Devil's Waltz

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I’ll be moving around. How about if I get back to you?”

  “Certainly, Doctor. Have a nice—”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “As long as we’re talking, could you give me some information on the institute? For purposes of my own research?”

  “What would you like to know, Dr. Schweitzer?”

  “What kinds of projects do you prefer to fund?”

  “That would be a technical question, sir,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, either.”

  “Is there some kind of brochure you could send me? A list of previous studies you’ve funded?”

  “I’m afraid not— we’re a fairly young agency.”

  “Really? How young?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Another long break. More Muzak, then she was back.

  “Sorry for taking so long, Doctor, and I’m afraid I can’t stay with you— I’ve got several other incoming calls. Why don’t you get back to us with all your questions. I’m sure the right person will be able to help you.”

  “The right person,” I said.

  “Exactly,” she said with sudden cheer. “Have a nice day, Doctor.”

  Click.

  I called back. The line was busy. I asked the operator to put through an emergency interruption, and waited until she came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, sir, that number’s out of order.”

  I sat there, still hearing the pleasant voice.

  Smooth . . . well rehearsed.

  One word she’d used jumped out at me.

  “We’re a fairly young agency.”

  Odd way to describe a private foundation.

  Virginia . . . anything down there always spells government to me.

  I tried the number again. Still off the hook. Checked my notes for the other study the institute had funded.

  Zimberg, Walter William. University of Maryland, Baltimore.

  Something to do with statistics in scientific research.

  The med school? Mathematics? Public health?

  I got the university’s number and called it. No Zimbergs on the medical school faculty. Same at the math department.

  At Public Health a male voice answered.

  “Professor Zimberg, please.”

  “Zimberg? No such person here.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I must have gotten the wrong information. Do you have a faculty roster handy?”

  “One moment . . . I’ve got a Professor Walter Zimberg but he’s in the Department of Economics.”

  “Could you please connect me to his office?”

  Click. Female voice: “Economics.”

  “Professor Zimberg, please.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Click. Another female voice: “Professor Zimberg’s office.”

  “Professor Zimberg, please.”

  “I’m afraid he’s out of town, sir.”

  I threw out a guess: “Is he over in Washington?”

  “Um . . . Who is this, please?”

  “Professor Schweitzer, an old colleague. Is Wal— Professor Zimberg at the convention?”

  “What convention is that, sir?”

  “National Association of Biostatisticians— over at the Capital Hilton? I heard he was going to present some new data on non-parametrics. The study the Ferris Dixon Institute’s funding.”

  “I’m— The professor should be calling in soon, sir. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have him get back to you.”

  “Appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’m about to hop on a plane myself. That’s why I didn’t make the convention. Did the professor write up an abstract on his paper before he left? Something I could read when I get back?”

  “You’d have to talk to the professor about that.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Actually,” she said, “the professor’s on sabbatical.”

  “No kidding? I didn’t hear that. . . . Well, he’s due, isn’t he? Where’s he off to?”

  “Various places, Professor . . .”

  “Schweitzer.”

  “Various places, Professor Schweitzer. However, as I said, he does call in frequently. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have him get back to you.”

  Repeating, almost word for word, what she’d just said a minute ago.

  Word for word what another friendly female voice had said, five minutes ago, speaking from the hallowed offices of the Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research.

  25

  To hell with Alexander Graham Bell.

  I drove back to some hallowed halls I could see and touch.

  There was one parking meter free near the university administration building. I went to the registrar’s office and asked an Indian clerk in a peach-colored sari to look up Dawn Kent Herbert.

  “Sorry, sir, we don’t give out personal information.”

  I flashed my clinical faculty card from the med school across town. “I don’t want anything personal— just need to know in which department she’s enrolled. It has to do with a job. Verification of education.”

  The clerk read the card, had me repeat Herbert’s name, and walked away.

  A moment later she returned. “I show her as a graduate student in the School of Public Health, sir. But her enrollment’s been terminated.”

  I knew Public Health was in the Health Sciences building, but I’d never actually been there. Shoving more money in the meter, I headed toward south campus, passing the Psych building, where I’d learned to train rats and listen with the third ear, crossing the Science quad, and entering the Center at the west end, near the Dental School.

  The long hall that led to Public Health was a quick jog from the library, where I’d just studied Ashmore’s academic history. Walls on both sides were lined with group photos of every class the medical school had graduated. Brand-new doctors looking like kids. The white-coats milling in the halls seemed just as young. By the time I reached the School of Public Health, the corridor had quieted. A woman was leaving the main office. I caught the door for her and stepped in.

  Another counter, another clerk working in cramped space. This one was very young, black, with straightened hennaed hair and a smile that seemed real. She wore a fuzzy lime-green sweater with a yellow-and-pink parrot embroidered on it. The bird was smiling too.

  “I’m Dr. Delaware from Western Pediatric Hospital. One of your graduate students worked at our hospital and I’d like to know who her faculty adviser is.”

  “Oh, sure. Her name, please.”

  “Dawn Herbert.”

  No reaction. “What department is she in?”

  “Public Health.”

  The smile broadened. “This is the School of Public Health, Doctor. We have several departments, each with its own faculty.” She lifted a brochure from a stack near my elbow, opened it and pointed to the table of contents.

  DEPARTMENTS OF THE SCHOOL

  BIOSTATISTICS

  COMMUNITY HEALTH SCIENCES

  ENVIRONMENTAL HEALTH SCIENCES

  ENVIRONMENTAL SCIENCE AND ENGINEERING

  EPIDEMIOLOGY

  HEALTH SERVICES

  Thinking of the kind of work Ashmore had done, I said, “Either Biostatistics or Epidemiology.”

  She went to the files and pulled down a blue fabric loose-leaf folder. The spine was lettered BIOSTAT.

  “Yes, here we go. She’s in the Ph.D. program in Biostat and her adviser’s Dr. Yanosh.”

  “Where can I find Dr. Yanosh?”

  “One floor down— office B-three-forty-five. Would you like me to call and see if she’s in?”

  “Please.”

  She picked up a phone and punched an extension. “Dr. Yanosh? Hi. Merilee here. There’s a doctor from some hospital wanting to talk to you about one of your students . . . Dawn Herbert . . . Oh . . . Sure.” Frowning. “What was your name again, sir?”

  “Delaware. From Western Pediatric Medical Center.”

&nb
sp; She repeated that into the receiver. “Yes, of course, Dr. Yanosh . . . Could I see some identification, please, Dr. Delaware?”

  Out came the faculty card again.

  “Yes, he does, Dr. Yanosh.” Spelling my name. “Okay, Doctor, I’ll tell him.”

  Hanging up, she said, “She doesn’t have much time but she can see you right now.” Sounding angry.

  As I opened the door, she said, “She was murdered?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s really ugly.”

  • • •

  There was an elevator just past the office, next to a darkened lecture hall. I rode it down one flight. B-345 was a few doors to the left.

  Closed and locked. A slide-in sign said ALICE JANOS, M.P.H., PH.D.

  I knocked. Between the first and second raps a voice said, “One minute.”

  Heel-clicks. The door opened. A woman in her fifties said, “Dr. Delaware.”

  I held out my hand. She took it, gave an abrupt shake, and let go. She was short, plump, blond, bubble-coiffed, and expertly made up and wore a red-and-white dress that had been tailored for her. Red shoes, matching nails, gold jewelry. Her face was small and attractive in a chipmunkish way; when she was young she’d probably been the cutest girl in school.

  “Come in, please.” European accent. The intellectual Gabor sister.

  I stepped into the office. She left the door open and came in after me. The room was pin-neat, minimally furnished, scented with perfume, and hung with art posters in chromium frames. Miró and Albers and Stella and one that commemorated a Gwathmey-Siegel exhibit at the Boston Museum.

  An open box of chocolate truffles sat on a round glass table. Next to it was a sprig of mint. On a stand perpendicular to the desk were a computer and a printer, each sheathed with a zippered cover. Atop the printer was a red leather designer purse. The desk was university-issue metal, prettified with a diagonally set lace coverlet, a floral-patterned Limoges blotter, and family photos. Big family. Albert Einstein look-alike husband and five good-looking, college-age kids.

  She sat close to the chocolate and crossed her legs at the ankles. I faced her. Her calves were ballet-thick.

  “You are a physician?”

  “Psychologist.”

  “And what connection do you have to Ms. Herbert?”

  “I’m consulting on a case at the hospital. Dawn obtained a medical chart belonging to the patient’s sibling and never returned it. I thought she might have left it here.”

  “This patient’s name?”

  When I hesitated, she said, “I can’t very well answer your question without knowing what I’m looking for.”

  “Jones.”

  “Charles Lyman Jones the Fourth?”

  Surprised, I said, “You have it?”

  “No. But you are the second person who’s come asking for it. Is there a genetic issue at stake that makes this so urgent? Sibling tissue typing or something like that?”

  “It’s a complex case,” I said.

  She recrossed her legs. “The first person didn’t give me an adequate explanation either.”

  “Who was that?”

  She gave me an analytic look and sat back in her chair. “Forgive me, Doctor, but I’d appreciate seeing the identification you just showed Merilee upstairs.”

  For the third time in half an hour I presented my faculty card, augmenting it with my brand-new full-color hospital badge.

  Putting on gold-framed half-glasses, she examined both, taking her time. The hospital ID held her interest longer.

  “The other man had one of these too,” she said, holding it up. “He said he was in charge of hospital security.”

  “A man named Huenengarth?”

  She nodded. “The two of you seem to be duplicating each other’s efforts.”

  “When was he here?”

  “Last Thursday. Does Western Pediatrics generally give this type of personal service to all its patients?”

  “As I said, it’s a complex case.”

  She smiled. “Medically or socio-culturally?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t get into details.”

  “Psychotherapeutic confidentiality?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I certainly respect that, Dr. Delaware. Mr. Huenengarth used another phrase to protect his secrecy. ‘Privileged information.’ I thought that sounded rather cloak-and-dagger and told him so. He wasn’t amused. A rather grim fellow, actually.”

  “Did you give him the chart?”

  “No, because I don’t have it, Doctor. Dawn left no medical charts of any kind behind. Sorry to have misled you, but all the attention she’s generated lately has led me to be cautious. That and her murder, of course. When the police came by to ask questions, I cleaned out her graduate locker personally. All that I found were some textbooks and the computer disks from her dissertation research.”

  “Have you booted up the disks?”

  “Is that question related to your complex case?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly,” she said. “Well, at least you’re not getting pushy the way Mr. Huenengarth did. Trying to pressure me to turn them over.”

  Removing her glasses, she got up, returned my ID, closed the door. Back in her chair, she said, “Was Dawn involved in something unsavory?”

  “She may have been.”

  “Mr. Huenengarth was a bit more forthcoming than you, Doctor. He came right out and said Dawn had stolen the chart. Informed me it was my duty to see that it was returned— quite imperious. I had to ask him to leave.”

  “He’s not Mr. Charm.”

  “An understatement— his approach is pure KGB. More like a policeman than the real policemen who investigated Dawn’s murder, as far as I’m concerned. They weren’t pushy enough. A few cursory questions and goodbye— I grade them C-minus. Weeks later I called to see what kind of progress was being made, and no one would take my call. I left messages and none were returned.”

  “What kind of questions did they ask about her?”

  “Who her friends were, had she ever associated with criminal types, did she use drugs. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to answer any of them. Even after having her as my student for four years, I knew virtually nothing about her. Have you served on any doctoral committees?”

  “A few.”

  “Then you know. Some students one really gets close to; others pass through without making a mark. I’m afraid Dawn was one of the latter. Not because she wasn’t bright. She was extremely sharp, mathematically. It’s why I accepted her in the first place, even though I had reservations about her motivation. I’m always looking for women who aren’t intimidated by numbers and she had a true gift for math. But we never . . . jelled.”

  “What was the matter with her motivation?”

  “She didn’t have any. I always got the feeling she’d drifted into grad school because it was the path of least resistance. She’d applied to medical school and gotten rejected. Kept applying even after she enrolled here— a lost cause, really, because her non-math grades weren’t very good and her M-CAT scores were significantly below average. Her math scores were so high I decided to accept her, though. I went so far as to get her funding— a Graduate Advanced Placement fellowship. This past fall, I had to cut that off. That’s when she found the job at your hospital.”

  “Poor performance?”

  “Poor progress on her dissertation. She finished her course work with adequate grades, submitted a research proposal that looked promising, dropped it, submitted another, dropped that, et cetera. Finally she came up with one that she seemed to like. Then she just froze. Went absolutely nowhere with it. You know how it is— students either zip through or languish for years. I’ve been able to help plenty of the languishers and I tried to help Dawn. But she rejected counseling. Didn’t show up for appointments, made excuses, kept saying she could handle it, just needed more time. I never felt I was getting through to her. I was at the point of consideri
ng dropping her from the program. Then she was . . .”

  She rubbed a fingertip over one blood-colored nail. “I suppose none of that seems very important now. Would you like a chocolate?”