Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Very creative.”

“I asked him for a new computer, too, but you were cheaper. You on?”

“Fifty hours,” I said. “Does that include feeding you?”

“What do you think?”

Returning to the fridge, he came back with a slab of brownie.

“Despite your suspicions of Seacrest,” I said, “I still think you have to seriously consider a delusional stranger.”

“Why?”

“There's a cold craziness to that wound pattern. Someone with a deep hatred for women. And we know from the way she set up the committee that Hope could be heavy-handed, so who knows who she offended? In real life or on the screen. Have you checked for murders with similar wound patterns?”

“I've gone through three years of Westside cuttings and nothing matches. Tomorrow I try Wilshire Division and whoever else I can finagle into remembering. I also sent out teletypes to other jurisdictions, but so did Paz and Fellows and that brought in nothing. So are you up for meeting Seacrest, tonight? That is, if you and the little woman don't have plans- speaking of which, let me pop back and say hi to her and the pooch. I am neither sexist nor speciesist.”

As we walked through the garden to the shop, Milo stopped to look at the fish in the pond, then trudged on. His back was bowed and his arms dangled heavily. I wondered when he'd last slept well.

Robin was at her bench shaping the rosewood sides of a flattop guitar. The new maple floors were spotless except for a pile of shavings swept into one corner. Spike had been sleeping at her feet and he looked up and cocked his broad, flat head.

Milo gave him a mock-hostile look. Spike came over for a rub.

Robin held up a finger and continued clamping the sides to a mold. A dozen other instruments in various stages of repair were arranged around the room, but the project she was working on had nothing to do with business. The fire had destroyed my old Martin dreadnought along with a beautiful parlor guitar she'd built for me years ago. I bought another Martin from Mandolin Brothers in Staten Island. Replicating Robin's was her New Year's resolution.

One last clamp and she was done. Wiping her hands, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Milo's cheek, then mine. Under her apron she wore a black T-shirt and jeans and her hair was wrapped in a red bandanna. Safety goggles and a mask dangled from her neck, both coated with dust.

Spike started baying like a hound and rolled over. I kneeled and scratched his tummy and he snorted in entitlement. French bulldogs are miniature versions of the English variety but with upright bat ears, a more athletic disposition, and delusions of big-dog grandeur. The best way to describe Spike physically is a Boston terrier on steroids, but his personality's more chimp than dog. He waddled into our lives one day and stayed, deciding quickly that Robin was worth knowing and I was expendable. When he's unhappy about something he pretends to choke. Milo pretends to despise him and always brings treats.

Now he fished a sandwich bag out of his sportcoat. Dried liver.

“CanapÉ time, pancake-face.”

Spike sat motionless, Milo tossed a nugget, and the dog caught it midair, chewed, and swallowed. The two of them glared at each other. Milo rubbed his face. Spike barked. Milo muttered and gave him more liver.

“Go away and digest.”

Spike head-butted Milo's foot. Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Milo bent and petted him.

More barking and butting and feeding. Finally, Milo showed him the empty bag. Spike jumped for it, shook his head, and scattered drool.

“Enough,” said Robin. “You're increasing the humidity.”

Spike gazed up at her with big brown eyes. The Orson Welles look- genius disturbed.

“Stay,” she commanded quietly. The dog obeyed and she added, “Darling.” Slipping her arm around my waist, she said, “So what's new, Milo?”

More than just good manners. We'd talked more about the murder last night.

“Plodding along,” he said. “Thought I'd borrow Alex tonight. If you don't need him.”

“I always need him. Just make sure you return him in one piece.”

“One piece, fueled, washed, and waxed.”

After he was gone, I turned to the transcripts of the conduct committee.

The documents were red-stamped CONFIDENTIAL on each page and preceded by the University's lawyers' warning that publicizing the contents could bring civil prosecution. Next came the lawyers' assessment of blame: sole credit, Professor Hope Devane.

But two other people had sat as judges along with her: an associate professor of chemistry named Julia Steinberger, and a psychology graduate student named Casey Locking.

I turned the page. The format surprised me. Face-to-face confrontations between accuser and accused. Hope's academic version of a talk show?

Case 1:

Deborah Brittain, a nineteen-year-old sophomore French major, accused Patrick Allan Huang, an eighteen-year-old sophomore engineering major, of following her around in the college library and making “lascivious and suggestive” expressions. Huang denied any sexual interest in Brittain and said she'd “come on” to him by requesting help operating the library's search computers and repeatedly telling him how brilliant he was.

Brittain said she had indeed asked for help from Huang because “he looked like the kind of guy who'd know about computers,” and had complimented his proficiency because that was “good manners. Why can't a woman be nice without getting harassed?”

PROF. DEVANE: Any answer to that, Mr. Huang?

MR. HUANG: My answer is she's a racist, figuring an Asian guy would be a techno-geek and then taking advantage of me. She bugged me, not the opposite. Coming on all friendly, so, yeah, I asked her out. Then she shuts me down and when I don't want to be her data slave anymore she gets pissed and files on me. What a hassle and a half. I didn't come to college for this.

PROF. DEVANE: What did you go to college for?

MR. HUANG: To study engineering.

PROF. DEVANE: There's more to learning than what goes on in the classroom.

MR. HUANG: All I want to do is study and mind my own business, okay? What this is about is she's a racist.

MS. BRITTAIN: He is lying ! He offered to help. All I needed was a start, I didn't know the program, I was fine after that. But every time he saw me, he'd slither over. Then he asked me out and wouldn't take no for an answer- several times. I'm empowered to say no, right? Why should I have to put up with that? It got to a point where I didn't even want to go to the library. But I had a paper to write on MoliÈre- what's he doing there, anyway? Engineering books are in the Engineering Library. He obviously hangs around to hit on women.”

More he-said, she-said, no witnesses. Devane asking all the questions, Devane summing up- pointing out that Deborah Brittain had come to her “suffering from extreme stress.”

She affirmed Brittain's right to study anywhere she pleased, free of harassment, advised her gently to be aware of racial stereotypes that might “elicit miscommunication. Though I'm not saying that's what happened here, Ms. Brittain.”

Then she lectured Patrick Huang about respecting women's rights. Huang said he knew all that. Devane suggested he think about it, anyway, and warned him that he'd face suspension and possible expulsion if anyone else complained about him. No disciplinary actions taken.

Case 2:

A freshman English major named Cynthia Vespucci had attended a pre-Christmas-break party at the Chi Pi Omega fraternity house where she encountered a freshman business major named Kenneth Storm Jr. Recognizing him from high school, she danced with him. “Because even though most of the other guys were getting drunk and freaking out, he was a total gentleman that night.”