Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Six years ago.”

“That’s before my time. I didn’t start there until a year ago.”

“This patient had multiple disabilities, needed chronic care. She could very well have been there a year ago.”

“Name?”

“Shirlee Ransom, two e’s in Shirlee.”

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell- not that that means much. I wasn’t doing any casework, just paper shuffling. What ward was she in?”

“One of the private rooms- back of the building.”

“Then I certainly can’t help you, Doctor. I worked only with the Medi-Cal cases, trying to get the billing system in shape.”

I thought for a moment. “She had an attendant, a man named Elmo. Black, muscular.”

“Elmo Castelmaine.”

“You know him?”

“After Resthaven closed he came to work for me at Adventist. A very fine man. Unfortunately we had budgetary problems and had to let him go- he didn’t have enough formal education to satisfy Personnel.”

“Do you have any idea where he’s working now?”

“After the layoff he got a job at an old-age home in the Fairfax area. I have no idea if he’s still there.”

“Do you recall the name of that place?”

“No, but hold on. He’s in my Rolodex. He was such a nice man, I’d planned to keep in touch with him in case something came up. Ah, here it is: Elmo Castelmaine, King Solomon Gardens, Edinburgh Street.”

I copied down the address and number and said, “Mrs. Melamed, when did Resthaven close?”

“Six months ago.”

“What kind of a place was it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Who ran it?”

“A corporation. National outfit called ChroniCare- they owned a string of similar places all over the West Coast. Fancy-looking operation, but they never got their act together running Resthaven.”

“Clinically?”

“Administratively. Clinically they were adequate. Not the best, but far from the worst. Business-wise, the place was a disaster. Their billing system was a complete mess. They hired incompetent clerical help, never even came close to recovering most of the money the state owed them. I was brought in to straighten it out, but it was an impossible assignment. There was no one to talk to- the home office was out in El Segundo; nobody ever returned calls. It was as if they really didn’t care about turning a profit.”

“After it closed, where did the patients go?”

“Other hospitals, I suppose. I quit before that.”

“El Segundo,” I said. “Do you know if they were owned by a larger corporation?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she said. “Nowadays everything is.”

I thanked her, called my broker, Lou Cestare, in Oregon, and confirmed that ChroniCare was a subsidiary of the Magna Corporation.

“But forget about buying in, Alex. They never went public. Magna never does.”

We chatted a while; then I signed off and phoned King Solomon Gardens. The receptionist confirmed that Elmo Castelmaine still worked there. But he was busy with a patient, couldn’t come to the phone right then. I left a message for him to call me regarding Shirlee Ransom and set out for campus.

I got to Milton Frazier’s office by two. The Office Hours card on the door was blank. A knock produced no response, but the door was unlocked. I opened it to find the Ratman, wearing a stiff tweed suit and rimless half-glasses, hunched over his desk, using a yellow felt-tip pen to underline sections of a manuscript. The window shades were partially drawn, giving the room a sallow cast. Frazier’s beard was disheveled, as if he’d been picking at it.

My “Hello, Professor” produced a scowl and a wave of his hand that could have meant anything from Come In to Get the Hell Out of Here.

A stiff-backed chair faced the desk. I sat down and waited as Frazier continued to underline, using graceless slashing movements. The desk was stacked high with more manuscripts. I leaned forward and read the title of the one on top. A textbook chapter.

He edited; I bided my time. The office had beige walls, a dozen or so diplomas and certificates, double-stacked metal bookshelves over cracked vinyl flooring. No custom interior design for this department head. Lined up on one of the shelves was a collection of glass beakers- animal brains floating in formaldehyde. The place smelled of old paper and wet rodent.

I waited for a long time. Frazier finished with one manuscript, lifted another from the stack, and began working on it. He made more yellow marks, shook his head, twisted his beard hairs, showed no intention of stopping.

“Alex Delaware,” I said. “Class of ’74.”

He sat up sharply, stared at me, straightened his lapels. His shirt bagged; his tie was a hand-painted horror just ancient enough to have come back into fashion.

He studied me. “Hmm. Delaware. Can’t say that I remember.”

A lie, but I let it pass.

“I thought you were a student,” he said. As if that explained his ignoring me. Eyes back on the manuscript, he added, “If it’s an associateship you’re after, it will have to wait. I’m not seeing anyone without an appointment. Publisher’s deadline.”

“New book?”

Headshake. “Revised edition of Paradigms .” Slash, flip.

Paradigms of Vertebrate Learning . For thirty years, his claim to fame.

“Tenth edition,” he added.

“Congratulations.”

“Yes, well, I suppose congratulations are in order. However, one almost regrets obligating oneself to a new edition when the onerousness of the task becomes apparent- strident demands by commercially motivated publishers to include new chapters, regardless of the lack of rigor with which they are obtained or the coherence with which they are presented.”

He slapped the stack of chapters. “Enduring all this rubbish has shown me just how low standards have sunk. The American psychologist trained after 1960 hasn’t a clue about proper research design, nor the ability to construct a grammatical sentence.”

I nodded. “Damned shame when standards sink. All sorts of strange things start to happen.”

He looked up, annoyed, but listening.

I said, “Strange things like an unqualified attention-seeker making department head.”

The marker froze, midair. He tried to stare me down but his eye contact was spotty. “Given the circumstances, that’s an exceptionally rude remark.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

“Exactly what’s on your mind, Doctor?”

“How Kruse managed to bend all the rules.”

“This is in exceedingly poor taste. What’s your concern with all this?”

“Call me a concerned alumnus.”

He sucked his teeth. “Any complaints you may have had against Professor Kruse have been rendered moot by his untimely death. If, as you contend, you’re truly concerned about the department, you won’t occupy my time or anyone else’s on trivial personal matters. We’re all frightfully busy- this whole horrid affair has greatly disrupted the scheme of things.”

“I’ll bet it has. Especially for those members of the faculty who’d counted on all that Blalock money. Kruse’s death has put all of you in jeopardy.”

He put the marker down, fought to keep his hand steady.

I said, “With the rug pulled out from under you, I can see why you’d have to get that tenth edition rolling.”

Moving stiffly, robotically, he leaned back in his chair, trying to look casual but coming across deflated. “You think you’re such a bright boy, don’t you? Always did. Always barreling your way through everything-‘doing your own thing.’ ”

“And here I thought you didn’t remember.”

“Your rudeness jogged my memory, young man. I recall you quite clearly now- the precocious three-year man . In case you don’t know, I was opposed to letting you finish early, even though you completed your requirements. I sensed that you needed seasoning. Maturity. Obviously the passage of time alone hasn’t solved that problem.”