The Clinic (22 page)

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 wannabe 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.”

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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 surewhat 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 thoughteverything 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 gotreally 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
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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
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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 want 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.”

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.

I introduced myself.

“Delaware—I know the name. You were involved with the Jones case, right?”

“Right,” I said, surprised. Rich defendant and a plea bargain; it had all been kept out of the papers.

“The defense called me,” he said, “when they were figuring out which place to send the bastard.

Wanted me to testify on his behalf, get him a cushy bed. I said wrong number, counselor, my wife’s an assistant D.A. and my sympathies tend to run in the other direction. Did they put him away for long?”

“Hopefully,” I said.

“Yeah, you never know when there’s money involved. So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m working with the police on another case. A psychology professor who was murdered a few months ago.”

“I remember it,” he said. “Near the U. You like criminal cases?”

“I like closure.”

“Know what you mean. So what’s my connection?”

“Tessa Bowlby. She knew the victim. Accused another student of date rape and brought him up before a sexual-conduct committee chaired by Professor Devane. We’re talking to all the
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students involved with the committee but Tessa doesn’t want to talk and her problems make me reluctant to push it.”

“Sexual-conduct committee,” he said. His tone told me Tessa had never mentioned it. Walter Bowlby had said Tessa’s involvement with Emerson was sketchy.

“I haven’t seen Tessa in a while. Which is more than I should tell you in the first place.”

“I’ve got a signed release from her father.”

“Tessa’s over eighteen so that doesn’t mean much. So what’s the theory, one of the guys called up before this committee got mad and acted out?”

“With no evidence, theories abound,” I said. “The police are looking into every possible avenue.”

“A conduct committee,” he repeated. “And Tessa actually brought charges?”

“Yes.”

“Wow . . . it wasn’t in the papers, was it?”

“No.”

“Did the process get hostile?”

“It wasn’t pleasant,” I said. “But the committee didn’t last long ’cause the U killed it.”

“And then someone killed Professor Devane. Weird. Sorry I can’t help you, but let’s just say I don’t have much to offer.”

“About Tessa or her father?”

“Both,” he said. “I wouldn’t . . . spend much time on that aspect. Now, I’ve got a patient ringing in the waiting room so let’s cut this short while our ethics remain intact.”

So much for the conduct committee.

Back to Dr. Cruvic of the curious educational history.

That institute where he’d spent a year after he’d left Washington—Brooke-Hastings. Corte Madera—just outside San Francisco. Returning to his Northern California turf.

I called Corte Madera Information for a number. Nothing. Nothing in San Francisco or Berkeley or Oakland or Palo Alto or anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.

Next question mark: the hospital where Cruvic had resumed his training, this time as an OB-GYN.

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Fidelity Medical Center in Carson.

No listing there, either.

Could the guy be a total impostor?

But UC Berkeley told me he was a member in good standing of the alumni association. Same with UC San Francisco Medical School.

So the funny stuff began after he’d received his M.D.

As I was thinking about that, Milo called. “No other murders that match, so far. Vegas is trying to get hold of Ted Barnaby, Mandy’s boyfriend, to see if he can shed light on her medical history or anything else. So far it’s no-go, they got him traced as far as Tahoe, thennada. ”

“The casino circuit,” I said.

“Yeah. Interestingly, they know Cruvic in Vegas. Comes a few times a year, somewhat of a high roller.”

“Just the kind of guy Mandy would gravitate toward.”

“No one remembers them together, but I sent Mandy’s picture to L.A. Vice to see if she had any kind of history here, and I’m planning to visit a few clubs tonight, places on the Strip where the high-priced girls are known to party.”

“Casinos, clubs. Some lifestyle.”

“Rust never sleeps, why should I? I also received a FedEx this morning, humongous packet of alibi material on Patrick Huang from his father’s law firm. Photos, menus, notarized affidavits from the maitre d’, waiters, busboys, family members.”

“Nothing like a lawyer father,” I said. “Well, that’s good, ’cause Deborah Brittain still seems nervous about him.”

“Why?”

“The experience unnerved her. Though she did admit he hasn’t bothered her since. She adored Hope, said Hope really made a big difference in her life. I also located Tessa Bowlby and learned something interesting.”

I recounted the conversations with Walter Bowlby and Dr. Emerson.

“Major psychological problems,” he said. “Think the father’s being truthful about her accusing him falsely?”

“How can you ever know? Dr. Emerson implied to me there was little value looking into it. He sounded sharp, but Tessa doesn’t see him regularly, hadn’t told him about her connection to Hope or the committee. Mr. Bowlby did seem forthcoming. Gave me the name of the Temple City detective who investigated the accusation. Gunderson.”

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“I’ll call,” he said. “False claims . . . so Muscadine could be telling the truth.”

“Even if he isn’t, I can’t see any link to Mandy Wright.”

“Leaving only Monsieur Kenny Storm, Junior, whom I’m meeting tomorrow afternoon athis dad’s office. Want to come along, check outhis psyche?”

“Sure. I also learned a few more things about Dr. Cruvic.”

I started with the cars in the clinic lot late at night, the armed guard. Multiple after-hours abortions at nine hundred dollars a throw.

“Something’s got to pay for the Bentley,” he said.

“Wait, there’s more. Cruvic’s card says “practice limited to fertility’ but he lacks formal training in fertility, and there are other irregularities in his bio. He left surgical residency at the University of Washington after only one year, took a leave of absence at a place called the Brooke-Hastings Institute, and switched to OB-GYN at a hospital in Carson—Fidelity Medical Center. I can’t find either place.”