The Clinic (30 page)

“Maybe on some fuzzy level—if she was told. Though with her intelligence true consent would be shaky. And having her sign the consent form was sleazy because she’s illiterate.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Even so,” I said. “Was Mrs. Farney evil in pushing through the procedure? Let the talking heads at the think tanks have fun with it. Like she said, we don’t have kids and she’s the one living with Chenise’s promiscuity. There’s no doubt Cruvic and Hope should have known better, but there was plenty of incentive. Nine hundred bucks for the abortion, nine more for the ligation, plus Hope’s fee and other charges.”

“Over two grand for an hour’s work. Not bad.”

“And he probably did several other procedures that night.”

“Maybe the two of them were partners and Hope was really getting a bigger cut—serving as his backup for slicing up minors. With all her book income she could have buried the payoffs.”

“And what if Mandy was connected to it somehow. . . .” I said. “Maybe Cruvic was her doctor and they got friendly. Maybe she brought him other patients—call girls, showgirls. Lots of potential abortions, there.”

“Lots of potential enemies. So why was Mandy killed?”

“She learned something she wasn’t supposed to or she messed someone up.”

Page 202

“But, then again, why’re she and Hope dead and Cruvic’s back home icing his hand?”

I had no answer.

“Whatever the specifics,” I said, “we’ve got definite evidence that Cruvic was skirting the rules.

Maybe that’s what got him kicked out of the U of Washington. So who knows what else he’s done that might have made someone angry.”

“Like what?”

“Botching someone up? Someone smarter than Darrell. He and Hope together. And in some way, Mandy was part of it.”

“But the same hitch: They’re dead and he’s . . . tell me, did he look scared to you tonight?”

“No, but maybe he’s got too much self-esteem for his own good. Or he really doesn’t realize there’s someone out there waiting for the right time to pick him off—the grand prize.”

“Patient killer?”

“If you’re right about Kathy DiNapoli,” I said, “very patient.”

He pinched his lips between thumb and forefinger.

“What?” I said.

“The shape this is taking. Waiting, stalking, long-term plans. Those wounds. Goddamn choreography.”

“Artichokes?” said the pump jockey. “Idn’t that Castroville, way over the hell up by Monterey?”

He was bowlegged and potbellied, bald on top with a manila-colored braid and matching teeth.

Chuckling, he said, “Artichokes,” again, wiped the windshield, and took my twenty.

I’d pulled off Route 5 for a fill-up just past the Grapevine, where the traffic suddenly swells like a clogged hose and fifty-car pileups are the rule when the fog sets in. This morning it was hot and hazy but visibility was okay.

I got back on the highway and continued north. My map said Higginsville was just west of Bakersfield and due south of Buena Vista Lake. A hundred miles out of L.A. and twenty degrees hotter. The land was Midwest-flat, green fields behind windbreaks of giant blue gum trees.

Strawberries, broccoli, alfalfa, lettuce, all struggling to make it in the gasoline-drenched air.

Page 203

A turn on a double-lane road took me up into highlands crowded with small ranches and shuttered roadside stands. Then down into a dry basin and a sign that readHIGGINSVILLE, POP. 1,234, over a rusting Rotary emblem. The lettering was nearly rubbed out and the sheet-metal lemon on top was corroded.

I passed a short stand of live oak and crossed a silt-filled creek bed. Then a shut-down recreational vehicle lot and a half-collapsed barn with a crackedWESTERN ATTIRE sign on the roof. One empty lot later was a two-block main drag called Lemon Boulevard filled with one-story buildings: grocery/cafe, five-and-dime, a bar, a storefront church.

Milo had called this morning and told me the local law was a sheriff named Botula. The sheriff’s station was at the end of the street, pink cinder block, with an old green Ford cruiser out in front.

Inside, a heavy, pretty, dishwater-blond girl who looked too young to vote sat behind a waist-high counter, facing a static switchboard and reading intently. Behind her, a very dark-skinned Hispanic man in a khaki uniform bent over a metal desk. A book was spread in front of him, too. He didn’t look much older than the girl.

A bell over the door tinkled, they both looked up, and he stood to six feet. He had unlined nutmeg skin and a wide Aztec mouth. His black hair was straight, thin, clipped at the sides, neatly parted, his eyes burnt almonds, eager to observe.

“Dr. Delaware? Sheriff Botula.” He came to the counter, unlatched a swinging door, and proffered a warm, firm

hand. “This is Judy, our deputy, administrator, and dispatcher.”

The girl gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look and he grinned. “And also my wife.”

“Judy Botula.” She closed the book and came over.

I read the title on the cover.Fundamentals of Evidence Collection.

Botula said, “Come on in, we’ve done a little prelim work in advance of your arrival—Judy has, actually.”

Judy Botula said, “Nothing earth-shattering.”

He said, “We’re new to this place, still acclimating.”

I walked behind the counter and took a chair alongside the desk. “How new?”

“Two months,” said Botula. “We’re each half-time, share the job.”

A mop leaned against the wall and he put it behind a file cabinet. The walls were clean and bare, free of the usual wanted posters and bulletins, and the floor was spotless, though scarred.

Judy brought her chair over and settled. She was almost as tall as her husband, with broad shoulders and a heavy bosom, the extra weight as much muscle as fat. She had on a white knit blouse, jeans, and running shoes, and a badge on her belt. Her eyes were deep blue, dramatic, a
Page 204

bit disapproving.

“We both graduated from the Criminal Justice program at Fresno State,” she said. “We want to enter the FBI Academy but it’s real competitive right now, so we figured a year or so of experience wouldn’t hurt. Not that it’s too exciting around here.”

“Nice and quiet,” said her husband.

“To say the least.”

Botula smiled. “Gives us time to study. So . . . this murder case you’ve got. We heard a little about it right after and then there was something on it today—an arrest.”

“Probably a false lead,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what Detective Sturgis said. . . . A psychologist working on homicides—is that getting more common down in L.A.?”

“No. Sometimes I work with Detective Sturgis.”

“I’m pretty interested in psychology, plan to hook up with the Behavioral Science Unit once we’re in Quantico. Ever do any serial-killer profiling?”

“No,” I said.

He nodded as if I’d said yes. “Interesting stuff. So what are you doing on this one?”

“Trying to learn as much as I can about Dr. Devane.”

“Because she was a psychologist, too?”

“Mostly because we don’t know much about her.”

“Makes sense. . . . Okay, here’s where we stand so far: After we talked to Detective Sturgis, we thought about the best way to dig something up and came up with A, town records, B, school records, and C, interviewing the old-timers. But as it turns out, all the old records were boxed and shipped up to Sacramento ten years ago and we still haven’t been able to locate them. And the schools closed down around the same time.”

“Did something happen ten years ago?”

“Yup, the place died,” said Judy. “As I’m sure you can see. It used to be lemon groves, a few locals, but mostly seasonal migrant camps and the citrus companies who owned all the stores.

Ten years ago a big frost wiped out the lemons and whatever was left was finished off by thrips, or mites, or something. The migrants moved on, the camps closed down, and instead of replanting, the companies bought land elsewhere. The locals depended on the migrants, so a bunch of them moved out, too. From what I can gather, they tried some tourist things—fruit stands, whatever, but it didn’t last long. Too far off the interstate.”

“I passed a sign claiming twelve hundred people live here,” I said.

Page 205

“Claim is right,” she said. “The sign’s an antique. Our rough count is three hundred, and a good part of those are just part-timers who come up summers to fish over by the lake. The permanents all have jobs elsewhere except for a few women who run the stores on Lemon, and their husbands have jobs elsewhere. Mostly, they’re older, so we don’t have too many kids, and whatever ones there are go to Ford City for primary and middle, then over to Bakersfield High.

So no schools.”

Hope had gone to Bakersfield for high school, so even back then it had probably been a sleepy town.

“In terms of old-timers from when your victim was a kid, most seemed to have died off, but we did manage to find a lady who might have taught her when there was a school. At least she’s old enough.”

“Might have?” I said.

Botula said, “She’s not exactly prime interview material.” He touched his temple. “Maybe it’s good you’re a psychologist.”

Judy said, “We’d go with you but it would probably hurt instead of help.”

“You’ve had problems with her?”

“We went to see her yesterday,” said Botula. “It wasn’t what you’d call productive.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Judy frowned and returned to the switchboard. It hadn’t blinked since I’d entered.

Botula walked me out. “Judy thinks the reason the lady was hostile was the race thing—our marriage.”

“You don’t?”

He looked up at the sun and put on shades. “I don’t know what makes people do the things they do. Anyway, the party’s name is Elsa Campos and her place is just up Blossom—left at the next corner.”

My surprised look made him smile. “When I said racial, you assumed she was Anglo?”

“I did.”

“Yup,” he said. “Logical. But people are people. The address is eight Blossom, but you don’t need it, you’ll know when you’re there.”

Blossom Lane had no sidewalks, just brown, weedy strips bordering ravaged road. A few twiggy lemon trees grew by the curb, dwarfed by gigantic silver-dollar eucalyptus. No tree-trimming here, either.

Page 206

The north side of the street was houses; the south, dry field. Numbers 1 through 7 were cabin courts in various stages of disrepair. Elsa Campos’s house was larger, a two-story redwood bungalow with a screen porch flanked by a pair of massive cedars. The surrounding earth was crusted hardpan without a stitch of landscaping. Seven-foot-high chain link surrounded the small property. TheBEWARE OF DOG sign on the gate was made extraneous by the pack of twenty or so barking, jumping, mewling canines lined up behind the fence.

Terriers, spaniels, a sleek red Doberman, mongrels of all shapes and sizes, something huge and black and bearish that hung back and nosed the soil.

The noise was deafening but none of them looked mean—on the contrary, tails wagged, tongues lolled, and the smaller dogs leaped gaily and scratched at the fence.

I got out of the Seville. The racket intensified and some of the dogs ran back, circled, and charged.

At least two dozen, all decently groomed and in good health. But with that many animals, there were limits to maintenance and I could smell the yard well before I got to the gate.

No bell, no lock, just a simple latch. The dogs continued to bark and leap and several of them nuzzled the links. I could see mounds of turd forming tiny hills on the bare yard but a ten-foot radius around the house had been cleared, the rake marks still evident.

I offered my hand, palm down, to one of the spaniels, and he licked it. Then a retriever mix’s tongue shot through the fence and slurped my knuckle. The Doberman ambled over, stared, walked away. Other dogs began competing for tongue space and the gate rattled. But the big black creature still held back.

As I wondered whether to enter, the front door of the screen porch opened and an old woman in a pink sweatshirt and stretch jeans came out holding a broom.

The dogs whipped around and raced to her.

She said, “Aw, get a life,” but reached into her pocket and tossed handfuls of something onto the clean dirt.

“Find it!”

The dogs scattered and began sniffing frantically around the yard. The scene looked like an early Warner Brothers cartoon. The old woman turned in my direction and came forward, dragging the broom in the dirt.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” It sounded like mimicry. Squinting, she continued to inspect me. Five seven and thin, she had black hair tied back in a waist-long braid; sunken, sallow cheeks that looked as dry as the dirt; claw hands barbecued brown, the nails thick and yellow. The sweatshirt saidRENO ! White tennies bottomed stick-legs that gave the pants no incentive to stretch.

The big black dog came over, now, in a slow, rolling gait, so hairy its eyes were hidden by pelt.

Page 207

Its head reached her waist and its tongue was the size of a hot-water bottle.

“Forget it, Leopold,” the woman said in a sandy voice. “Go work for treats like everyone else.”

The dog cocked its head just the way Spike does and looked up at her, eyes wet with melodrama.

“Nope, no way.Find it. ”

The massive head rubbed against her belt. Reminding me of something—Mrs. Green’s bullmastiff. This was my week for old women and big dogs. A deep moan escaped from beneath the hairy mouth. I could see hard muscle under black fur.

The woman looked around at the other dogs, who were still searching. Reaching into a jeans pocket, she brought out another handful—nutmeg-colored broken bits of dog biscuit.

“Find it,” she said, flinging. The dogs in the yard circled faster but the big black dog stayed put.

After another surreptitious glance, the woman pulled a whole biscuit out and stuck it hurriedly into the beast’s mouth.

“Okay, Leopold, nowget. ”

The black dog chewed contentedly, then walked away slowly.

“What is it, some kind of sheepdog?” I said.