.
“Tessa tried to commit suicide,” he said in that same youthful voice, now sobered. “I've got her on a seventy-two-hour hold at Flint Hills Cottages, know where it is?”
“La Canada.”
“That's the one. Their adolescent in-patient unit's one of the better ones.”
“How'd she do it?” I said.
“Cut her wrist.”
“Serious or cry for help?”
“She really sawed, so serious. Her father stopped the bleeding.”
“Damn. I called you because I was worried about her.”
“I called you back because I appreciate that and so do the parents. They like you. What'd you want to tell me?”
“That I believe Tessa about the rape. I thought she needed to hear that from someone.”
“Why now?”
“I can't say. Legal complications.”
“Oh,” he said. “The guy got caught for another one?”
“Let's just say she's been validated.”
“Okay. I'll find out from my D.A. wife.”
“She may not know. It's really a ticklish situation. As soon as I can be open I promise I will.”
“Fair enough— hold on, the father wants to speak with you.”
A moment later: “Doctor? Walt Bowlby, here.”
“Sorry to hear about Tessa.”
“Thank you, sir.” His words dragged. “Dr. Emerson says she'll pull through. What can I do for you?”
“I was just checking in to see how Tessa was doing.”
His voice broke. “She's— I guess I should've believed her about the rape.”
“No reason to blame your—”
“The funny thing is she seemed to be getting better, spending more time with Robbie, having some fun. Then she just stopped, didn't want to play with him anymore, even be with him. Started to stay in her room all day, with the door shut. Yesterday, I went in to talk to her, found her in the bathroom. Thank God . . . anyway, the reason I didn't call you is she didn't say anything more about the professor til today. I was gonna call you about that, but we've been pretty busy.”
“What'd she say today?”
“That the professor was her true friend because she was the only one who believed her. That the bastard tied her up and forced her and no one understood what she'd been through but the professor.”
“He tied her up?”
“Yeah. If I find him, I'll cut his balls off.”
“Mr. Bowlby—”
“I know, I know, my wife tells me I'm stupid to even talk that way and I know she's right. But the thought of his doing that to my little girl . . . maybe there's a hell . . . the main thing is Tessa's alive. I'll deal with the other stuff later. Anyway, thanks for calling, Doc.”
“Would it upset you if I came to talk to Tessa?”
“For what?”
“Just to tell her that I believe her, too.”
“Wouldn't upset me but you'd have to check with Dr. Emerson.”
“Is he still there?”
“He went just down the hall, want me to get him?”
“Please, if it's no bother.”
“No bother at all. I'm not doing much, just hanging around.”
I made it to Glendale by ten-thirty that night and La Canada a few minutes later.
Flint Hills Cottages was up Verdugo Road, well into the foothills, on the outskirts of a comfortable residential neighborhood, marked only by a small white sign on an adobe gatepost. The gate was open and the man in the guardhouse wore a blazer and tie and a practiced smile.
No central building, just small hacienda-style bungalows at the end of a curving gravel drive, tucked under hundred-year-old sycamores and cedars. Soft outdoor lighting and bougainvillea trained to the walls gave the place the look of a stylish spa.
Emerson had said Tessa was in Unit C and I found it directly across the parking lot and to the left. The front door was locked and it took a while for a uniformed nurse to answer the bell.
“Dr. Delaware for Tessa Bowlby.”
“Dr. Emerson's waiting for me.”
“Well, he's in back.”
I followed her through a butter-yellow hallway. New chocolate carpeting, framed lithos with a tilt toward flowers, a few rock-concert posters, seven doors, all locked. At the end was a nursing station where a man sat charting.
He looked up and stood. “Dr. Delaware? Al Emerson.”
He was in his early thirties with wavy brown hair trailing down his back and a thick brown beard squared meticulously at the bottom. Tweed hacking jacket, brown wool slacks, chambray shirt, blue knit tie. His grip was confident and quick.
“Thanks, Gloria,” he told the nurse and she left. I read Tessa's name on the chart's tab. The ward was silent.
“Peaceful, isn't it?” he said. “All the pain locked up for the night.”
“How's she doing?”
“She's starting to express regret, which is good.”
“Is her dad still here?”
“No, he left a short while ago. He was in with her but only for a minute or so. Tessa's pretty mad at him.”
“For not believing her?”
“That didn't help but it goes a lot deeper.”
“It usually does.”
He nodded appreciatively. “They're very nice people. Well-meaning, sincere. But simple. Not stupid, just simple.”
“As opposed to Tessa.”
“Tessa's as complex as they come. Creative, imaginative, artistic temperament. Likes to deal with existential issues. In the best of circumstances, she'd be high-maintenance. With this family it's like giving a Ferrari to a couple of perfectly competent Ford mechanics.”
“Fate's little tricks,” I said. “I've seen my share. Will she talk to me?”
“I haven't asked her yet. Why don't we find out?”
“Just pop in on her? The two times I tried she became highly anxious.”
“But now you've got something to tell her. And my wife does know what's going on, heard rumors of a student busted for the Devane murder. If he's Tessa's rapist it would be nice for her to know he's in custody.”
“It would be, but the D.A.'s keeping it quiet for a couple of days.”
“I could convince Tessa to stay here for more than a couple of days. She told me she likes it here, finds it restful.”
“What if I talk to her and she gets agitated?”
“Better here, where I can deal with it. Worse comes to worst, she freaks and I spend the whole night here.” Grinning. “My job. Sure beats sitting with your feet up having a beer, watching Comedy Central, right?”
I laughed.
He laughed, too, then turned serious. “Want to give it a try?”
“Can you keep it confidential?”
“She's got no phone and I ain't known as a blabbermouth.”
“All right,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “Come on, she's in Three.”
Effort had been taken to make the room look homey: white wallpaper stamped with pale blue, wavelike abstractions; real wood furniture; a big window; flowers in a vase. But a closer look revealed padding under the paper, no sharp edges on the furniture, the light fixture Allen-bolted into the ceiling, external wooden bars striping the window. The vase was plastic and also bolted. The flowers were real lilies. Lilies are related to onions. Nontoxic.
Tessa sat on the bed reading The Atlantic Monthly. Other magazines were piled nearby. She wore a gray University sweatshirt and denim cutoffs. Both other times I'd seen her she'd been in all black. Her legs were long and skinny, nearly as white as the walls. A triangle of bandage peeked out from under her left sleeve.
She kept reading.
Hunched vulnerability. Muscadine had read it as fair game.
“Hello again,” said Emerson.
She looked up, saw me, and that same look of panic filled her eyes.
“It's all right, Tessa,” Emerson said, striding to her side. “Dr. Delaware's a good guy. I vouch for him.”
Her lower lip shook.
I smiled.
She looked down at her magazine.
“Good article?” said Emerson.
She didn't answer. Her chest was heaving.
Emerson came closer and read over her shoulder. “Reforestation of the Eastern seaboard.” He read some more. “Says here the trees are coming back on their own accord. What, they're allowing in good news for a change?”
Tessa chewed her lip. “The trees are coming back because the economy sucks. As industries close down, people move out of small towns and the land regresses to wilderness.”
“Oh,” said Emerson. “So it's what, bad news? Or a mixed bag?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you think?”
“That I don't want to talk to him.”
“Is it okay if he talks to you a bit?”
“About what?”
Emerson looked at me.
“About what Reed Muscadine did to you,” I said. “I know it's true. Muscadine's scum and he's in jail.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Why?”
“This is going to be tough to hear, Tessa, but you'll learn it soon enough. He's the prime suspect in Professor Devane's murder.”
Her eyes got wild. “Oh!” The word was as much animal cry as human speech. “Oh, oh, oh!”
She sprang up, fingers in her hair, crossing the three-pace room, returning and crossing again.
Stopping, said, “Oh God . . . God GodRobbie!”
“What about Robbie?” said Emerson.
“Where is he?”
“Back home with your mom, Tess.”
“How do I know?”
“Why wouldn't he be?”
She stretched her hands in front of her, fingers curled, tremoring.
“The phone!” she exclaimed.
“You want me to call home?” said Emerson. “Have your mom tell you Robbie's okay?”
“I want to call! I want to speak to him!”
“It's almost eleven, Tessa, I'm sure Robbie's aslee—”
“I have to, I need to— please, Dr. Emerson. Let me call, please, please, please!” Sobbing. “Oh, please, let me speak to my little Robbie—”
“Okay, hon.” Emerson tried to put his arm around her but she backed away. Confusion tugged at his blue eyes as he unlocked the door and let her out.
At the nursing station, he got her an outside line and both of us watched as she dialed.
“Mom? Where's Robbie? You're sure? Go check . . . please, Mom. Please, Mom . . . just do it!”
She waited, pulling at her hair, blinking, rolling her shoulders, twisting the skin of one cheek, shifting her feet.
Emerson observed her with a mixture of pity and fascination.
“You're sure—did you check to see if he's breathing? What? I'm serious— from the nursing station. He let me, he's right here— yes . . . no, I'm not tired . . . I was reading. What? Soon, soon . . . yes . . . you're sure he's okay, Mom? I know— I know you wouldn't . . . sorry, Mom. Sorry for bothering— what? Okay, yes, thanks. Sorry to bother you. Just take care of him. Take real good care of him . . . loveyoutoo.”
She put down the phone. Sighed. Buried her face. Looked up.
“I'll go back now.”
In the room, I said, “Robbie was the wedge Muscadine used on you. He threatened to kill Robbie unless you dropped the charge at the hearing.”
She looked at me with what seemed like new respect.
Nodded.
I didn't ask the next question: Why didn't you tell the police?
Because I knew the answer: She'd told the police before, had been sent away a liar.
His word against hers.
“He can't hurt Robbie, now,” I said. “He can't hurt anyone.” Wishing I were sure. Almost hoping Muscadine would walk so that Big Micky could apply his own brand of justice . . . God help me.
She slumped and began sobbing again.
The Clinic Page 38
