Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“There are some people under suspicion,” I said. “ Milo wants to know if they’re getting rich at the public trough.”

“Dear Milo. Has he lost weight?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Meaning no. Well, I haven’t either. You know what I say to constitutionally skinny people? Go away. Anyway, if you want you can give me names of these suspicious individuals, when I get back to the office I’ll run them through the computer.”

“Drew- probably Andrew- and Cherish Daney.” I spelled the surname and thanked her.

“Cherish as in I love you?”

“As in.”

“Except maybe she loves money too much?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“How many foster children can one family care for?”

“Six.”

“These people have eight.”

“Then they’re being naughty. Not that anyone’s likely to notice. There’s a shortage of what the state feels are decent homes and very few caseworkers to look into details. If nothing terrible happens, no one pays attention.”

“What comprises a decent home?” I said.

“Two parents, middle class would be great but not necessary. No felony record. Optimally, someone’s working but there’s also someone in the home to supervise.”

“The Daneys fit the bill on all accounts,” I said. “Does the state pay for homeschooling?”

“Same answer: It depends on how you fill out the forms. There’s a clothing allowance, a supplemental clothing allowance, all sorts of health care surcharges that can be tapped. What’s up, darling? Another one of those scams?”

“It’s complicated, Olivia.”

She sighed. “With you it always is.”

Fulton Seminary offered one degree, a master of divinity. According to its website, the school’s curriculum emphasized “scriptural, ministerial, and public service aspects of professional evangelical training.” Students were allowed a range of “intellectual concentrations” including Christian Leadership, Evangelical Promotion, and Program Supervision.

Several paragraphs were devoted to the school’s philosophical underpinnings: God was perfect, faith in Jesus superseded all actions, humans were depraved until saved, worship and service were essential elements of fixing a world in dire need of repair.

The campus sat on three hilly acres on Glendale ’s northern rim. A fifteen-minute ride to the motel on Chevy Chase.

I scrolled through pages of photos. Small groups of clean-cut, smiling students, rolling lawns, the same glass-fronted sixties building in every shot. No mention of an on-site cemetery.

The faculty numbered seven ministers. The dean was Reverend Doctor Crandall Wascomb, D.Theol., Ph.D., LL.D. Crandall’s picture made him out to be around sixty, with a thin face above a high, smooth dome of brow, silver-white hair that covered the top of his ears, and crinkly eyes of the exact same hue as his powder blue jacket.

I called his extension. A woman’s taped voice told me Dr. Wascomb was out of the office but he really cared about what I had to say. “Please leave a detailed message of any length and repeat your name and phone number at least once. Thank you and God Bless and have a wonderful day.”

My message was short on details but I did toss in my police affiliation. There was a good chance I’d made it sound more official than it was, but Dr. Wascomb’s training prepared him for minor transgressions.

Repeating my name and number, I hung up, reflecting on human depravity.

Just after nine p.m., Dr. Crandall Wascomb called while I was out with Allison. My service operator said, “Such a nice man,” then she gave me the number. Different from his office. It was nearly eleven but I phoned anyway and a soft-voiced woman picked up.

“Dr. Wascomb, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”

“One second.”

Seconds later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that you’re a police psychologist?”

“I consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”

“Pardon?”

A beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton alumna.”

“Alumna. A woman.”

“Cherish Daney.”

Pause. “Is Cherish all right?”

“So far.”

“So she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.

“No. Is there some reason you’d think that?”

“The police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about Cherish?”

“I’ve been asked to learn about her background- ”

“In what context?”

“It’s a bit complicated, Dr. Wascomb.”

“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t talk to you over the phone about something complicated.”

“Could we meet face-to-face?”

“To talk about Cherish.”

“Yes.”

“I must tell you, I have nothing but good things to say about Cherish. She was one of our finest students. I can’t imagine why the police would want to learn about her background.”

“Why didn’t she finish her degree?” I said. And who’s Baylord Patterman?

“Perhaps,” said Wascomb, “we should meet.”

“I’ll be happy to come to your office.”

“My office calendar’s quite full,” he said. “Let me leaf through my book… it appears as if I have one opening tomorrow. One p.m., my usual lunch break.”

“That would be fine, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting away from campus,” he said. “But it has to be somewhere close, I’ve only got forty-five minutes…”

“I know a place,” I said. “A bit south of you on Brand. Patty’s Place.”

“Patty’s Place… haven’t been there in ages. Back when the school was undergoing remodeling I’d sometimes meet there with students- did you know that, sir?”

“No,” I said. “I just like pancakes.”

Baylord Patterman pulled up five hits on Google. A Burbank-based attorney, he’d been arrested a year ago for running an insurance fraud ring that set up phony traffic accidents. The bust resulted when a fender bender on Riverside Drive turned into an air-bag disaster that killed a five-year-old girl. Patterman, his hired drivers, a couple of crooked chiropractors, and assorted clerical staff were charged with vehicular homicide. Most were pled down to white-collar crimes. Patterman ended up with a conviction for involuntary manslaughter, was disbarred, and sentenced to five years in state prison.

The Fulton Seminary connection appeared in two of the citations: Patterman was the son of a founding trustee of the school and a continuing donor to the cause. Dr. Crandall Wascomb was quoted as being “unaware and appalled” by his benefactor’s dark side.

If he was sincere, I felt sorry for him. All those years pushing virtue and he was going to be disappointed again.

My week for coffee shops.

Patty’s Place smelled of butter and eggs, meat on the grill, pancake batter, the soap-and-water breeze that accompanied a cheery young Latina waitress name-tagged Heather who said, “Anywhere you like.”

The restaurant was half-filled with serious eaters of retirement age. Big portions, tall glasses, grease on chins. To hell with the food nazis. My presence brought down the median age by a decade. I took a booth with a view of the entrance and Happy Heather brought me a mug of dangerously hot coffee unspoiled by pretentious labeling.