Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

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 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 marked LABORATORY.

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 B³nus;. 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-”

“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.”

“Crosstown.” She smiled. “The enemy?”

“I got my doctorate here so it's more of a case of split allegiance.”

“How do you cope at football games?”

“I ignore them.”

She laughed. “Me, too. Gerry- my husband- has become a football fanatic since we arrived. We used to be at the University of Chicago, which believe me is no great seat of athletic achievement. Anyway, I'm glad the police are still looking into Hope's murder. I'd assumed they'd given up.”

“Why's that?”

“Because after the first week or so there was nothing in the news. Isn't it true that the longer a case goes unsolved the less chance there is of success?”

“Generally.”

“What's the name of the new detective?”

I told her and she wrote it down.

“Does the fact that he's chosen not to come himself mean anything?”

“It's a combination of time pressure and strategy,” I said. “He's working the case alone and he hasn't fared well with the faculty people he's interviewed so far.”

“In what way?”

“They treat him as if he's a Neanderthal.”

“Is he?”

“Not at all.”

“Well,” she said, “I suppose as a group, we tend to be intolerant- not that we're really a group. Most of us have nothing in common beyond the patience to endure twenty-plus years of schooling. Hope and I are prime examples of that, so I don't think I'll be of much help.”

“She knew you well enough to ask you to be on the Interpersonal Conduct Committee.”

She placed her pen on the desk. “The committee. I figured it had to be that. In terms of our relationship, we'd spoken a few times before she asked me to serve but we were far from friends. How much do the police know about the committee?”

“They know its history and the fact that it was disbanded. There are also transcripts of the three cases that were heard. I noticed you didn't participate in the third.”

“That's because I resigned,” she said. “It's obvious now that the whole thing was a mistake but it took me a while to realize it.”

“Mistake in what way?”

“I think Hope's motives were pure but they led her somewhat… far afield. I thought it would be an attempt to heal, not create more conflict.”

“Did you voice your concerns to her?”

She tightened her lips and gazed up at the ceiling. “No. Hope was a complex person.”

“She wouldn't have listened?”

“I don't really know. It was just… I don't want to demean the dead. Let's just say she was strong-willed.”

“Obsessive?”

“About the mistreatment of women, definitely. Which is fine with me.”

Lifting the pen, she tapped one knee. “Sometimes passion blocks out contradictory information. So much so- and this is more your area than mine- that I found myself wondering if she had a personal history of abuse that directed her scholarship.”

The quiet one.

“Because of the extent of her passion?” I said.

She shifted in her chair, bit her lip, and nodded. Placed an index finger alongside one smooth cheek.

“I must say I feel uncomfortable suggesting that, because I don't want to trivialize Hope's commitment- to bring it down to the level of personal vindication. I'm a physical chemist, which is about as far as you get from psychoanalysis.”

She wheeled back, so her head was inches from the bookshelves. A brownish rag doll's legs extended past her right ear. She pulled it down, sat it in her lap, and played with its black string hair.

“I want you to know that I thought highly of her. She was brilliant, and committed to her ideals. Which is rarer than it should be- maybe I should explain how I got involved with the committee. Because clearly it's not going to just go away.”

“Please,” I said. “I'd appreciate that.”

Taking a deep breath, she stroked the doll. “I began college as a premed and in my sophomore year I volunteered at a battered-women's shelter on the South Side of Chicago. To get brownie points for med school and because both my parents are physicians and old-style liberals and they taught me it was noble to help people. I thought I'd heard everything around the dinner table, but the shelter opened my eyes to a whole new, terrible world. Putting it simply, I was terrified. It was one of the reasons I changed my mind about medicine.”