Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“A clinical associate with training in psychological warfare.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” I said. “So he was your bridge between town and gown.”

“That’s correct. Nothing shameful about that, is there?”

I remembered what Larry had said about Kruse treating one of the Blalock children. “Was his only connection with Mrs. Blalock a social one?”

“As far as I know. Please, Delaware, don’t make something ominous out of all this and get her involved. The department was in dire financial straits; Kruse brought substantial funds with him and promised to use his connections to obtain an ample endowment from Mrs. Blalock. He made good on that promise. In return we offered him an unpaid appointment.”

“Unpaid in terms of salary. He got lab facilities. For his pornography research. Real academic rigor.”

He flinched. “It wasn’t that simple. The department did not simply yield like a harlot. It took months to confirm his appointment. The senior faculty debated it heavily- there was significant opposition, not least of which was my own. The man was sorely lacking in academic credentials. His column in that crass magazine was positively offensive. However…”

“However, in the end, expediency won out.”

He twisted beard hairs, made them crackle. “When I heard about his… research, I realized letting him in had been an error in judgment- but one impossible to undo without creating adverse publicity.”

“So instead you made him department head.”

He continued playing with his beard. Several brittle white hairs rained down on the desk.

“Back to the Ransom dissertation,” I said. “How’d it get through departmental scrutiny?”

“Kruse came to me requesting that the experimental rule be waived for one of his students. When he told me she planned to submit a case study, I immediately refused. He was persistent, pointed out her perfect academic record. Said she was an unusually skillful clinician- for what that’s worth- and that the case she wanted to present was unique, had major research ramifications.”

“How major?”

“Publishable in a major journal. Nevertheless, he failed to sway me. But he kept pressing, buttonholing me daily, coming into my office, interrupting my work in order to argue his case. Finally, I relented.”

Finally . As in fill the coffers. I said, “When you read the dissertation, did you regret your decision?”

“I thought it was rubbish, but no different from any other clinical study. Psychology should have remained in the laboratory, true to its scientific roots, never been allowed to venture out into all that poorly defined treatment rubbish. Let the psychiatrists muck around in that kind of silliness.”

“You had no idea it was autobiographical?”

“Of course not! How could I? I never met her, except once, at her oral exam.”

“Must have been a tough exam. Kruse, you as his rubber stamp. And an outside member: Sandra Romansky. Remember her?”

“Not in the slightest. Do you know how many committees I sit on? Had I the smallest inkling of any impropriety, I would have put my foot down- you can count on that.”

Reassuring.

He said, “I was only tangentially involved.”

“How thoroughly did you read it?” I asked.

“Not thoroughly at all,” he said, as if seizing on extenuating evidence. “Believe me, Delaware, I barely skimmed the blasted thing!”

I went down to the department office, told the secretary I was working with Professor Frazier, verified that the file was missing, and called Long Island information to find the number of Forsythe College. Administration there confirmed that Sharon Jean Ransom had attended the school from 1972 through 1975. They’d never heard of Paul Peter Kruse.

I called my service for messages. Nothing from Olivia or Elmo Castelmaine. But Dr. Small and Detective Sturgis had phoned.

“The detective said don’t call him, he’ll get back to you,” the operator told me.

She giggled. “ Detective . You getting involved in something exciting, Dr. Delaware?”

“Hardly,” I said. “Just the usual.”

“Your usual’s probably a major rush compared to mine, Dr. Delaware. Have a nice day.”

One forty-three. I waited seven minutes and called Ada Small, figuring to get her between patients. She picked up the line, said, “Alex, thanks for getting back so quickly. That young woman you referred, Carmen Seeber? She came for two sessions, then didn’t show up for the third. I called her several times, finally managed to reach her at home, and tried to talk to her about it. But she was pretty defensive, insisted she was fine, didn’t need any more therapy.”

“She’s fine, all right. Shacked up with a drug addict, probably giving him every penny she owns.”

“How do you know that?”

“From the police.”

“I see.” Pause. “Well, thank you for the referral anyway. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. You did me the favor.”

“That’s all right, Alex.”

I wanted to ask her if Carmen had shed any light on D.J. Rasmussen’s death, but knew better than to try to breach confidentiality.

“I’ll try calling her next week,” she said, “but I’m not optimistic. You and I both know about the power of resistance.”

I thought of Denise Burkhalter. “All we can do is try.”

“True. Tell me, Alex, how are you doing?”

I answered too quickly: “Just dandy. Why?”

“If I’m out of line, please forgive me. But both times we’ve spoken recently, you’ve sounded… tight. Tense. On full burn.”

The phrase I’d used, in therapy, to describe the fast-track mind-set that overtook me during periods of stress. What Robin had always called hyperspace . And managed to soothe me out of…

“Just a little tired, Ada. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Another pause. “If you ever do need to toss things around, you know I’m here for you.”

“I do, Ada. Thanks and take care.”

“You, too, Alex. Take good care of yourself.”

I walked toward the north end of campus, stopping for a cup of vending-machine coffee before entering the research library.

Back to the Periodical Index. I found nothing on William Houck Vidal, other than business quotes prior to the Basket-Case Billionaire lawsuit. I backtracked and found a Time piece on the War Board Senate hearings, entitled “Hollywood Meets D.C. Amid Rumors of Scandal”- a piece I’d missed while culling Belding material.

Vidal had just made his first appearance before the committee and the magazine was trying to flesh out his background.

A headshot photo showed him with fewer wrinkles, thick blond hair. A blinding smile- the good teeth Crotty had remembered. And wise-guy eyes. Vidal was described as a “socialite who’d parlayed shrewdness, connections and more than a soupçon of charm into a lucrative motion picture consulting position.” Hollywood sources suggested it was he who’d persuaded Leland Belding to enter the movie business.

Both men had attended Stanford. As a sophomore Vidal had served as the president of a men’s club that Belding also belonged to. But their association was thought to have been casual: The future billionaire had shunned organizations, never attending a single club function.

Their working relationship was cemented in 1941: Vidal served as the “middleman” in a business deal between Belding and Blalock Industries, which supplied wartime steel to the Magna Corporation at a discount rate. Vidal introduced Leland Belding to Henry Abbot Blalock; he was perfectly positioned to do so because Blalock was his brother-in-law, married to Vidal’s sister, the former Hope Estes Vidal.