The Clinic (12 page)

“Yes.”

“How’d you come to complain about Kenny?”

“The—what happened—the incident was on a Monday night and I was still very upset on Tuesday when I went to class.” She wet her lips with her tongue. “Professor Devane was lecturing on domestic violence and I started to feel like a victim. It was one of those stupid, impulsive things you do when you’re stressed-out. I went up to her after class, said I had a problem. She took me to her office and just listened, made some tea for me. I cried a little and she gave me a tissue. Then, when I calmed down, she told me she might have a solution for me.

That’s when she described the committee.”

“What’d she say about it?”

“That it was brand-new. Important—in terms of women’s rights on campus. She said I could play a significant role in countering women’s helplessness.”

She looked at the book bag. “I had doubts but she seemed so caring. I can take the bag, now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Milo. “So you feel she deceived you.”

“Not—I can’t call it deliberate deception. Maybe I just heard what I wanted to because I was upset.”

“Sounds like you had good reason to be upset, Cindy,” I said. “Walking back to campus alone at night must have been scary.”

“Very. You hear all sorts of stories.”

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“About crime?”

She nodded. “Weirdos stalking the hills—look what happened to Professor Devane!”

Milo said, “You think a weirdo killed her?”

“I don’t know, but a woman in my sorority works on the student paper and she was doing some research over at the campus police station. They told her there are lots of rapes and attempted rapes that never make the news. And there I was—it was pitch-black. I had to find my way back.”

“Not fun.”

“Not much.” Suddenly, she was crying, hands snapping across her face.

Milo shifted the bag from hand to hand several times, hefting it as if it were a ball.

Wiping her eyes with her fingers, she said, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

“Believe me, I’m sorry about plenty. Maybe even about talking to you. ’Cause what’s the point?

College is rough enough without this kind of shi—mess.” She wiped her eyes again. “Excuse my language. I just never thought I’d know anyone who was murdered.”

Milo pulled a small plastic-wrapped package from a pocket and gave her a tissue. Had he come prepared for tears?

She took it and dabbed, looked around the parking lot. “Can I go, please? I have a two-o’clock all the way on North Campus and my bike’s parked over on Gayley.”

“Sure, just a couple more questions. What’d you think of the other members of the committee?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were they inquisitional, too?”

“Hewas—the guy, the grad student—I forget his name.”

“Casey Locking.”

“I guess so. He had a real attitude. Clear agenda.”

“Which was?”

“Being Mr. Feminist—probably kissing up to Professor Devane. He impressed me as one of those guys who tries to prove how unsexist he is by dumping on other guys.”

She smiled.

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“What, Cindy?”

“The funny thing is, when he and Kenny started sounding off against each other it was typical male stuff—no offense. Locking was trying to be Mr. Nonsexist but his style was still male—hostile, aggressive, competitive. Maybe some things are unchangeable. Maybe we should just learn to live with each other.”

“As long as the strong don’t pummel the weak,” said Milo.

“Yes, of course. No one should stand for being victimized.”

“Professor Devane was victimized.”

She stared at him. A moist streak remained under one eye. “I know. It’s terrible. But what canI do?”

“Just what you’re doing, Cindy. What about the other woman on the committee, Professor Steinberger?”

“She was okay. She really didn’t say much. It was clearly Professor Devane’s show. I got the feeling she had a personal stake in it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because afterward, when I said I wanted to forget the whole thing, she told me I shouldn’t retreat from my position, she would support me all the way. And when I said no, she got a little chilly. Distant. As if I’d let her down. I felt rotten on so many levels, just wanted to get out of there and be by myself.”

“Did you and she have any contact after that?”

“She called me once at the Theta house. Nice again, just wanting to know how I was doing. She also offered to send me a reading list of books that might help me.”

“Feminist books?”

“I guess so, I wasn’t really listening. I kind of cut her off.”

“Because you didn’t trust her?”

“She was using all the right words but I’d had enough.”

“What about Kenny?”

“What about him?”

“Did she call him, too?”

“Not that I know. No, I’m sure she didn’t because he would have told me. He—” She stopped herself.

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“He what, Cindy?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. Just that he didn’t mention her calling.”

“Were you going to say Kenny hated her?”

She looked away. “If you’ve read the transcripts, I guess that’s no big shock. No, he didn’t like her one bit. He said she was a—she was manipulative. And a radical feminist—Kenny’s kind of conservative politically. And I can’t blame him for feeling railroaded. He was already having a hard time at the U, thinking about transferring out. The committee was the final straw.”

“Did he blame Dr. Devane for having to transfer?”

“No, he was just generally down on everything.”

“Life, in general?” I said. “Or something specific?”

She looked up with alarm. “I know what you’re getting at, but it’s ridiculous. He’d never touch her. That’s not Kenny. And he wasn’t even in L.A. the night she was killed. He’s in San Diego except on weekends when he drives in to see me. He’s working hard to get his life together—he’s only nineteen.”

“He comes in every weekend?” said Milo.

“Not every, most. And she was killed on a Monday. He’s never in town on Monday.”

Milo looked down at her and smiled. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about his schedule.”

“Only after you called. We were really surprised, then we figured you’d learned about the committee and we said, Oh my God, unreal. Because you know, the system. You can get caught up in it, people get abused. I mean, it’s so absurd that anyone would connect us to what happened. We’re kids, basically. The last time I had anything to do with the police was when that guy came to class and told us about parked cars.”

She smiled.

“He had a parrot, that policeman. A trained parrot that could talk. Like, “Stop, you’re under arrest!’ and “You have the right to remain silent.’ I think he called him Officer Squawk, or something. Whatever. I really can take that bag.”

Milo handed it to her.

“I really need to forget all this, Detective Sturgis. I have to concentrate on my grades because my mom makes sacrifices for me. That’s why I didn’t go to private college. So, please.”

“Sure, Cindy. Thanks for your time.” He gave her a card.

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“Robbery-homicide,” she said, shivering. “What’s this for?”

“In case you think of something.”

“I won’t, believe me.” Her small face puckered and I thought she’d cry again. Then she said,

“Thanks,” and walked away.

“Cutie pie,” said Milo. “I just want to give her milk and cookies, tell her Prince Charming is coming soon and he doesn’t have a rap sheet.”

“She feels she’s found him already.”

He shook his head. “She’s a little intrapunitive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very. Blaming herself for what happened between her and Kenny Storm, then for complaining.”

“Storm,” he said. “Smart kid like her hooking up with a dumb guy. What is it, low self-esteem?”

“More interested in Storm, now?”

“Why?”

“His academic careerhasn’t gone well. Meaning he never got to receive the U’s concession money. Meaning he could still be angry and unresolved.”

“And maybe she’s willing to lie for him. Maybe despite what she said, he stayed over one weekend.”

“He could have borrowed Cindy’s bike,” I said. “Or he has one of his own.”

“Neither he nor his daddy have returned calls . . . selling real estate in La Jolla. Should be easy enough to find out which company, see if the alibi checks out.”

His eyes drifted upward. “Little Cindy. She looks like a fourteen-year-old but talks like an adult.

Then again, the sweetheart who threw her baby to the dogs was pretty adorable, too.”

We drove out of the Village, hugging the eastern edge of the campus and cutting past Sorority Row. Students jogged and strolled and jaywalked with abandon. The spiked tops of the cactus in the Botanical Garden stuck over the iron fence like supplementary security.

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I said, “A picture of Hope seems to be taking shape. Brilliant, charismatic, good with people.

But able to bend the rules when it suits her, and from what Cindy said, to change faces pretty quickly. Consistent with the little boxes.”

A laughing couple around Kenny and Cindy’s age darted across the street, holding hands, wrapped up in each other. Milo had to brake hard. They kept going, unaware.

“Ah, love,” I said.

“Or too many years on Walkmans and video games. Okay, I’ll drop you at home.”

“Why don’t you let me off here and I’ll try to see Professor Steinberger.”

“The quiet one?”

“Sometimes the quiet ones have the most to say.”

“Okay.” He pulled over next to a bus bench. Two Hispanic women in domestic’s uniforms were sitting there and they stared at us before looking away.

“Gonna walk home after that?”

“Sure, it’s only a couple of miles.”

“What an aerobicon . . . listen, if you have time and inclination, I don’t mind you talking to the other students involved in the committee, too. Maybe you won’t scare them as much as I scared Cindy.”

“I thought you did fine with her.”

He frowned. “Maybe I shoulda brought a parrot. You up for student interviews?”

“How do I locate them?”

Reaching over to the backseat, he grabbed his briefcase and swung it onto his lap, took out a sheet of paper, and gave it to me.

Xeroxed photo-ID student cards and class schedules. The reproductions were dark and blurred, turning Cindy Vespucci into a brunette. Kenneth Storm had a full face, short hair, and a sad mouth, but that’s about all you could say about him.

I folded and pocketed it. “Any rules about how I present myself?”

He thought. “Guess the truth would be fine. Anything that encourages them to talk. They’ll probably relate to you better, professorial demeanor and all that.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Professors are the ones who fail them.”

The tall, white Psychology Tower was on the outer edge of the Science Quad—maybe more
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than architectural accident—and the brick cube that housed Chemistry was its next-door neighbor.

It had been a long time since I’d been inside the chem building and then only to take an advanced psychopathology course in borrowed classroom space; back when I’d been a grad student, psychology had been the U’s most popular major and the lecture halls had overflowed with those seeking self-understanding. Twenty years later, fear of the future was the dominant motive and business administration was king.

Chemistry’s halls still oozed the vinegary reek of acetic acid and the walls were toothpaste-green, maybe a bit grimier. No one was in sight but I could hear clinking and splashing behind doors markedLABORATORY.

The directory listed two Steinbergers, Gerald and Julia, both with offices on the third floor. I took the stairs and found Julia’s.

The door was open. She was at her desk grading exams with radio soft-rock in the background, a nice-looking woman around thirty wearing a black scoop-necked sweater over a white blouse and gray wool slacks. An amber-and-old-silver necklace that looked Middle Eastern rested on her chest. She had square shoulders, an earnest face that surprised itself by bottoming out in a pointed chin, a serene mouth glossed pink, and shiny brown hair ending at her shoulders, the bangs clipped just above graceful eyebrows. Her eyes were gray, clear and unbothered as they looked up. Beautiful, really. They made her beautiful.

She marked a paper and put it aside. “Yes?”

I told her who I was, trying without success to make it sound logical, and that I’d come to discuss Hope Devane.

“Oh.” Puzzled. “Might I see some identification?” Pleasant voice, Chicago accent.

I showed her the badge. She studied my name for a long time.

“Please,” she said, handing it back, and pointing to a chair.

The office was cramped but fresh-smelling, gray-metal University issue brightened by batik wall hangings and folk-art dolls positioned among the books on the shelves. The radio rested on a windowsill behind her, next to a potted coleus. Someone singing about the freedom that love brought.

The exams were stacked high. The one she’d put aside was filled with computations and red question marks. She’d given it a B-. When she saw me looking at it, she covered it with a notebook and turned the stack over just as the phone rang.

“Hi,” she said. “Actually not right now.” Looking at me. “Maybe in fifteen. I’ll come to you.”

Pretty smile. Blush. “Me, too.”

Hanging up, she pushed away from the desk and rested her hands on her lap. “My husband’s down the hall. We usually have lunch together.”

“If it’s a bad time—”

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“No, he’s got things to do and this shouldn’t take long. So, run that by me again, I’m still intrigued. You’re on the faculty but you’re working with the police department on Hope’s murder?”

“I’m on the faculty crosstown, at the med school. I’ve done forensic work and occasionally the police ask me to consult. Hope Devane’s murder is what they call a cold case. No leads, a new detective starting from scratch. Frankly I’m a member of the court of last resort.”