Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Dr. Crandall Wascomb showed up at seven after one, tugging at the knot of his tie and smoothing his white hair. He was short, very thin, wore black-rimmed eyeglasses too wide for his knife-blade face. He had on a brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, lighter brown slacks, and tan loafers. His bright blue tie stood out like a nautical spinnaker.

When his eyes found mine I gave a small wave. He came over, shook my hand, sat down.

The hair was shorter and sparser than in his official photo. His smooth dome was scored by parallel lines. I guessed him at seventy or so. He blended right in with the clientele.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Wascomb.”

“Certainly,” he said. “Do you have preset notions about evangelical Christians, Dr. Delaware?”

“When I judge people it’s by behavior not belief.”

“Good for you.” His eyes didn’t move. Bluer than in the photo. Or maybe they’d absorbed some of the necktie’s intensity. “I assume you checked into the Baylord Patterman issue.”

“I did.”

“I won’t offer excuses but I will explain. Baylord’s father was a fine man, it was he who helped us get started. That was thirty-two years ago. I’d come out from Oklahoma City, worked in the petroleum supply business before going back to school. I wanted to make an impact. Gifford Patterman was that rare man of wealth with an open, warm heart. I was naive enough to think the same applied to his son.”

Heather arrived, pad in hand.

Wascomb said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Are the flannel cakes still fabulous?”

“They’re awesome, sir.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have.”

“Full stack or half?”

“Full, butter, syrup, jelly, the works.” Wascomb flashed cream-colored dentures. “Nothing like breakfast in the afternoon to make the day seem young.”

“Something to drink, sir?”

“Hot tea- chamomile if you have it.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll try the flannel cakes, too.”

“Good choice,” said Heather. “You’re gonna love your meal.”

Wascomb didn’t watch her leave. His eyes were on his napkin.

I said, “Baylord Patterman let you down.”

“He let Fulton down. The investigation into his activities gave us a black eye because we were the largest beneficiary of his filthy lucre. You can imagine the reaction of some of our other major donors.”

“Race to the exit.”

“Stampede,” said Wascomb. “It hurt. We’re a small school, operating on a shoestring budget. I call us the seminary that does more with less. The only reason we’re able to survive is that we own the land the school sits on and maintenance costs are just about covered by a good Christian woman’s will. Baylord Patterman’s grandmother.”

His tea arrived. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his head and uttered a silent grace before sipping.

“Sorry for your problems,” I said.

“Thank you. We’re getting our head above water. Which is why I chose to meet you here rather than at the school. I simply can’t afford any more bad publicity.”

“I have no intention of giving you any.”

He studied me over his tea. “Thank you. I’m going to deal openly with you because I’m an open person. And frankly, there’s no longer any privacy. Not in the computer age. But that doesn’t mean I can talk freely about a former student without that student’s permission. Not without good reason.”

Holding on to his cup, he sat back in the booth.

I said, “What would be a good reason?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”

“I’m limited in what I can say, too, Dr. Wascomb. There are certain details the police keep to themselves.”

“So this is a homicide case?” He smiled at my surprise. “I took the liberty of researching you, Dr. Delaware. Your consultations to the police seem to center on homicide. That shocked me. I can’t imagine Cherish involved in anything criminal, let alone homicide. She’s a gentle person. As I told you, one of our finest students.”

“But she didn’t finish her degree.”

“That,” he said, “was most unfortunate. But it had nothing to do with her.”

I waited.

Wascomb looked over at the counter. Heather was standing around, talking to the cashier.

“Doctor?” I said.

“Cherish’s misfortune was somewhat similar to mine,” said Wascomb. “Vis-à-vis Baylord Patterman.”

“She had something to do with the accident scandal?”

“No, I was speaking analogously. The Bible issues repeated exhortations against keeping bad company. Cherish and I failed to heed those warnings, but I was the teacher and she was the student, so I suppose some of her error lies at my door.”

“Cherish got blamed for something a friend did.”

“Cherish was put in an uncomfortable position through no fault of her own.”

Heather brought our food. “Here it is, guys!”

Wascomb smiled up at her. “It smells wonderful, dear.”

Her left eyebrow cocked. “Enjoy.”

He uttered a silent grace, then cut his stack of hotcakes in half, sawing straight through to the bottom. Rotating the plate, he sliced again, then once more until the pile had been sectioned into eighths. Lauritz Montez would approve.

Montez and Wascomb had both chosen to minister to sinners. I supposed they couldn’t be blamed for seeking the illusion of an orderly world.

Wascomb ate with such enjoyment that it seemed a shame to interrupt him. I worked on my own plate, finally said, “Who was Cherish’s bad friend?”

He put his fork down. “This is absolutely necessary for your investigation?”

“I can’t answer that until I know, Doctor.”

“Appreciate your honesty.” He wiped his lips, removed his glasses, touched his temples with his fingertips. “Not a friend. Her husband.”

“Drew Daney.”

Slow nod.

“How’d he get her in trouble?” I said.

“Oh,” said Wascomb, as if the memory made him weary. “I had reservations about him early on. We’re small and chronically short on funds, we need to be selective in who we accept. Our typical student is an honors graduate of a respectable Bible college, trained in the evangelical tradition. Cherish was such an individual. She graduated first in her class from Viola Mercer College in Rochester, New York.”

“And Drew?”

“Drew claimed to have attended a very solid school in Virginia. In truth, he dropped out of high school. That was the extent of his education.”

“He lied on his application.”

“He falsified transcripts.” Wascomb sighed. He pushed his plate away, one-third eaten. “No doubt you think I’m a gullible fool. Or slipshod. Without sounding overly defensive, I would like to stress that this was an aberration. The vast majority of our graduates are out in the world doing the Lord’s work in an exemplary manner.”

“Drew must’ve been good to fool you.”

He smiled. “That’s very kind, sir. Yes, he did say the right things, seemed well-grounded in Scripture. As it turns out, his religious experience was limited to serving as a counselor at several Christian summer camps.”

“He learned the jargon,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“When did all this come out?”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

Precise memory. Six months after Kristal Malley’s murder.

I said, “What caused you to look into his background?”

“Someone else looked into his background,” said Wascomb. “A very angry man who claimed that Drew was committing adultery with his wife.” He winced. “A claim that turned out to be true.”

“Tell me about it.”

He shook his head. Pushed his plate away. “There are issues of respect, here. For innocent people involved- ”