Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“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.

“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.

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. The BEWARE 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 said RENO! 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. 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.