The Clinic

25

“Artichokes?” said the pump jockey. “Idn't that Castroville, way over the hell up by Monterey?”

He was bowlegged and potbellied, bald on top with a manila-colored braid and matching teeth. Chuckling, he said, “Artichokes,” again, wiped the windshield, and took my twenty.

I'd pulled off Route 5 for a fill-up just past the Grapevine, where the traffic suddenly swells like a clogged hose and fifty-car pileups are the rule when the fog sets in. This morning it was hot and hazy but visibility was okay.

I got back on the highway and continued north. My map said Higginsville was just west of Bakersfield and due south of Buena Vista Lake. A hundred miles out of L.A. and twenty degrees hotter. The land was Midwest-flat, green fields behind windbreaks of giant blue gum trees. Strawberries, broccoli, alfalfa, lettuce, all struggling to make it in the gasoline-drenched air.

A turn on a double-lane road took me up into highlands crowded with small ranches and shuttered roadside stands. Then down into a dry basin and a sign that read HIGGINSVILLE, POP. 1,234, over a rusting Rotary emblem. The lettering was nearly rubbed out and the sheet-metal lemon on top was corroded.

I passed a short stand of live oak and crossed a silt-filled creek bed. Then a shut-down recreational vehicle lot and a half-collapsed barn with a cracked WESTERN ATTIRE sign on the roof. One empty lot later was a two-block main drag called Lemon Boulevard filled with one-story buildings: grocery/cafe, five-and-dime, a bar, a storefront church.

Milo had called this morning and told me the local law was a sheriff named Botula. The sheriff's station was at the end of the street, pink cinder block, with an old green Ford cruiser out in front.

Inside, a heavy, pretty, dishwater-blond girl who looked too young to vote sat behind a waist-high counter, facing a static switchboard and reading intently. Behind her, a very dark-skinned Hispanic man in a khaki uniform bent over a metal desk. A book was spread in front of him, too. He didn't look much older than the girl.

A bell over the door tinkled, they both looked up, and he stood to six feet. He had unlined nutmeg skin and a wide Aztec mouth. His black hair was straight, thin, clipped at the sides, neatly parted, his eyes burnt almonds, eager to observe.

“Dr. Delaware? Sheriff Botula.” He came to the counter, unlatched a swinging door, and proffered a warm, firm hand. “This is Judy, our deputy, administrator, and dispatcher.”

The girl gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding look and he grinned. “And also my wife.”

“Judy Botula.” She closed the book and came over.

I read the title on the cover. Fundamentals of Evidence Collection.

Botula said, “Come on in, we've done a little prelim work in advance of your arrival- Judy has, actually.”

Judy Botula said, “Nothing earth-shattering.”

He said, “We're new to this place, still acclimating.”

I walked behind the counter and took a chair alongside the desk. “How new?”

“Two months,” said Botula. “We're each half-time, share the job.”

A mop leaned against the wall and he put it behind a file cabinet. The walls were clean and bare, free of the usual wanted posters and bulletins, and the floor was spotless, though scarred.

Judy brought her chair over and settled. She was almost as tall as her husband, with broad shoulders and a heavy bosom, the extra weight as much muscle as fat. She had on a white knit blouse, jeans, and running shoes, and a badge on her belt. Her eyes were deep blue, dramatic, a bit disapproving.

“We both graduated from the Criminal Justice program at Fresno State,” she said. “We want to enter the FBI Academy but it's real competitive right now, so we figured a year or so of experience wouldn't hurt. Not that it's too exciting around here.”

“Nice and quiet,” said her husband.

“To say the least.”

Botula smiled. “Gives us time to study. So… this murder case you've got. We heard a little about it right after and then there was something on it today- an arrest.”

“Probably a false lead,” I said.

“Yeah, that's what Detective Sturgis said… A psychologist working on homicides- is that getting more common down in L.A.?”

“No. Sometimes I work with Detective Sturgis.”

“I'm pretty interested in psychology, plan to hook up with the Behavioral Science Unit once we're in Quantico. Ever do any serial-killer profiling?”

“No,” I said.

He nodded as if I'd said yes. “Interesting stuff. So what are you doing on this one?”

“Trying to learn as much as I can about Dr. Devane.”

“Because she was a psychologist, too?”

“Mostly because we don't know much about her.”

“Makes sense… Okay, here's where we stand so far: After we talked to Detective Sturgis, we thought about the best way to dig something up and came up with A, town records, B, school records, and C, interviewing the old-timers. But as it turns out, all the old records were boxed and shipped up to Sacramento ten years ago and we still haven't been able to locate them. And the schools closed down around the same time.”

“Did something happen ten years ago?”

“Yup, the place died,” said Judy. “As I'm sure you can see. It used to be lemon groves, a few locals, but mostly seasonal migrant camps and the citrus companies who owned all the stores. Ten years ago a big frost wiped out the lemons and whatever was left was finished off by thrips, or mites, or something. The migrants moved on, the camps closed down, and instead of replanting, the companies bought land elsewhere. The locals depended on the migrants, so a bunch of them moved out, too. From what I can gather, they tried some tourist things- fruit stands, whatever, but it didn't last long. Too far off the interstate.”

“I passed a sign claiming twelve hundred people live here,” I said.

“Claim is right,” she said. “The sign's an antique. Our rough count is three hundred, and a good part of those are just part-timers who come up summers to fish over by the lake. The permanents all have jobs elsewhere except for a few women who run the stores on Lemon, and their husbands have jobs elsewhere. Mostly, they're older, so we don't have too many kids, and whatever ones there are go to Ford City for primary and middle, then over to Bakersfield High. So no schools.”

Hope had gone to Bakersfield for high school, so even back then it had probably been a sleepy town.

“In terms of old-timers from when your victim was a kid, most seemed to have died off, but we did manage to find a lady who might have taught her when there was a school. At least she's old enough.”

“Might have?” I said.

Botula said, “She's not exactly prime interview material.” He touched his temple. “Maybe it's good you're a psychologist.”

Judy said, “We'd go with you but it would probably hurt instead of help.”

“You've had problems with her?”

“We went to see her yesterday,” said Botula. “It wasn't what you'd call productive.”

“That's putting it mildly.” Judy frowned and returned to the switchboard. It hadn't blinked since I'd entered.

Botula walked me out. “Judy thinks the reason the lady was hostile was the race thing- our marriage.”

“You don't?”

He looked up at the sun and put on shades. “I don't know what makes people do the things they do. Anyway, the party's name is Elsa Campos and her place is just up Blossom- left at the next corner.”

My surprised look made him smile. “When I said racial, you assumed she was Anglo?”

“I did.”

“Yup,” he said. “Logical. But people are people. The address is eight Blossom, but you don't need it, you'll know when you're there.”

Blossom Lane had no sidewalks, just brown, weedy strips bordering ravaged road. A few twiggy lemon trees grew by the curb, dwarfed by gigantic silver-dollar eucalyptus. No tree-trimming here, either.

The north side of the street was houses; the south, dry field. Numbers 1 through 7 were cabin courts in various stages of disrepair. Elsa Campos's house was larger, a two-story redwood bungalow with a screen porch flanked by a pair of massive cedars. The surrounding earth was crusted hardpan without a stitch of landscaping. Seven-foot-high chain link surrounded the small property. The BEWARE OF DOG sign on the gate was made extraneous by the pack of twenty or so barking, jumping, mewling canines lined up behind the fence.

Terriers, spaniels, a sleek red Doberman, mongrels of all shapes and sizes, something huge and black and bearish that hung back and nosed the soil.

The noise was deafening but none of them looked mean- on the contrary, tails wagged, tongues lolled, and the smaller dogs leaped gaily and scratched at the fence.

I got out of the Seville. The racket intensified and some of the dogs ran back, circled, and charged.

At least two dozen, all decently groomed and in good health. But with that many animals, there were limits to maintenance and I could smell the yard well before I got to the gate.

No bell, no lock, just a simple latch. The dogs continued to bark and leap and several of them nuzzled the links. I could see mounds of turd forming tiny hills on the bare yard but a ten-foot radius around the house had been cleared, the rake marks still evident.

I offered my hand, palm down, to one of the spaniels, and he licked it. Then a retriever mix's tongue shot through the fence and slurped my knuckle. The Doberman ambled over, stared, walked away. Other dogs began competing for tongue space and the gate rattled. But the big black creature still held back.

As I wondered whether to enter, the front door of the screen porch opened and an old woman in a pink sweatshirt and stretch jeans came out holding a broom.

The dogs whipped around and raced to her.

She said, “Aw, get a life,” but reached into her pocket and tossed handfuls of something onto the clean dirt.

“Find it!”

The dogs scattered and began sniffing frantically around the yard. The scene looked like an early Warner Brothers cartoon. The old woman turned in my direction and came forward, dragging the broom in the dirt.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” It sounded like mimicry. Squinting, she continued to inspect me. Five seven and thin, she had black hair tied back in a waist-long braid; sunken, sallow cheeks that looked as dry as the dirt; claw hands barbecued brown, the nails thick and yellow. The sweatshirt said RENO! White tennies bottomed stick-legs that gave the pants no incentive to stretch.

The big black dog came over, now, in a slow, rolling gait, so hairy its eyes were hidden by pelt. Its head reached her waist and its tongue was the size of a hot-water bottle.

“Forget it, Leopold,” the woman said in a sandy voice. “Go work for treats like everyone else.”

The dog cocked its head just the way Spike does and looked up at her, eyes wet with melodrama.

“Nope, no way. Find it.”

The massive head rubbed against her belt. Reminding me of something- Mrs. Green's bullmastiff. This was my week for old women and big dogs. A deep moan escaped from beneath the hairy mouth. I could see hard muscle under black fur.

The woman looked around at the other dogs, who were still searching. Reaching into a jeans pocket, she brought out another handful- nutmeg-colored broken bits of dog biscuit.

“Find it,” she said, flinging. The dogs in the yard circled faster but the big black dog stayed put. After another surreptitious glance, the woman pulled a whole biscuit out and stuck it hurriedly into the beast's mouth.

“Okay, Leopold, now get.”

The black dog chewed contentedly, then walked away slowly.

“What is it, some kind of sheepdog?” I said.

“Bouvier des Flandres. Belgian. Can you believe someone abandoned it?”

“Must be hot under all that coat.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “They're hardy. Protective, too.”

“I've got a French bulldog,” I said. “A lot smaller but the same basic approach to life.”

“Which is what?”

“I'm a star. Feed me.”

Her face stayed impassive. “French bulldog- those are the little ones with the big ears? Never had one. That your only one?”

I nodded.

“Well, I've got twenty-nine. Counting three sick ones inside.”

“Rescues?”

“You bet. Some from pounds, the rest I pick up driving around.” She sniffed the air. “Pretty putrid, time to spread the enzyme- got this new chemical that eats up the poop. So who are you and what do you want?”

“I've been told you used to teach school here, Ms. Campos.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sheriff Botula and his-”

She snorted. “Those two. What else did they tell you? That I'm the town nut?”

“Just that you might be able to help me find out some information on a woman who grew up here. Unfortunately she's been murdered and the L.A. police have asked me to-”

“Murdered? Who are we talking about?”

“Hope Devane.”

That sucked the color out of her face. She looked back at the dogs and when she turned to me again her expression was a mixture of innocence shattered and pessimism confirmed.

“What happened to her? When?”

“Someone stabbed her in front of her house three months ago.”

“Where?”

“L.A.”

“Figures. Tell me, did she turn out to be a doctor of some kind?”

“She was a psychologist.”

“That's almost the same thing.”

“She had plans to be a doctor?” I said.

She stared past me, across the street, at the dry, empty field. Touching her cheeks with both hands, she drew back the skin, stretching it, and for a moment I saw a younger woman. “Murdered. That's unbelievable. Any idea who did it?”

“No, it's a dead end so far. That's why the police are trying to get as much background about her as they can.”

“So they asked you to come up here.”

“Right.”

“You talk about the police in third person. Meaning you're not one of them? Or are you just pompous?”

“I'm a psychologist, too, Ms. Campos. Sometimes I consult to the police.”

“Got some proof of that?”

I showed her my ID.

She studied it and handed it back. “Just wanted to make sure you weren't a reporter. I despise them because they once did a story on my dogs and painted me as a nut.”

She touched her sharp chin. “Little Hope. I don't claim to remember all my students, but I remember her. Okay, come on in.”

She began walking to the house, leaving me to open the gate for myself. The Bouvier had ambled nearly to the back of the property but as I turned the latch, it wheeled around and raced toward me.

“He's okay, Lee,” said Elsa Campos. “Don't eat him. Yet.”

I followed her up the porch and into a dim parlor crowded with cheap furniture and feed bowls. Shelves full of pottery and glass, the smell of wet fur and antiseptics. A cuckoo clock over the mantel looked more Lake Arrowhead than Switzerland.

Small room, the kitchen was three steps away. She told me to sit and headed in there. On the counter sat a blow-dryer, several squeeze bottles of canine shampoo, a microwave oven, and a plastic dog-crate. Inside the crate was something small and white and still. On top were glass ampules, plastic-capped syringes, rolls of bandages.

“Hey,” said Elsa Campos, sticking a finger through the wire door. The little dog stuck its tongue out and whimpered.

She cooed to it awhile. “Little girl Shih Tzu, one year old. Someone cracked her head with a stick, paralyzed the rear quarters, left her on a trash heap. Her legs got infected. When I got her she was a bag of bones, the pound was ready to gas her. She'll never be normal, but we'll get her adjusted to the others. Leopold will see to that. He's the alpha- head dog of the pack. He's good with weak things.”

“That's great,” I said, suddenly thinking of Milo's heavy face, black brows, bright eyes, slow movements.

“Something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” I sank into a gray-slipcovered easy chair. Feather cushions soft as warm tallow shifted to encompass me. Flanking the cuckoo clock were faded photos of nature scenes. The curtains were brown chenille, the overhead light fixture dusty bulbs in a tangle of yellowed staghorns.

She pulled a beer out of an old Kelvinator fridge. “Worried you're going to catch something because I run a zoo?” Popping the top, she drank. “Well, it's a clean zoo. I can't help the smell but just because I take in hurt animals, why should it mean I want to live dirty?”

“No reason.”

“Tell it to those two.”

“The Botulas?”

“The Botulas,” she said in that same mimicking tone. “Monsieur and Madame Sherlock.” She laughed. “First week they got here, they started driving around in that old car the county gives 'em, as if they had something to do. Like Dragnet-you're probably too young to remember that.”

“Just the facts, ma'am,” I said.

Her smile was briefer than an eyeblink. “What kind of facts are you going to have here? The weeds grew another two inches? Send samples to the FBI?” She sipped more beer. “What a pair. Driving up and down, up and down, up and down. First week they passed by here, saw my herd playing out front, stopped, got out, started rattling the gate. Needless to say, the herd got excited. I had a Golden with three legs back then, really liked to bark, what a symphony.” Smiling again. “I came out to see what the ruckus was all about, there they were trying to count heads, write it down. Then she looks me up and down and he starts reciting the health code- more than such and such in one place means you need a kennel license. I laughed and went inside, had nothing to do with them since. They'll be gone soon enough, just like the others.”

“How many others have there been?”

“Lost count. County sends them over from Fresno to serve a year in Oblivion. No action, no McDonald's, no cable TV, drives them crazy and they're out of here first thing.” She laughed, then turned serious. “The fifty-channel generation. God help the animals and everyone else when they take over.”

She peered inside the crate. “Don't you worry, baby, soon you'll be running with the best of them.”

She shook her head and her braid swung. “Can you imagine anyone wanting to hurt something so harmless?”

“No,” I said. “It's about as unthinkable as murder.”

Straightening, she rested her hand on the counter, put her beer down, and picked up an ampule of medicine. After reading the label, she put it down and came into the parlor. Taking a ragged cane chair, she sat, planting her heels on the linoleum floor.

“Hope, murdered. Do you know what the Greeks did to bad-news messengers?” She ran a finger across her throat.

“Hope you're not Greek,” I said.

She grinned. “Lucky for you, no. I used to teach all my classes about the Greeks but not in the usual way- not that they were cultured and noble and had great mythology and started the Olympics. I used them to make the point that you can be cultured and outwardly noble and still do immoral things. Because they pretty much brutalized everyone they came into contact with, just as bad as the Romans. They don't teach morality anymore in schools except how to have sex without dying from it. Which I guess is okay because what chance do you have to do any good in the world if you're six feet under? But they should also look at other things- what do you expect to learn from me?”

“Something about Hope's background that might help explain her death.”

“Why would her background explain anything?”

Her black eyes were locked into mine, sharp as a falcon's.

“There's some indication she might have been abused as an adult. Sometimes that's related to abuse as a child.”

“Abused how?”

“Physically. Pushed around, bruised.”

“Was she married?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“A history professor, quite a few years older.”

“Is he the one who abused her?”

“We don't know.”

“Is he a suspect in the murder?”

“No,” I said.

“No? Or not yet?”

“Hard to say. There's no evidence against him.”

“A professor and a psychologist,” she said, closing her eyes, as if trying to picture it.

“Hope was a professor, too,” I said. “She'd become pretty prominent as a researcher.”

“What did she research?”

“The psychology of women. Sex-roles. Self-control.”

The last phrase made her flinch and I wondered why.

“I see… Tell me exactly how she was killed.”

I summed up the stabbing and told her about Hope's book, the publicity tour.

“Sounds like she was more than prominent. Sounds like she was downright famous.”

“During the last year, she was.”

Her head moved back an inch and the black eyes got narrow. I felt like corn surveyed by a crow.

“So what does her childhood have to do with it?” she said.

“We're clutching at straws. You're one of them.”

She stared at me some more. “Famous. That's what I get for not reading the papers or watching the idiot box. Stopped both years ago… interesting.”

“What is?”

“Her getting famous. When I first got her as a student, she was shy, didn't even like to read out loud. Do you have a picture of her as an adult?”

“No.”

“Too bad, would have loved to see it. Was she attractive?”

“Very.” As I described Hope, her eyes softened.

“She was a beautiful kid- I can't stop thinking of her as a kid. Little blondie. Her hair was almost white… past her waist, with curls at the end. Big, brown eyes… I showed her how to do all the braids and twists with her hair, gave her a book with diagrams for a graduation gift.”

“Sixth-grade graduation?”

She nodded absently. The cuckoo shot out of the clock and beeped once. “Medicine time,” she said, standing. “Got two others in the bedroom even worse than the Shih Tzu. Collie hit by a truck out on Route Five and a part-beagle choked unconscious and left in a field to die.”

She went to the kitchen, filled two syringes, disappeared through a rear door.

I sat in the dim room until she came back looking grim.

“Problems?” I said.

“I'm still thinking about Hope. All these years I haven't thought much about her, assumed she was fine, but now her face is right here.” Tapping her nose. “Thank you for brightening an old woman's day.”

“You assumed she was fine,” I said. “Meaning you worried she might not be?”

She sat down and laughed. “You are a psychologist.”

Her eyes drifted to the clock and stayed there for a while.

I said, “You don't remember all your students but you do remember her. What made her stand out?”

“Her intelligence. I taught for forty-eight years and she had to be one of the smartest kids I ever had. Maybe the smartest. Grasped things immediately. And a hard worker, too. Some of the gifted aren't, as I'm sure you know. Rest on their laurels, think the world's lining up for them. But Hope was a good little worker. And not because of her home environment.”

The skin around the black eyes tightened.

“No?” I said.

“No,” she said, but this time it wasn't mimicry. “Not because. Despite.”