The Clinic

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Springing up, she left the parlor without explanation and disappeared in the back of the house again. I went over to the battered Shih Tzu's crate and wiggled a finger through the mesh door. The little dog showed me pleading eyes. Its breathing was rapid.

  “Hey, cutie,” I whispered. “Heal up.”

  Shaggy white ears managed to twitch. I put a finger through the grate and stroked silky white fur.

  “Here,” said Elsa Campos behind me.

  She was holding a small gold-plated trophy. Brass cup on a walnut base, the metal spotted and in need of polishing. As she thrust it at me I read the base plate:

  THE BROOKE-HASTINGS AWARDFOR ACADEMIC EXCELLENCEPRESENTED TOHOPE ALICE DEVANESENIOR GIRLS DIVISION

  “Brooke-Hastings,” I said.

  “That was the stock company.”

  I gave her back the trophy and she placed it on an end table. We sat down again.

  “She insisted I take it. After my second husband died I put things away, had it in a closet. Forgot about it til just now.”

  “Did Hope talk about anything else?”

  “We discussed where she should go to college, what she should major in. I told her Berkeley was as good as any Ivy League school and it was cheap. I never found out if she listened to me.”

  “She did, got a Ph.D. there,” I said, and that brought a smile to her face.

  “I was already taking dogs in, and we talked about that, too. The virtue of caring. She was interested in life sciences, I thought she might very well become a doctor or a veterinarian. Psychologist . . . that fits, too.”

  She began playing with her braid. “Want another soda?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “No more beer for me or you'll think I'm an old wetback rummy. . . . Anyway, she was a polite girl, very well-groomed, used beautiful language. This was a tough town but she never seemed part of it— as if she was just visiting. In some ways that applied to Lottie, too. . . . Even with her . . . behavior, she carried herself above it all. Hope also told me what Lottie was doing in Bakersfield. Dancing. You know the kind I mean, don't make me spell it out. Place called the Blue Barn. One of those cowboy joints. They used to have a whole row of them as you left the city, out past the stockyards and the rendering plants. Pig-bars they called them. Country-and-western plus bump-and-grind for the white boys, mariachi plus bump-and-grind for the Mexicans, lots of girls dancing, sitting on laps. Et cetera. My second husband went there a few times til I found out and set him straight.”

  “The Blue Barn,” I said.

  “Don't bother looking for it. It closed down years ago. Owned by some immigrant gangster who dealt cattle with questionable brands. He opened the clubs during the sixties when the hippies made it okay to take off your clothes, raked in a fortune. Then he shut everything and moved to San Francisco.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because you could get away with even more up there.”

  “When was this?”

  She thought. “The seventies. I heard he made dirty movies, too.”

  “And he was Lottie's boss.”

  “If you call that working.”

  “Must have been hard for Hope.”

  “She cried when she told me. And not just about the kinds of things Lottie was doing for a living, but because she thought Lottie was doing them for her. As if the woman would have been taking shorthand except for having a child. Let's face it— some women are not going to take the time to learn a real skill if they can get by with something else. The first day Lottie arrived in Higginsville, she went into her cabin and came out that night wearing a tight red dress that advertised her.”

  “Did she move to San Francisco with the club owner?”

  “I wouldn't know, but why would he take her, with all the young hippie girls running around? By then she'd have been too old for his type of business.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Kruvinski. Polish or Yugoslavian or Czechoslovakian or something. They said he'd been a foreign general during World War Two, brought money out of Europe, came to California, and started buying up land. Why?”

  “Hope worked with a doctor named Milan Cruvic.”

  “Well, then,” she said, smiling. “Looks like you've got yourself a clue. Because Milan was Kruvinski's first name, too. But everyone called him Micky. Big Micky Kruvinski, big this way.” She touched her waist. “Not that he was short, but it was his thickness you noticed. Thick all over. Big thick neck. Thick waist, thick lips. Once when I went up to Bakersfield with my second husband, we ran into him eating breakfast. Big smile, nice, dry handshake, you'd never know. But Joe— my husband— warned me away from him, said you have no idea, Ellie, what this joker does. How old's Dr. Cruvic?”

  “Around Hope's age.”

  “Then it would have to be the son. Because Big Micky only had one kid. Little Micky. He and Hope were in the same class at Bakersfield High. In fact, he was the boy who won the Brooke-Hastings Award with Hope. Everyone suspected a put-up, but if he became a doctor, maybe he was genuinely smart.”

  “Why'd they suspect a put-up?”

  “Because Big Micky owned the Brooke-Hastings Company. And the biggest slaughterhouse in town, and packing plants, vending machines, a gas station, farm acreage. All that on top of the clubs. The man just kept buying things up.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Don't know. I stay away from the city, sit right here, and mind my own business.”

  She picked up the trophy and tapped it with a fingernail. The plating was cheap and bits of gold flaked off and floated to the ground. “Joe, my husband, was a smoker, four packs a day, so eventually he got emphysema. The day Hope came to visit he was in the rear bedroom on oxygen. After she left I went in and showed him the trophy and the article and he burst out laughing. Wheezing so hard he nearly passed out. I said what's funny and he said, guess who won the boys'? Big Micky's kid. Then he laughed some more and said, guess the tramp worked overtime to help her daughter. It made me feel rotten. Here I was feeling proud of my teaching and he popped a big balloon in my face. But I didn't say anything because how can you argue with a man in that condition? Also, I suspected there might be some truth to it, because I knew what Lottie was like. Still, Hope was gifted and I'll bet she earned it. What kind of doctor did Little Micky become?”

  “Gynecologist.”

  “Poking women? Guess the apple doesn't fall far. And Hope worked with him? Why?”

  “He does fertility work,” I said. “Told us Hope counseled patients.”

  “Fertility,” she said. “That is a laugh.”

  “Why?”

  “Big Micky's son helping get life going. Is he a decent man?”

  “I don't know.”

  “It would be nice if he was decent. Both he and Hope managing to get past their origins. Helping nurture life instead of ending it the way his father did.”

  “Big Micky killed people?”

  “That could very well be, but what I'm talking about is the way he finished those girls off spiritually. Just used them up.”

  She squeezed her hands together. “And his way with animals. That's always the tip-off. His slaughterhouse was a big gray place with rail tracks running in and out. They'd ride livestock in on one end, crammed into rail cars, thrashing and moaning, and out the other side would come butchered sides hanging from hooks. I saw it personally because Joe was kind enough to drive by there once after we'd gone into town for dinner. His idea of funny. Here we were, just finished a nice meal, and he drives over there.”

  She licked her lips as if trying to get rid of a bad taste. “It was late at night but the place was still going full-guns. You could hear it and smell it from a mile away. I was furious, demanded Joe turn right around. He did, but not before telling me about Big Micky and how he liked coming down there personally, around midnight, putting on a rubber apron and boots and grabbing himself a studded baseball bat. The workers would stop the line, hoist up some steers and porkers, a
nd let him have a go at them for as long as he wanted.”

  She shuddered. “Joe said it was Big Micky's idea of fun.”

  27

  Trudging to the kitchen, she checked the Shih Tzu, again. “Hope and Little Micky, after all these years.”

  Smartest boy, smartest girl.

  “Hope consulted to a lawyer named Robert Barone.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “How about these names: Casey Locking?”

  Headshake.

  “Amanda or Mandy Wright?”

  “No. Who are they?”

  “People Hope knew.”

  “Being famous, she must have known lots of people.”

  “That's part of the problem. Her book was controversial. For all we know she was stalked and killed by a stranger because of it.”

  “Controversial in what way?”

  I told her.

  “And you're saying this was a best-seller?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm embarrassed not to know about it.” Bending, she peered into the crate.

  I said, “Did Hope talk about anything else the day she visited?”

  She'd countered several direct questions by changing the subject and I expected her to do it again. Instead she came back, sat, and looked right at me.

  “She told me Lottie tied her up.”

  Her lip trembled.

  I sat there, shrink-calm. My heart raced.

  “When?” I said. “Why?”

  “When she was little and Lottie had to leave her alone for long stretches. Also when Lottie brought men home.”

  “Tied her up how?”

  “In her room. To her bed. The headboard. Remember I said it was a two-room cabin? One was Hope's bedroom, the other, Lottie's. Lottie used a dog leash and a bicycle lock, fastened it to the headboard, locked her in.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “Years. I never knew, Hope never complained. Thank God there was never a fire. When Hope told me I was outraged but she kept telling me it was okay, there was no abuse, Lottie always left her plenty of food and drinks, toys, books, a radio, a potty. Later a TV. Hope didn't seem the least bit angry talking about it. Kept telling me it was okay, Lottie had been doing what she thought was best.”

  “Then why'd she bring it up?”

  “She said she was worried about Lottie. The things Lottie had done to support the two of them. The things Lottie was still allowing men to do to her.”

  “Lottie was still bringing men home?”

  “Guys she met at the Blue Barn and other places. Regulars, Hope called them. She and Lottie had moved into a nice-sized house in Bakersfield by then, and the arrangement was that Lottie would hang one of those Privacy tags you get at a hotel from her bedroom doorknob when she was working. Hope was always supposed to come in through the kitchen door, check the knob. If the sign was hanging, she had to go straight to her room and stay there til Lottie told her the coast was clear.”

  “More confinement.”

  She nodded. “Even so, she could sometimes hear what was going on.”

  Rubbing her eyes, she said, “And I mean besides sex. Screams. Sometimes there were marks on Lottie.”

  “Bruises?”

  “And rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Lottie used makeup to cover them but Hope saw them anyway.”

  “So Lottie was getting tied up, herself.”

  “Can you imagine? That's what I meant by despite her home life.”

  “Did Hope talk to her mother about it?”

  “She said no, as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course not, Mrs. Campos. She's my mother!' ”

  “But she talked about it openly.”

  “Yes . . . but then she cut it off. I think she really wanted to unload all the way, but just couldn't. I never saw her again.” Again, she looked at the cuckoo clock.

  “What was her demeanor when she told you all this?” I said.

  “Calm, except when she cried about Lottie. Worried about Lottie getting hurt by a . . . customer. She rationalized what Lottie did by saying she had no education and skills and she was just trying to support the two of them the best way she knew how. So what could I say to that? Face it, child, Momma's a tramp? I knew she had to be hurting. Still, a prisoner in her own home— can you see bringing friends home to a place like that? I tried to get her to talk about her feelings but she wouldn't go for it.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “Yes, but to look at her you'd never know it. Beautiful, poised, perfect hair, the right amount of makeup. And Lottie was obviously still spending on her clothes. Silk blouse, nice wool suit, nylons, pumps. She could've passed for twenty. A young lady. And she made a point of telling me she was getting straight A's at Bakersfield, honor society every semester.”

  “School was probably the only place she felt free,” I said, realizing how far Hope really had come.

  Getting past the fear and the shame and the isolation only to lose her life on a dark, empty street. I felt a tightening in my chest, at the back of my throat.

  “Probably,” she said. “That's how I rationalized it.”

  “Rationalized what?”

  “Not doing anything. Not reporting it. No matter how good she looked, she was still a minor in a bad environment and I was the one she confided in. But I told myself she'd found her niche, why upset the cart? And things were different back then. What's to say if I had come forth she wouldn't have denied it? Or that anyone would have listened to me? Because Lottie worked for Big Micky and he was well-connected with the powers that be. If Lottie asked him to help her out, what was the chance of bucking that?”

  “Was there any indication he was Lottie's pimp? Or her lover?”

  She glared, as if I'd finally given her an excuse to be angry. “I told you before, I don't know those kinds of details.”

  “Did Hope talk about Big Micky?”

  “No. The only one she talked about was Lottie. Then, as I said, she cut it off, changed the subject. I got the feeling the visit had been an experiment for her: How far was she ready to go? And I hadn't encouraged her enough. . . . I lost a lot of sleep over it, Dr. Delaware. Thinking about that poor child tied up, what I should do. Then, with all the hurt things I was taking care of, I managed to forget about it. Until you showed up.”

  Another glance at the cuckoo.

  “And that's all I know,” she said, rising and walking quickly to the door. She pushed it open and stepped out onto the porch and a tide of canine noise rose. By the time I reached her she was out in the yard, surrounded by the dogs. Leopold, the Bouvier, watched me imperiously.

  I thought of Hope's Rottweiler, unable to protect her, probably poisoned.

  Hope transforming herself from prisoner to guardian of other women's rights.

  But no one had ever protected her.

  Elsa Campos continued to the front gate. “If you find out who murdered her, would you take the time to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean it? Because I don't want to wait for nothing.”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, then . . . I'm going to force myself out of here, take a drive up to the Bakersfield library, see if I can find her book. Not too many kids from here become famous.”

  The last word came out strangled. Suddenly tears were dripping down her weathered cheeks. She wiped them with her sleeve.

  “Good-bye,” she said. “I don't know whether to thank you or punch you.”

  “Good-bye. Thanks for your time.”

  I started to go and she said, “When all this comes out, I'll be the idiot teacher who didn't report it.”

  “No reason for it to come out.”

  “No? You're here because you think it relates to her murder.”

  “It may end up having nothing to do with it.”

  She gave a short, hard laugh. “Do you know how she rationalized it? Being tied up? She said it had made her stronger. Taught her how to concentrate. I said, “Please, child, it
's one thing not to complain but don't tell me it was for your own good.' She just smiled at me, put a hand on my shoulder. As if she were the teacher. As if she pitied me for not understanding. I still remember what she said: “Really, Mrs. Campos, it's no big deal. I turned it to my own advantage. I taught myself self-control.' ”

  28

  I covered the thirty miles to Bakersfield in twenty-five minutes. But when I arrived I knew it had been a waste of gas.