Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“A half year before you found out about Drew, he and Cherish were involved in a murder case as part of their community service work for Fulton. Counseling a boy who’d killed a toddler. I’m sure you recall that, Dr. Wascomb.”

He blinked twice, started to speak, stopped himself.

“Sir?”

“That poor little girl.” His voice had gone hoarse. “There’s more to that? After all this time?”

“One of the boys who murdered Kristal Malley has been murdered himself.”

Wascomb winced. “Oh, my. Then I suppose I need to be forthright.” He clicked his dentures. “Drew committed adultery with one of the lawyers on that case. A defense attorney.”

“Sydney Weider.”

Nod. “It was her husband who barged into my office with medical reports, raving about the school, my incompetence, how could I train a person like that, I was a hypocrite, all ‘Bible freaks’ were nothing but hypocrites.”

He looked away from me. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Sorry,” I said. But not sorry enough to drop it. “We’re talking about Martin Boestling. A movie producer.”

“A loud man. At the time I thought him crass. After some consideration- after the shock wore off- I considered what he’d endured and felt compassion for him. I called him, tried to apologize. He was gracious, as far as that went.”

“What he’d endured,” I said. “More than adultery.”

He stared.

“You said Boestling brought medical reports. As in lab tests?”

Slow nod. “His own and his wife’s.”

“He’d been infected with something. AIDS?”

“Not that bad,” said Wascomb, “but bad enough. Gonorrhea. His wife had given it to him and Boestling claimed Drew had given it to her.”

Wascomb shook his head. “The implication, of course, was promiscuity. I took a closer look at Drew, learned of his lies, and expelled him. We’ve had no contact since then.”

“And Cherish left with him,” I said. “Because she was a dutiful wife?”

“Because she was ashamed. As I said, we’re a small community.” He fooled with his fork. “How is Cherish, nowadays? Are they still together?”

“They are.”

“Has Drew repented?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I always hoped she’d find peace… now you’re here asking questions about her.”

“They may come to nothing, sir.”

“Is she… has she maintained herself as a woman of character, Dr. Delaware? Or has Drew’s influence polluted her soul?”

If you only knew. I said, “From what I can tell, she continues to do good works.”

“And him? What’s he up to?”

“The same.”

His eyes got flinty. “There’s a lesson for you, Dr. Delaware. Judging behavior isn’t always sufficient. It’s what’s beneath the surface that matters.”

“How do you measure that, sir?”

“You don’t,” he said. “ We don’t.”

He got up to leave. “ God does the measuring.”

“One more question, Dr. Wascomb. Cherish told me Troy Turner was buried on the grounds of your school.”

He placed a hand on the table, as if needing support. “That’s partially true.”

“How so?”

“Cherish asked me- begged me. We’ve got a small cemetery in San Bernardino. For faculty and indigent individuals recommended by donors and other trustworthy people. We view it as a community service.”

“Cherish qualified as a trustworthy person.”

“She still does, Dr. Delaware, unless there’s something you tell me that suggests otherwise.”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “Affording that boy hallowed ground was compassion for the sinner. After some deliberation I felt it would be appropriate. We provided the boy with a service.”

“Who attended?”

“Cherish and myself and my wife.”

“Not Drew.”

“Drew, as well,” he said. “He wanted to lead the service. I decided to do it myself.”

“What about Troy’s mother?”

“No,” said Wascomb. “Cherish said she had tried to reach the woman but was unable. I remember the day. Late spring, nice weather, the air was clean. Small coffin, it barely made a sound as they lowered it into the ground.” He placed money on the table.

I said, “On me.”

“No, I won’t hear of it.”

“Split check, then.”

“All right.” He smiled at me.

“Sorry if this was upsetting, Dr. Wascomb.”

“No, no, you’re doing important work.” He turned to leave, stopped. Touched my shoulder. “The boy did a terrible thing, Dr. Delaware, but you’d never know it to look at that coffin.”

Heather came by and eyed Wascomb’s uneaten food. “Do you want a doggy bag?”

“No, thanks.”

She followed Wascomb’s slow walk out the door. “He barely touched his food. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Is he your dad?”

“No,” I said. I handed her the total plus ten bucks. “Keep the change.” Big smile.

“Were you working yesterday?”

“Here?” she said. “I think so. Yeah, yesterday I was here.”

“Working two jobs?”

“Three. Here, KFC after five, and then Thursday and Friday nights I babysit for an emergency room doctor at Glendale Memorial.”

“Tough schedule.”

“That’s what my dad says. He keeps bugging me to quit something and have some fun.” She stuck her tongue out. “I’m saving up for fashion school.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Yesterday morning, around nine, did you notice a couple who came in for breakfast? She had long blond hair; he was tall and wore a leather cowboy hat.”

“Them,” she said. “Sure. I served them. I remember him because he reminded me of this actor my dad used to like. Peter… Peter something.”

“Fonda?”

“That’s it. There’s this real old movie my dad watches over and over. It’s got Jack Nicholson in it but he’s a lot younger and skinnier.”

“ Easy Rider. ”

“Uh huh. Jack and some other guy and the other guy- Peter- they’re like biker hippies.” She giggled. “Peter’s kind of a cutie if you go for that retro hippie thing. That’s what that guy- the guy with the hat- reminded me of.”

“Retro.”

“Lost in the sixties. His hair was like down his back and his shirt had snaps on it. Which gave me an idea for a dress. Cowboy Punk thing.”

“Original.”

“Thanks. How come you’re asking about them?”

“I work with the police.”

Her eyes got huge. “You’re a cop?”

“Consultant.”

“Wow,” she said. “They did something nasty?”

“They’re just people we’re interested in.”

“Like witnesses?”

“Something like that. Is there anything you remember about them?”

“Not really. They didn’t talk much.”

“To each other?”

“To each other or me. I’m a real motormouth, like you can’t tell. I’m always talking to the customers, it makes them feel you’re interested in them and it pays off in the tips department. Didn’t work with those two, they just sat there, like they were having a fight.”

“They eat?”

“They ordered but only he ate. Bacon and eggs. She asked for a sweet roll and milk but she didn’t touch it- like that old guy you were with. I figured there wouldn’t be much payoff and I was right. Ten percent tip, which is old. She paid.”

“Overhear any conversation?”

“There wasn’t any that I saw.”

“Have they been here before?”

“Once before,” she said. “Last week. Lauren served them. It was dinnertime and I was going off shift.”

“When last week?”

“Let’s see.” She pressed a finger to her lower lip. “Lauren works Tuesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and it wasn’t Friday because I’m off Friday and it wasn’t Tuesday because she called in sick Tuesday because her boyfriend got tickets to the Jason Mraz concert.” She stopped for breath. “Had to be Thursday.”