Jonathan Kellerman - When The Bough Breaks

"At times. It pays the bills."

"Yes. How arrogant of me not to take that into consideration. I've never had to pay bills. My bankers do that for me. I've always had far more money than I know what to do with. It leads one to incredible ignorance. It's a common fault of the indolent rich. We're unbelievably ignorant. And inbred. It brings about psychological as well as physical aberrations."

He smiled, reached around with one arm, and tapped his hunch. "This entire campus is a haven for the offspring of the indolent, ignorant, inbred rich. Including your Doctor Willie Towle. He descends from one of the most rarefied environments you will ever find. Did you know that?"

"Being a doctor's son?"

"No, no." He dismissed me as if I were an especially stupid pupil. "He's one of the Two Hundred - you haven't heard of them?"

"No."

"Go into the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the old map of Seattle."

I did what I was told. The map was folded under several back issues of Playboy.

"Give it to me," he said impatiently. He opened it and spread it on the table. "Look here."

I stood over him. His finger pointed to a spot at the north end of the South. To a tiny island shaped like a diamond.

"Brindamoor Island. Three square miles of innately unappealing terrain upon which are situated two hundred mansions and estates to rival any found in the United States. Josiah Jedson built his first home there - a Gothic monstrosity, it was - and others of his ilk mimicked him. I have cousins who reside there - most of us are related in one way or the other - though Father built our home on the mainland, in Win demere."

"It's barely noticeable."

The island was a speck in the Pacific.

"And meant to be that way, my boy. In many of the older maps the island isn't even labeled. Of course there's no land access. The ferry makes one roundtrip from the harbor when the weather and tides permit. It's not unusual for a week or two to elapse without the trip being completed. Some of the residents own private airplanes and have landing strips on their properties. Most are content to remain in splendid isolation."

"And Dr. Towle grew up there?"

"He most certainly did. I believe the ancestral digs have been sold. He was an only son and when he moved to California there seemed no reason to hold on to it - most of the homes are far larger than homes have a right to be. Architectural dinosaurs. Frightfully expensive to maintain - even the Two Hundred have to budget nowadays. Not all had ancestors as clever as Father."

He patted his midriff in self - congratulation.

"Do you feel growing up in that kind of isolation had any effect on Dr. Towle?"

"Now you sound like a psychologist, young man."

I smiled.

"In answer to your question: most certainly. The children of the Two Hundred were an insufferably snobbish lot - and to merit that designation at Jedson College requires extraordinary chauvinism. They were clannish, self - centered, spoiled, and not overly bright. Many had deformed siblings with chronic physical or mental problems - my remark about inbreeding was meant in all seriousness - and seemed to have been left callous and indifferent by the experience, rather than the opposite."

"You're using the past tense. Don't they exist today?"

"There are amazingly few young ones left. They get a taste of the outside world and are reluctant to return to Brindamoor - it really is quite bleak, despite the indoor tennis courts and one pathetic excuse for a country club."

To stay in character I had to defend Towle.

"Professor, I don't know Doctor Towle well, but he's very well spoken of. I've met him and he seems to be a forceful man, of strong character. Isn't it possible that growing up in the type of environment you describe Brindamoor to be could increase one's individuality?"

The old man looked at me with contempt.

"Rubbish! I understand you have to pretty up his image, but you'll get nothing but the truth from me. There wasn't an individual in the bunch from Brindamoor. Young man, solitude is the nectar of individuality. Our Willie Towle had no taste for it."

"Why do you say that?"

"I cannot recall ever seeing him alone. He palled around with two other dullards from the island. The three of them pranced around like little dictators. The Three Heads of State they were called behind their backs - pretentious, puffed - up boys. Willie, Stu and Eddy."

"Stu and Eddy?"

"Yes, yes, that's what I said. Stuart Hickle and Edwin Hayden."

At the mention of those names I gave an involuntary start. I struggled to neutralize my expression, hoping the old man hadn't noticed the reaction. Happily, he appeared oblivious, as he lectured in that parched voice:

"… and Hickle was a sickly, pimple - faced rotter with a spooky disposition, not a word out of him that wasn't censored by the other two. Hayden was a mean - spirited little sneak. I caught him cheating on an exam and he attempted to bribe me out of failing him by offering to procure for me an Indian prostitute of supposedly exotic talents - can you imagine such gall, as if I were unable to fend for myself in affairs of lust!

Of course I failed him and wrote a sharp letter to his parents. Got no reply - no doubt they never read it, off on some European jaunt. Do you know what became of him?" he ended rhetorically.

"No," I lied.

"He's now a judge - in Los Angeles. In fact I believe all three of them, the glorious Heads, moved to Los Angeles. Hickle's some kind of chemist - wanted to be a doctor, just like Willie, and I believe he actually did begin medical school. But he was too stupid to pull through.

"A judge," he repeated. "What does that say about our judicial system?"

The information was pouring in fast and, like a pauper suddenly discovering a sizeable inheritance, I wasn't sure how to deal with it. I wanted to shed my cover and wring every last bit of information out of the old man, but there was the case - and my promises to Margaret - to think about.

"I'm a nasty old bugger, am I not?" crackled Van der Graaf.

"You seem very perceptive, Professor."

"Oh, do I?" He smiled craftily. "Any other tidbits I can toss your way?"

"I know Dr. Towle lost his wife and child several years back. What can you tell me about that?"

He stared at me, then refilled his glass and sipped. "All part of your story?"

"All part of fleshing out the portrait," I said. It sounded feeble.

"Ah, yes, fleshing it out. Of course. Well, it was a tragedy, no two ways about it, and your doctor was rather young to be dealing with it. He was married during his sophomore year to a lovely girl from a good Portland family. Lovely, but outside his circle - the Two Hundred tended to marry each other. The engagement came as a bit of surprise. Six months later the girl gave birth to a son and that mystery was cleared up.

"For a while the trio seemed to be breaking up - Hickle and Hayden slinked off by themselves as Willie attended to the duties of a married man. Then the wife and child were killed and the Heads were reunited. I suppose it's natural that a man will seek the comfort of friends in the wake of such a loss."

"How did it happen?"

He peered into his glass and downed the last few drops.

"The girl - the mother - was taking the child to the hospital. He'd woken up with the croup or some such ailment. The nearest emergency facility was at the Children's Orthopedic Hospital, at the University. It was in the early morning hours, still dark. Her car went over the Evergreen Bridge and plunged into the lake. It was daybreak before it was found."

"Where was Dr. Towle?"

"Studying. Burning the midnight oil. Of course this caused him to be guilt - stricken, absolutely wretched. No doubt he blamed himself for not having been there and been drowned himself. You know the type of self - flagellation embraced by the bereaved."