Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

“You did see him this last September eighth, though.”

“I was giving a lecture and he interrupted me. It wasn’t a conversation.”

As Cassandra Spitz had said. “What happened twenty years ago?”

“I served as an expert witness at a trial involving him.”

“The Donna Zhao case.”

A beat. “Yes. That’s become relevant again?”

“There were two trials, criminal and civil. Which were you a part of?”

“Civil.”

“Did you testify for the defense or the plaintiffs?”

“The plaintiffs hired me,” he said. “The testimony I gave was impartial.”

“Of course,” I said. “Can I ask what your testimony concerned?”

Delaware said, “Much as I’d like to get into this right now, we’re going to have to stop. My patient’s here.”

“I can try you back in an hour.”

“No can do, Deputy. I’m swamped.”

“Tonight, then.”

“I have dinner plans,” he said.

I said, “Dr. Delaware, are you aware that Walter Rennert is dead?”

Another beat, longer.

“I see,” he said. “Not a natural death?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “When did it happen?”

“Shortly after you two had your reunion.”

Now he had me answering questions. This guy was subtle.

I said, “I’m trying to get a sense of Dr. Rennert’s last few hours, and it’s looking like you were the last person to see or speak to him. I could really use your help in understanding what transpired that night.”

“Let me... I’m free to talk tomorrow between three and three thirty.”

“That works.”

“Or — you know what,” he said. “As it so happens, I’m headed north again in a few days. We could meet in person, if you prefer.”

Face-to-face almost always beats phone — body language, facial expressions, so forth. I’ve also found that, once people sit down with you, a kind of social glue sets in, and they open up more readily.

Or: Dr. A. Delaware, master forensic psychologist, wanting to check out my nonverbals, use his shrinky Jedi mind tricks to control the situation.

Or this was just a stall, giving himself time to come up with an unimpeachable story.

Other than a weird feeling, though, I had no cause to suspect him of wrongdoing.

Keep it cordial. “That’d be great, thanks.”

This time, he was booked in the city, at a hotel on Nob Hill. We arranged to meet in the bar.

Before we got off, he said, “I really am sorry to hear about Walter. We had our differences, but I always got the sense that he was basically a decent guy.”

Those differences were what I wanted to know about.

I said, “See you Thursday.”

Traffic into San Francisco was compliant, and I arrived at Delaware’s hotel with a few minutes to spare, staking out a lobby sofa that afforded a view of both the bar and the elevator. A jazz quartet played some song that was no doubt famous long ago. No clue. I’m tone deaf. I’m not even sure it was jazz.

I’d done a bit more digging on Delaware, found an undated hospital faculty headshot. Had to be an old photo. I saw a young man with pale, searching eyes, a square jaw, and a wide, straight mouth, all that symmetry topped by a loose mop of curly dark hair.

No reason to update it? A little Southern California vanity?

When he finally stepped from the elevator, I almost didn’t recognize him, because I was expecting someone who did not resemble the guy in the picture, which he did.

Aside from some gray flecks, a slight deepening of lines, he was the same person, middle height and solidly built, wearing a black turtleneck over black slacks. He must have a great plastic surgeon.

I watched him head for the bar. He placed his order, turned and leaned back, elbows up. Before leaving the office, I’d changed into street clothes, and as he scanned the lobby, his gaze passed over me without pausing.

His drink arrived. Drinks, plural.

Needing to steady his nerves?

He put down cash and took both glasses, walking slowly to avoid spilling.

Coming straight toward me.

At that pace it took him a good thirty seconds to reach me, allowing me ample opportunity to wonder how he’d spotted me.

He set the drinks on the end table and eased into an armchair.

“I’m that obvious,” I said.

He shrugged. “I know a lot of cops.”

He slid me one of the glasses, tall and clear, a lime wedge spiked on the rim. “Fizzy water okay?”

“Great. Thanks.”

He’d kept for himself a squat tumbler, a glistening sphere of ice lolling in amber liquid. He sipped. “I assume you’re working and don’t want anything harder. If you do, though, caveat emptor.” Jostling the ice ball, he smiled. “Eighteen bucks for Chivas?”

“How much for fizzy water?”

“Don’t ask.” He took a second sip, observing me through pale eyes, blue fading into gray, steady and devoid of anxiety. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”

Blameless. Or a psychopath.

“Let’s start with the night of the conference,” I said. “In your words.”

“I was scheduled to speak for an hour. Midway through, a man slips in at the back. I noticed he looked a bit fidgety, but no cause for alarm. People change their minds all the time, switch seminars. I kept going. He stands there a few minutes, then comes running up the aisle.”

“At you?”

“Scratch that,” Delaware said. “ Run ’s not the right word. He could hardly stand. He tripped over a chair leg and went down on the carpet.”

The memory seemed to sadden him. “People tried to help him up, but he shook them off and planted himself in front of the lectern. ‘Delaware...’ ” Wagging a finger. “ ‘Delaware, I forgive you.’ That’s when I realized who he was. I’m amazed I did, given how long it’s been.”

“Why would you need his forgiveness?”

“I don’t,” he said. “That’s what I told him. ‘Please, let’s not do this right here. There’s no need.’ In his mind, though? I don’t suppose he had any love lost for me. I heard he ended up losing his job.”

“He did.”

“Terrible situation. For so many people.” He sipped. “Put it in context, Deputy: I testify all the time. I’ve made people angry. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“So why was Rennert focused on you?”

“ Was he focused on me?” Delaware asked. “Or just drunk and deteriorated and seizing the opportunity because I happened to be in town?”

That stopped me short. “I don’t know.”

“It was a long trial,” he said. “Lots of moving parts, teams of witnesses on both sides. Including, I presume, other psychologists. Have you talked to them?”

I said I hadn’t.

“A child custody case, fine,” he said. “People resolve not to mess their kids up, but often they do, and it gets ugly. Personal. But with Rennert, nothing I did or said should’ve inspired any special resentment. I’m not one of those guys who gets inventive on the stand. I tell lawyers that at the outset. More often than not, they hire someone else.”

“But not on this one.”

“They wanted a qualified opinion on a single, narrow issue. I gave mine. I doubt I made or broke anything. And it’s not as though Rennert tried to contact me before. So I find it hard to believe he’s had it out for me all these years.”

He smiled. “On the other hand, I could be in denial.”

His take on Rennert’s state of mind made sense to me. The iPhone calendar had Rennert playing tennis the morning of the lecture. I pictured him leaving his club, noticing the hotel marquee. I imagined the mix of delight and dread. A psych conference, going on right now, right in his front yard.