The Clinic

“When it was deserved.” He ground out the cigarette. “She knew the difference between good and bad. She was a fine human being and whoever destroyed her should experience an excruciatingly slow, immensely bloody, inconceivably painful death.”

His lips turned upward but this time you couldn't call the end product a smile. He put down his attachE case, and reaching under the coat, pulled out a hardpack of Marlboros.

“But that's unlikely to happen, right? Because even if somehow they do catch him, there'll be legal loopholes, procedural calisthenics. Probably some expert from our field claiming the prick suffered from psychosis or an impulse-control disorder no one's ever heard of before. That's why I like the idea of what you do. Being on the right side. My research area's self-control. Petty stuff- free-feeding in rats versus schedules of reinforcement. But maybe one of these days I'll be able to relate it to the real world.”

“Self-control and crime detection?”

“Why not? Self-control's an integral part of civilization. The integral component. Babies are born cute and cuddly and amoral. And it's certainly not hard to train them to be immoral, is it?”

He made a pistol with his free hand. “Everyone's making such a big deal about ten-year-olds with Uzis but it's just Fagin and the street rats with a little technology thrown in, right?”

“Lack of self-control,” I said.

“On a societal level. Take away external control mechanisms and the internalization process- conscience development- is immobilized and what you get are millions of savages running around giving free rein to their impulses. Like the piece of shit who killed Hope. So goddamn stupid!”

He produced a lighter and ignited another cigarette. Slightly shaky hands. He jammed them in the pockets of his coat.

“I tell you, I'd study real life if I could, but I'd be in school for the rest of my life and that's a no-brainer. Hope steered me right, said not to try for the Nobel Prize, pick something doable, get my union card, and move on.”

He sucked smoke. “Finding another advisor won't be easy. I'm considered the departmental fascist because I can't stand platitudes and I believe in the power of discipline.”

“And Hope was okay with that.”

“Hope was the ultimate scholar-slash-good-mother: tough, honest, secure enough to let you go your own way once you proved you weren't full of shit. She looked at everything with a fresh eye, refused to do or be what was expected of her. So they killed her.”

“They?”

“They, he, some drooling, psychopathic, totally fucked-up savage.”

“Any theories about the specific motive?”

He glanced back at the glass doors of the tower. “I've spent a long time thinking about it and all I've come up with are mental pretzels. Finally I realized it's a waste of energy because I have no data, just my feelings. And my feelings were knocking me low. That's really why it took so long to get back to my research. That's why I couldn't even go near my data til last night. But now it's time to get back in gear. Hope would want that. She had no patience for excuses.”

“Whose idea was it to barter data for car care?” I said.

He stared at me. “I called Phil up, he said he was having trouble getting the car started, so I offered to help.”

“So you knew him before.”

“Just from working with Hope. Basically, Phil's asocial… Well, good talking to you.”

He picked up the attachE case and started up the stairs.

I said, “What's your view of the Interpersonal Conduct Committee?”

He stopped, smiled. “That, again. My view? I thought it was an excellent idea with insufficient enforcement power.”

“Some people believe the committee was a mistake.”

“Some people believe quality of life means anarchy.”

“So you think it should have been allowed to continue.”

“Sure, but what chance was there of that? That rich snot's father shut it down because this place operates on the same principles as any other political system: money and power. If the girl he harassed had been the one with the fat-cat daddy, you can believe the committee would be alive and healthy.”

He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, looked at it, snapped it away. “The point is, women will always be physically weaker than men and their safety can't be left up to the good graces of anyone with a penis. The only way to simulate equity is through rules and consequences.”

“Discipline.”

“Better believe it.” He smoothed a leather lapel. “You're asking me about the committee because you think it had something to do with Hope's death. One of those chickenshit little weenies getting back at her. But like I said, they were all cowards.”

“Cowards commit murder.”

“But I sat on the committee, too, and I'm obviously intact.”

Same logic Cruvic had used, talking about abortion protest.

“Let me ask you something else,” I said. “Did Hope ever mention being abused, herself?”

The lapel bunched as his hand closed tight around the leather. “No. Why?”

“Sometimes people's work is directed by personal experience.”

The black brows dipped low and his eyes got cold. “You want to reduce her achievements to psychopathology?”

“I want to learn as much as I can about her. Did she ever talk about her past?”

Uncurling his fingers, he let his arms drop very slowly. Then he raised them very quickly, almost a martial-arts move. Folding them across his chest, as if warding off attack.

“She talked about her work. That's all. Whatever personal things I was able to infer came from that.”

“What did you infer?”

“That she was incredibly intelligent and focused and cared deeply about what she was doing. That's why she took me on. Focus is my thing. I get my teeth in and don't let go.”

He smiled, showing white enamel. “She appreciated the fact that I was willing to come out and say how I really felt. That I believed people can't just follow their impulses. Around here, that's still heresy.”

“What about her other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez?”

“What about her?”

“Is she also focused?”

“Don't know, we didn't see each other much. Good talking to you, got to run an experiment. If you ever do find the piece of shit, convict him, sentence him to die, invite me to San Quentin to jam the hypodermic into his veins.”

Giving a choppy salute, he vaulted up the steps to the tower, shoved at one of the heavy glass doors. As it swung open, I caught a momentary flash of reflection. The delicate mouth curving, but hard to read.

11

Like Cruvic, he'd talked about Hope with passion.

Wet eyes notwithstanding, her husband hadn't.

Leading her to turn elsewhere?

Love, sex, stab in the back.

Seacrest had no history of violence, but men who killed their wives often didn't. And like Seacrest, they tended to be middle-aged.