The Clinic (4 page)

“But we’re talking a middle-aged history professor with no record of domestic violence. No violence, period.”

“There’s always a first time,” he said.

“Any idea how he dealt with her fame?”

“No. Like I said, he’s not helpful.”

“It could have been a rough spot in their relationship: He was older, possibly more prominent academically til she wrote the book. And maybe he didn’t take well to being discussed on TV.

Though on the tapes I saw she talked about him fondly.”

“Yeah,” he said. “ “Philip’s attuned to a woman’s needs but he’s the rare exception.’ A little patronizing, maybe?”

“Another thing,” I said. “I never heard any feminist outcry about her death, or the fact that it hadn’t been solved. Maybe because she wasn’t affiliated with any feminist groups—at least I didn’t see any listed in her resume.”

“True,” he said. “A loner?”

“She did the usual committee things, joined academic societies. But nothing political. Despite the tone of the book. And speaking of the resume, one thing caught my eye: She chaired something called the Interpersonal Conduct Committee. It sounds like it might have something
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to do with sexual harassment—maybe handling complaints by students against faculty. Which could have been another source of controversy. What if she put someone’s career in jeopardy?”

“Interpersonal conduct. I never noticed that.”

“It was just a notation at the end.”

“Thanks for paying attention. Yeah, that sounds interesting. Want to do me a favor and check it out on campus? The department head hasn’t returned my calls since the first time I spoke to him.”

“Ed Gabelle?”

“Yeah, what’s he like?”

“A politician,” I said. “Sure, I’ll ask.”

“Thanks. Now let me tell you what getsme about Professor Devane. The discrepancy between what she wrote and the way she acted on TV. In the book she basically tagged all men as scum, you’d think she was a major-league man-hater. But on the tapes she comes across as a woman who likes guys. Sure she thinks we’ve got some things to work out, maybe she even pities us a little. But the overall attitude isfriendliness, Alex. She seemedcomfortable with men—more than that. I guess to me she came across as the kind of gal you could have a couple of beers with.”

“More like champagne cocktails,” I said.

“Okay, granted. And not at the Dewdrop Inn. Paneled lounge at the Bel Air Hotel. But the contrast is still dramatic. At least to me.”

“You know,” I said, “you could say the same thing about the resume. The first half was all by-the-book academic, the second was Media Star. Almost as if she were two separate people.”

“And another thing: Maybe I’m not the best judge, but to me she was sexy on the tube.

Seductive, the way she made eye contact with the camera, gave that little smile, crossed her legs, showing a little thigh. The way she said plenty by not saying anything.”

“Those could have been shrinks’ pauses. We learn to use silence to get others to open up.”

“Then she sure learned well.”

“Okay, what if she was sexy?”

“I’m wondering if she was the type to get involved in something dangerous. . . . Am I pop-psyching myself into a corner?”

“Maybe what you’re really talking about is compartmentalization. Separating aspects of her life.

Putting them in little boxes.”

“Maybe little secret boxes,” he said. “And secretscan get dangerous. On the other hand, could be we’ve got something stupid—a stone nutso who saw her on the tube and God told him to kill her. Or a psychopath out stalking blonds on the Westside and she just happened to be in the
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wrong place at the wrong time. God forbid. . . . Okay, I appreciate the time, Alex. Gonna be working late right here, if you think of anything else.”

“I’ll try Ed Gabelle on that conduct committee, call you if it gets interesting.”

“It’s already interesting,” he said. Then he cursed.

Ed Gabelle was an aggressively casual physiological psychologist with a thick thatch of gray hair, a tiny mouth, and a whiny, singsong voice that sometimes veered toward an English accent.

His specialty was creating lesions in cockroach neurons and observing the results. Lately, I’d heard, he’d been trying to get grant money to study drug abuse.

It was just after lunchtime and I found him leaving the faculty club wearing blue jeans, a denim shirt, and an outspoken yellow paisley tie.

His obligatory greeting faded fast when I told him what I wanted.

“The police, Alex?” he said, pityingly. “Why?”

“I’ve worked with them before.”

“Have you . . . well, I’m afraid I can’t help you on this. It wasn’t a departmental issue.”

“Whose was it?”

“It was . . . let’s just say Hope was somewhat of an individualist. You know what I mean—that book of hers.”

“Not well-received in the department?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m getting at. She was brilliant, I’m sure the book made her money, but she wasn’t much for . . . affiliation.”

“No time for colleagues.”

“Exactly.”

“What about students?”

“Students?” As if it were a foreign word. “I assume she had some. Well, nice seeing you, Alex.”

“The committee,” I said. “You’re telling me it was solelyher project?”

He licked his lips.

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“What was it all about, Ed?”

“I really can’t get into that. It’s a closed issue, anyway.”

“Not anymore. Murder changes everything.”

“Does it?” He began walking.

“At least tell me—”

“All I’ll tell you,” he said, stretching the whine, “is that I can’t tell you anything. Take it up with a higher power.”

“Such as?”

“The dean of students.”

When I told the dean’s secretary what I was after, her voice closed up like a fat-laden artery and she said she’d get back to me. Hanging up without getting my number, I phoned Milo again.

He said, “Ass-covering. I like it. Okay, I’ll take on the dean myself. Thanks for reading that resume so carefully.”

“That’s what you pay me for.”

He laughed, then turned serious. “So obviously Hope ruffled someone’s feathers with this committee. And speaking of ruffling, I’ve got a number for the assistant producer of the Mayhew show. Want to follow through for me so I can concentrate on persecuting academics?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Suzette Band,” he said, reading off a Hollywood exchange. “She probably won’t call back without a hassle, so feel free to be extremely annoying.”

It took five times to reach Suzette Band, but when she finally came on her voice was pleasant and amused.

“The police? One Adam Twelve, One Adam Twelve?”

Committing felony impersonation of a police officer seemed easier than explaining my precise role, so I said, “Do you remember a guest you had on last year, Professor Hope Devane?”

“Oh . . . yes, of course, that was terrible. Has her murderer been caught?”

“No.”

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“Well, please tell us when he is. We’d love to do a follow-up. I’m serious.”

Bet you are.

“I’ll do my best, Ms. Band. In the meantime, maybe you can help us. There was another guest on with Professor Devane, a man named Karl Neese—”

“What about him?”

“We’d like to speak to him.”

“Why—oh, no, youcan’t be serious.” She laughed. “That’s a scream. No, I can see why you’d—but don’t waste your time with Karl.”

“Why not?”

Long pause.

“Is this on tape or something?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Ms. Band?”

“You’re sure this isn’t being taped?”

“Positive. What’s the problem?”

“Well . . . the person you really want to speak to is Eileen Pietsch, the producer. But she’s traveling. I’ll have her office call you when—”

“Why waste time if Karl’s someone we shouldn’t worry about?”

“He really isn’t. It’s just that we . . . our show . . . Karl’s a . . .”

“Professional guest?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why shouldn’t we worry about him?”

“Listen—I shouldn’t be talking to you at all but I don’t want you making a big deal about this and getting the show bad exposure. Lord knows we’ve had plenty of that with all the bluenoses in Washington hunting for scapegoats. We feel we provide a bona fide public service.”

“And Karl was part of that?”

I heard a sigh on the other end.

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“Okay,” I said. “So he was paid to come on and be the professor’s foil.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“But he’s an actor, right? If I go through the SAG book or the agent rosters I can probably find him.”

“Look,” she said, louder. Then she sighed again. “Yes, he’s an actor. But for all I know he really does hold those views.”

“Then why shouldn’t I worry about him? Things got pretty nasty between him and Professor Devane.”

“But that was . . . boy, you don’t let up . . . okay, to be perfectly honest, Karlis a pro. But he’s a really nice guy. We’ve used him before and so have other shows. We bring guys like him on to spice things up. Especially with professors because those types can be dry. All the shows do it.

Some of the others even salt the audience. Wenever do that.”

“So you’re saying hewasn’t really hostile toward Professor Devane.”

“Of course not, he’s mellow. In fact I think we had him on our Nice Guy show a year ago—you know, finishing last and all that. He’s quite good. Adaptable. One of those faces you forget.”

“So no one remembers they’ve seen him before?”

“We stick a beard on them, or a wig. People aren’t that observant, anyway.”

“I’d still like to speak to him. Do you have a number handy?”

Another pause. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal.”

“Do I get to choose between the money and what’s behind Curtain Number Three?”

“Very funny,” she said, but the friendliness was back in her voice. “Here’s the deal: Call me as soon as you get a solve on the murder so we can have first dibs on a follow-up show, and I’ll give you Karl. Okay?”

I pretended to deliberate. “Okay.”

“Excellent—hey, maybe you can come on, too. Ace detective and all that. Do you photograph well?”

“Camera lights turn my eyes red but my fangs stay white.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You’d probably do real well. We’ve had cops on before but most of them are pretty wooden.”

“Like professors.”

“Like professors. Mostpeople are wooden without help. Or some big story to tell.”

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“I watched Professor Devane’s tape,” I said. “She seemed pretty good.”

“You know, she was. Class act. Really knew how to work the audience. It’s really terrible about what happened to her. She could have become a regular.”

Karl Neese’s number was out in the Valley but his machine said to reach him at work if it was about a part. Bo Bancroft’s Men’s Fashions on Robertson Boulevard.

I looked up the address. Between Beverly and Third, right off Designer Row. At this hour, a twenty-minute drive.

The store was closet-sized, full of mirrors, weathered Brazilian antiques painted with roses and religious icons, and racks of three-thousand-dollar suits. Disco-remixed easy listening on the sound system, two people working, both in black: a blond girl with bored eyes behind the register and Neese folding cashmere sweaters.

Since the show, the actor had let his hair grow to his shoulders and raised a prickly beard. In person, he looked younger. Pale and hungry-looking. Very long, very white fingers.

I introduced myself and told him why I was there.

He finished folding and turned around slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was, Mr. Neese.”

“You know, right after it happened I wondered if someone would call me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the show got nasty.”

“Nastier than it was supposed to get?”

“No, they paid me for nasty. “Go out and be an asshole.’ ” He laughed. “How’s that for artistic direction?”

“What else did they tell you?”

“They gave me her book, told me to read it so I’d know what she was about. Then come on like a schmuck, get on her case to the max. Not a bad gig, actually. Six months ago I was onXavier!

as an incestuous father with no remorse. Cheap beard and sunglasses and a shirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in, but even with that I kept worrying some idiot would see me on the street and take a punch.”

“You do a lot of this?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. It pays five, six hundred a throw but there’re only so many openings
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a year. Anyway, I’m not saying it’s weird for you to come by, see if I’m the big bad wolf, but I’m not. The night she was killed I was doing dinner theater out in Costa Mesa.Man of La Mancha.

Four hundred senior citizens saw me.” He smiled. “At least fuzzily. Hell, some of them might even have been sober. Here’s the producer’s number.”

He read off a 714 exchange, then said, “Too bad.”

“About what?”

“Her being killed. I didn’t like her but she was sharp, really handled my bullshit beautifully.

You’d be amazed how many can’t cope, even when they know what’s going down.”

“So she knew?”

“Of course. We never had a formal rehearsal but they did get us together before the show. In the greenroom. I told her I’d be coming on like Frankenstein with a militia card, she said fine.”

“So why didn’t you like her?”

“Because she tried to psych me out. Right before we went on. Acted friendly to me when the producer was there, all through makeup. But the minute we were alone she sidled in close to me, talking in my ear—almost seductively. Telling me she’d met plenty of actors and every one of them was screwed up psychologically. “Uncomfortable with their identities’ is the way she put it.

“Playing roles to feel in control.’ ” He chuckled. “Which is true, but who the hell wants to hear it?”

“Think she was trying to intimidate you?”

“She was definitely trying to intimidate me. And what was the point? It was all phony bullshit.

Like TV wrestling. I was the bad guy, she was the good guy. We both knew she’d be tossing my ass on the mat. So why gild the lily?”