Rage

CHAPTER 28

I walked Milo to his car. “Was Kristal buried or cremated?”

“You’re thinking DNA.”

“If you ever get a sample from Barnett, it would answer the paternity question.”

“Let me tell you about DNA in the real world. We used to send stuff to the sheriff’s crime lab, but they’re backlogged till the next millennium, and they can’t get the county to pay for the latest equipment so they sometimes have to send stuff out. Department recently contracted with Orchid Cellmark in New Jersey, but it’s a priority game: sexual homicides first, then rapes, then crimes against minors. The quickest you can get something back is two to four months. And that’s after you get your requisition approved by the pencil pushers. In this case, if Kristal was buried, I’d need an exhumation order, which could take even longer than DNA analysis, especially with no consent from the surviving relative. Going that route would also mean letting Malley know he’s under suspicion.”

“Just a thought,” I said.

“On the other hand, maybe the coroner kept something from Kristal’s autopsy and I can send that to Cellmark… I’ll head over to the crypt, see if they can find something. Ciao.”

I returned to the house in order to educate myself about foster child reimbursement in L.A County, and to learn more about Fulton Seminary.

The first assignment was easy. I phoned Olivia Brickerman at home. She’s a professor in the Department of Social Work at the gracious old university across town, a battle-toughened veteran of the ground war that is California ’s social services system, the widow of a chess grandmaster, a frizzy-haired fireplug old enough to be my mother and one of the smartest people I’ve ever encountered.

She said, “You only call when you want something.”

“I’m a bad son.”

She laughed, finished with a gasp.

“You okay?” I said.

“As if you care.”

“Of course- ”

“I’m on my feet, darling. Which is a positive sign, considering. So how’s it going with Dr. Snow White?”

“Allison?”

“The ivory skin, the black hair, the soft voice, all that gorgeous? The analogy’s obvious. Am I overstepping boundaries, here?”

“Allison’s fine.”

“And Robin?”

“Robin’s in Seattle,” I said.

“Which begs the question.”

“Last time I spoke to her she was doing well, Olivia.”

“So that’s it?” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“I’m a terminal yenta, Alex. Slap my wrist. Seattle, eh? The Genius and I used to go there. Before the computers and the coffee. The Genius could row a boat pretty well, we used to go out on Lake Washington… Robin still with Voice-boy?”

“Yup.”

“Mr. Tra La La,” she said. “She brought him by a few months ago for Sunday brunch. Unlike other people who can’t find the time.”

“Allison and I took you to dinner at the Bel-Air.”

“Don’t quibble. What I’m getting to is that I didn’t care for him.”

“Robin does.”

“He’s too quiet,” she went on. “Aloof, if you ask me. Not that anyone has.”

“I’m always open to your wisdom, Olivia.”

“Ha. So what do you need to know?”

“How well does the state pay for foster care?”

“I was hoping for more of a challenge, darling. First of all, the state mandates foster care and sets up basic fees but each county distributes the funds. Counties also have the discretion to supplement the state. Traditionally, they’ve been tight with the purse strings. The rates vary but not much. Which county?”

“ L.A. ”

“The other thing you need to know is that, officially, foster parents aren’t paid. A stipulated amount is allocated per child and the custodial adult gets to disburse it.”

“Meaning foster parents are paid,” I said.

“Exactly. The basic rate varies with the age of the child. Four hundred twenty-five a month to five ninety-seven. Older kids get more.”

“I’d assume just the opposite,” I said. “Babies require more care.”

“You’d be thinking logically, darling. This is the government. No doubt some number cruncher set up a formula based on pounds of flesh.”

“What age group gets the max?”

“Over fifteen. Twelve through fourteen gets five forty-six, and so on down to the babies who get four twenty-five. Which doesn’t pay for a lot of formula and diapers. Quite often it’s family members who take the kid in and apply as kinship guardians. That what we’re talking about, here?”

“No, these are nonrelatives,” I said. “Can the basic rate be supplemented?”

“Wards with special needs get extra payments. Right now the max is a hundred seventy a month. That’s through Children’s Services, but there are other bureaucracies you can tap if you know how to play with paper. The system’s full of goodies.”

“Would kids with A.D.D. be considered special needs?”

“Absolutely. It’s a recognized disability. Is there any point in my asking you why you want to know all this?”

“There are some people under suspicion,” I said. “ Milo wants to know if they’re getting rich at the public trough.”

“Dear Milo. Has he lost weight?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Meaning no. Well, I haven’t either. You know what I say to constitutionally skinny people? Go away. Anyway, if you want you can give me names of these suspicious individuals, when I get back to the office I’ll run them through the computer.”

“Drew- probably Andrew- and Cherish Daney.” I spelled the surname and thanked her.

“Cherish as in I love you?”

“As in.”

“Except maybe she loves money too much?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“How many foster children can one family care for?”

“Six.”

“These people have eight.”

“Then they’re being naughty. Not that anyone’s likely to notice. There’s a shortage of what the state feels are decent homes and very few caseworkers to look into details. If nothing terrible happens, no one pays attention.”

“What comprises a decent home?” I said.

“Two parents, middle class would be great but not necessary. No felony record. Optimally, someone’s working but there’s also someone in the home to supervise.”

“The Daneys fit the bill on all accounts,” I said. “Does the state pay for homeschooling?”

“Same answer: It depends on how you fill out the forms. There’s a clothing allowance, a supplemental clothing allowance, all sorts of health care surcharges that can be tapped. What’s up, darling? Another one of those scams?”

“It’s complicated, Olivia.”

She sighed. “With you it always is.”

Fulton Seminary offered one degree, a master of divinity. According to its website, the school’s curriculum emphasized “scriptural, ministerial, and public service aspects of professional evangelical training.” Students were allowed a range of “intellectual concentrations” including Christian Leadership, Evangelical Promotion, and Program Supervision.

Several paragraphs were devoted to the school’s philosophical underpinnings: God was perfect, faith in Jesus superseded all actions, humans were depraved until saved, worship and service were essential elements of fixing a world in dire need of repair.

The campus sat on three hilly acres on Glendale ’s northern rim. A fifteen-minute ride to the motel on Chevy Chase.

I scrolled through pages of photos. Small groups of clean-cut, smiling students, rolling lawns, the same glass-fronted sixties building in every shot. No mention of an on-site cemetery.

The faculty numbered seven ministers. The dean was Reverend Doctor Crandall Wascomb, D.Theol., Ph.D., LL.D. Crandall’s picture made him out to be around sixty, with a thin face above a high, smooth dome of brow, silver-white hair that covered the top of his ears, and crinkly eyes of the exact same hue as his powder blue jacket.

I called his extension. A woman’s taped voice told me Dr. Wascomb was out of the office but he really cared about what I had to say. “Please leave a detailed message of any length and repeat your name and phone number at least once. Thank you and God Bless and have a wonderful day.”

My message was short on details but I did toss in my police affiliation. There was a good chance I’d made it sound more official than it was, but Dr. Wascomb’s training prepared him for minor transgressions.

Repeating my name and number, I hung up, reflecting on human depravity.

Just after nine p.m., Dr. Crandall Wascomb called while I was out with Allison. My service operator said, “Such a nice man,” then she gave me the number. Different from his office. It was nearly eleven but I phoned anyway and a soft-voiced woman picked up.

“Dr. Wascomb, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”

“One second.”

Seconds later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that you’re a police psychologist?”

“I consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”

“Pardon?”

A beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton alumna.”

“Alumna. A woman.”

“Cherish Daney.”

Pause. “Is Cherish all right?”

“So far.”

“So she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.

“No. Is there some reason you’d think that?”

“The police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about Cherish?”

“I’ve been asked to learn about her background- ”

“In what context?”

“It’s a bit complicated, Dr. Wascomb.”

“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t talk to you over the phone about something complicated.”

“Could we meet face-to-face?”

“To talk about Cherish.”

“Yes.”

“I must tell you, I have nothing but good things to say about Cherish. She was one of our finest students. I can’t imagine why the police would want to learn about her background.”

“Why didn’t she finish her degree?” I said. And who’s Baylord Patterman?

“Perhaps,” said Wascomb, “we should meet.”

“I’ll be happy to come to your office.”

“My office calendar’s quite full,” he said. “Let me leaf through my book… it appears as if I have one opening tomorrow. One p.m., my usual lunch break.”

“That would be fine, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting away from campus,” he said. “But it has to be somewhere close, I’ve only got forty-five minutes…”

“I know a place,” I said. “A bit south of you on Brand. Patty’s Place.”

“Patty’s Place… haven’t been there in ages. Back when the school was undergoing remodeling I’d sometimes meet there with students- did you know that, sir?”

“No,” I said. “I just like pancakes.”

Baylord Patterman pulled up five hits on Google. A Burbank-based attorney, he’d been arrested a year ago for running an insurance fraud ring that set up phony traffic accidents. The bust resulted when a fender bender on Riverside Drive turned into an air-bag disaster that killed a five-year-old girl. Patterman, his hired drivers, a couple of crooked chiropractors, and assorted clerical staff were charged with vehicular homicide. Most were pled down to white-collar crimes. Patterman ended up with a conviction for involuntary manslaughter, was disbarred, and sentenced to five years in state prison.

The Fulton Seminary connection appeared in two of the citations: Patterman was the son of a founding trustee of the school and a continuing donor to the cause. Dr. Crandall Wascomb was quoted as being “unaware and appalled” by his benefactor’s dark side.

If he was sincere, I felt sorry for him. All those years pushing virtue and he was going to be disappointed again.