The Clinic

As for the lover being left unharmed, that was also typical: jealous husbands targeting their wives, sparing the lover unless he happened to get in the way.

But if Locking had been Hope's lover, would Seacrest have maintained any connection to him?

I thought about the interplay between the two men. No signs of hostility, but formal.

Then a discrepancy hit me: Last night, Locking had called Seacrest Professor. Today it was Phil.

Did any of it matter?

I bought another cup of cardboard-flavored coffee and drank it on my way over to the Engineering Building, wondering what kind of surprises a chat with Patrick Huang would bring.

He was flustered when I showed up at his locker but offered no resistance when I suggested we talk.

We found a bench on the west end of the quad and I offered to get him coffee.

“No, thanks, I'm caffeined enough. NoDoz. Exams.”

He simulated a tremoring hand and frowned.

He was five-ten and heavy-set with a smooth square face and shoulder-length hair parted in the middle. His wrinkled T-shirt said STONE TEMPLE PILOTS and he wore it over paisley cutoffs and rubber beach thongs. A couple of books were sandwiched under his arm, both on thermodynamics.

“Thanks for talking to me, Patrick.”

He looked down at the bench. “I figured somebody would finally get to me.”

“Why's that?”

“After what happened to Professor Devane, I figured the committee was bound to come up. I'm surprised it took this long.”

He fidgeted. “Did they send a psychologist because they think I'm nuts?”

“No. I do work for the police and they thought I could be helpful on this case.”

He thought about that. “I think I'll get a burger, okay?”

“Sure.”

Leaving his books behind, he went to one of the snack bars and came back with a waxed-paper wad, a box of crinkled fries buried under a blob of ketchup, and a large orange soda.

“I have an uncle who's a psychologist,” he said, settling. “Robert Chan? Works for the prison system?”

“Don't know him,” I said.

“My dad's a lawyer.” He unwrapped the wad. The paper was translucent with grease, and cheese dripped over the sides of the hamburger. Biting down hard, he chewed fast and swallowed. “My dad was mega-pissed about the committee. That I didn't tell him about it. At the time I thought it was a bad joke, why get into it? But after I heard about Professor Devane I said uh-oh, I'm screwed.” He rolled his eyes.

“Trouble with your father.”

“He's traditional- big shame on the family and all that.” He took a huge bite out of the burger, and ate stoically while gazing across the quad.

“Not that I did anything wrong. Everything I said at the hearing was true. That girl's a stone racist. I never hassled her, she used me. But Dad…”

He whistled and shook his head. “After he chewed me out and reduced my credit-card limit for six months, he said I should expect trouble because the police were bound to look into Professor Devane's background. When it didn't happen, I thought, whew, lucky break.”

Looking around some more, he dragged his eyes back to me. “Wrong again. Anyway, I've got no real problem because on the night she was killed I was at a big family get-together. Grandparents' fiftieth anniversary. We all went out to Lawry's, on La Cienega. Prime rib and all the trimmings. I was there the whole time, from eight to after eleven-thirty, sitting right next to Dad, Numbah One Son, along with about a hundred relatives. I've even got documented proof: My cousin took pictures. Lots of pictures, big surprise, huh?”

He shot me an angry smile, placed his front teeth over his lower lip, and wiggled an index finger. “Ah so. Say cheese with wontons, crick crick.”

I didn't respond.

“Want some?” he said, pointing to the fries.

“No thanks.”

He put his mouth to the straw and filled it with orange soda. “You want the pictures, I'll have my dad send them. He actually put them in his office vault.” He laughed. “Now can I go?”

“Any thoughts about Professor Devane?”

“Nope.”

“What about the committee?”

“I told you, big joke.”

“How so?”

“Hauling people in like some kind of kangaroo court. One person's word against the other's. I don't know how many other guys got hassled, but if their cases were as stupid as mine, you've got plenty of pissed-off people. Maybe one of them offed Professor Devane.”

“But you have an alibi.”

He lowered the drink to the bench. It hit hard and some soda splashed onto the stone. “Thank God I do. Because for weeks after the hearing I was pissed at her. But you know us good little Chinese boys- play with computers, never get violent.”

I said nothing.

“Anyway, I'm over the whole thing and to prove it, I see that girl on campus all the time, just walk by, shine her on. And that's the way I eventually felt about Professor Devane. Forget about her, get on with things.”

“So you felt victimized,” I said.

“Yeah, but it was partly my own fault. I should have checked with Dad first before showing up. He told me she had no right to do that to me.”

“Why'd you go?”

“A letter comes to you on official University stationery, what would you do? How many other guys were involved?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I'm not talking to them about you, either.”

He blinked. “Yeah, okay, better to forget the whole thing.”

He picked up the books and stood. “That's all I've got to say. I'm probably in trouble already for talking to you without checking with Dad. You want the photos, contact him. Allan D. Huang. Curtis, Ballou, Semple, and Huang.” He shot off a downtown address on Seventh Street and a phone number and I copied them down.

“Anything else you want to tell me, Patrick?”

“About the committee?”

“The committee, Professor Devane, Deborah Brittain, anything.”

“What's to tell? Devane was hard as nails. Good at twisting words. And her agenda was clear: All men are scum.”

“What about the other judges?”

“Mostly they just sat there like dummies. It was her show- and that's what it was, a show. Like one of those improv things where they call you up from the audience and make a fool out of you. Only this was real.”

His free hand balled. “She actually asked me if I'd gone to college for the purpose of finding women to harass. All because I helped that girl. Sucks, huh? Well, bye, time to hitch up the ricksha.”

Deborah Brittain's math class was long over and her schedule said she had nothing more today. She lived off- campus, in Sherman Oaks, so I hiked to North Campus to find Reed Muscadine.

MacManus Hall was an unobtrusive pink building with auditoriums on the ground floor. Performance Seminar 201B, now two-thirds over, was held in the Wiley Theater at the back. The blond maple double doors were unlocked and I slipped through. Lights off, maybe fifty rows of padded seats facing a blue-lit stage.

As my eyes adjusted, I made out a dozen or so people, scattered around the room. No one turned as I walked toward the front.

Up on the stage were two people, sitting on hard wooden chairs, hands on knees, staring into each other's