Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

Not a clinician, so no need for a state license. That made checking with the Board of Psychology for disciplinary actions a waste of time. I called anyway. Zero.

I tried a pocketful of area codes for residential listings for Dr. Benjamin J. Dugger. Nothing. Scanning his name on the Internet pulled up only the same abstract of the Cambridge paper, which I reread.

Jargon and numbers and high-powered statistics, the arcane nutrients of tenure. Nothing remotely sexy.

Still, it had been Dugger’s number listed in Lauren’s book, and as much as I disliked de Maartens, that made Dugger the prime candidate for “Dr. D.” And he’d been running his ad during the time Shawna Yeager disappeared. Milo was probably right about there being no link between the cases, but still…

I thought about it some more. Dugger’s bio was about as provocative as the owner’s manual for a plow.

Weaker than weak.

I reread the bio and something shot out at me.

Two time lapses: ten years between his bachelor’s degree and his doctorate, another two between finishing school and taking his first job.

Nice first job. Most new Ph.D.’s enter the job market burdened by debt and are forced to accept temporary lectureships and entry-level slots. Benjamin J. Dugger had disappeared for two years, only to return in an executive position.

Offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood. A company sufficiently capitalized to offer free services. And what did personal-space research have to do with battered women?

It added up to money.

Some college profs are independently wealthy.

Simon de Maartens’s hostility made me wonder about his financial situation. Time to learn more about both Dr. D’s.

The Ovid files at the U’s research library spit out forty-five publications for de Maartens, all on the psychophysics of vision in primates. He was thirty-three, and there were no lapses in his professional life: B.A. at twenty from Leiden University in the Netherlands, Oxford doctorate in experimental psychology at twenty-five, two-year postdoc at Harvard, where he served a three-year lectureship, then assistant professorship at the U and fast-track promotion two years later to associate. The usual society memberships and more than a handful of academic honors, including a grant and a service award from the Braille Institute – perhaps his chimp research offered human possibilities.

Benjamin J. Dugger had been less prolific: five articles, none more recent than two years ago, all in the same dry vein. The last three had been coauthored with Barbara Buffington and Monique Lindquist, the first two had been solos – summaries of Dugger’s first-year graduate research study and dissertation: measuring personal space in hooded rats subjected to varying degrees of social deprivation. The dates allowed me to fix his graduate studies as beginning four years prior to receiving his Ph.D. That still left a six-year question mark between Clark University and Chicago.

Having nowhere else to go, I phoned both institutions and verified his degrees with the alumni associations. So far, nothing suspicious. Why should there be? I was groping.

Thinking about Lauren’s body tumbling out of the Dumpster, I called Chicago again and asked for Professor Buffington or Lindquist. The former was on sabbatical in Hawaii, but a woman answered Lindquist’s extension with a high, bright “This is Monique.”

“Professor, this is Mr. Lew Holmes from Western News Service. We’ve come across an article about some work you and your colleagues did on personal space and were wondering if one of you could talk to us about a piece we’re putting together on dating in the nineties.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, laughing. “That research was pretty esoteric – lots of math, nothing about dating. Where’d you come across it?”

“It came up on our database,” I said. “So you don’t think you can help?”

“I think if you wrote about our research your readers would fall asleep.”

“Oh. Too bad. Sorry for bothering you, and I guess I won’t follow up on Professor Dugger.”

“Professor – Oh, Ben. No, I doubt he could help you either.”

“Double too-bad,” I said. “We’re a California-based news service, and our clients are always looking for local sources to quote. With Professor Dugger being out here, it would’ve worked out great.”

“I don’t want to speak for Ben, but I doubt he could illuminate you either.”

“Well, let me ask you this, Professor, are you doing any other research that might be of interest to our clients?”

“No, sorry. But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone wanting the attention. Especially out in California. Bye-”

“What about Professor Dugger? Would he be doing anything else that might be interesting?”

“As in sex? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Well,” I said, “you know how it is.”

“I sure do. In terms of Ben Dugger’s recent work, I have no idea what he’s been up to. It’s been a while since we worked together.”

Matter-of-fact, no rancor.

“Maybe I’ll give him a shot,” I said. “I’ve got him in Newport Beach and Brentwood.” I read off the addresses. “This firm he’s got – Motivational Associates. What are they into, advertising?”

“Market research.” She laughed again.

“Something funny, Professor?”

“You’re out for the sex angle – like every other reporter. If that’s what you want from Ben Dugger, don’t count on it.”

“Why’s that, Professor?”

“That’s… all I have to say. Bye, now.”

“Some kind of hang-up?” said Milo. “Sounds more like he’s a prude.”

“There’s something there,” I said.

“She didn’t imply anything nasty.”

“No,” I admitted. “She was lighthearted. Like it was some kind of in-joke.”

“So maybe the guy’s a Catholic priest or something.”

“That wasn’t in his bio.”

He grunted over the phone. It was nearly noon. He’d taken two hours to return my call. Andrew Salander had verified that Lauren had owned a Toshiba laptop. After that Milo’d been tied up at the morgue, watching Lauren’s autopsy. The coroner had found no evidence of sexual assault – of any recent intercourse. No illness, surgery, scarring, or drug use. The preliminary finding was that the first bullet fired into Lauren’s brain stem – a 9 mm – had shut off her life functions nearly instantly. Until that second, a healthy girl.

“So she probably didn’t suffer,” he said. “I called her mom and told her she definitely didn’t. Woman sounds as if she’s been hollowed out and left to dry… So de Maartens is an uppity putz and Dugger doesn’t like to talk about sex.”

“Dugger may also have money.” I gave him the logic on that.

“If I had to choose, I’d say press the Dutch guy ’cause he got hostile. If you’re up to that, fine.”

“If I show up at his door, he’ll slam it. I told him the police would probably be stopping by.”

“Promises, promises. I’ll try to get to it eventually. So far, no record of any cab or limo making a pickup in the vicinity of Lauren’s apartment. Her broker in Seattle knows her only as a voice over the phone. She cold-called him a few years ago, said she had money to invest. Which is a switch, usually it’s the salesmen who call, so needless to say he didn’t argue. He said Lauren did her homework about the market, knew what she wanted but was willing to listen to advice. Overall impression: smart. He was surprised to learn she was only twenty-five, figured her for a good ten years older.”

“What did he say she wanted?”

“Blue-chip funds, and she was patient enough to hold. He figured her for a high-income lawyer or some other executive type. I put two uniforms on the door-to-door, a couple of people think they remember her vaguely from the neighborhood – jogging, driving around in her convertible – but no one saw her getting picked up. Not the day she disappeared or any other time. I got hold of six months’ worth of phone records. She actually used the horn very little. Talked to her mom every couple of weeks – the last call was two days before she disappeared. Nothing to Lyle – no surprise. The only things that did look interesting were five calls over the last two months to the same number in Malibu. Turns out to be a pay phone in Point Dume.”