The Clinic

A buzzing sound made me jump.

A shiny green fly had entered through the open door. It circled the room, alighted on the bar, took off again, inspected an ashtray, sped toward me. I swatted it away and it veered off, studied itself in a Beck's mirror, flew back. Hovering above Locking's body, it dove and landed on a patch of abdomen.

Pausing, then climbing up to the lifeless face.

To a bloody spot.

It stayed there. Rubbed its forelegs together.

I went to look for a phone.

32

“It is not,” Philip Seacrest repeated, “a crime.”

He might have been lecturing to students, but Milo was no sophomore.

A West L.A. interrogation room. A video camera hummed on auto but Milo's pen kept busy. I was alone in the observation cubicle, with cold coffee and frozen images.

“No, it's not, Professor.”

“I don't expect you to understand but I believe people's personal lives are just that.”

Milo stopped writing.

“When did it begin, Professor?”

“I don't know.”

“No?”

“It was not my idea… never my propensity.”

“Whose propensity was it?”

“Hope's. Casey's. I was never sure which of them actually initiated it.”

“When did you get involved?” said Milo, picking up one of the Polaroids on the table and flicking a corner with his index finger.

Seacrest turned away. Moments ago, his gray herringbone jacket had been off and the sleeve of his white shirt had been rolled up, revealing the anchor tattoo. Now he was fully dressed, the jacket buttoned.

He began picking at his untidy beard. His first reaction upon seeing the snapshots had been shock. Then wet- eyed resignation followed by hardened resolve. He hadn't been arrested, though Milo had offered him an attorney during questioning. Seacrest had turned him down curtly, as if insulted by the suggestion. As the interview ground on, he'd managed to build upon the indignation.

“When did you get involved, Professor?”

“Later.”

“How much later?”

“How could I possibly know that, Mr. Sturgis? As I told you, I have no idea when they began.”

“When did you get involved in absolute terms?”

“A year, year and a half ago.”

“And Locking was your wife's student for over three years.”

“That sounds right.”

“So it may have been going on for two years before you started.”

“It,” said Seacrest, smiling sourly. “Yes, it might have.”

“So what happened?” said Milo. “The two of them just walked in one day and announced hey, guess what, we've gotten into some B-and-D games, care to join?”

Seacrest flushed but he kept his voice even. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

Seacrest shook his head and flexed his neck from side to side. The smile hadn't totally faded.

“Something amusing, Professor?”

“Being brought here is perverse. My wife's been murdered and you concern yourself with this kind of thing.”

Milo leaned forward suddenly, staring into Seacrest's eyes. Seacrest startled but composed himself and stared back. “Perverse, trivial, and irrelevant.”

“Humor me, Professor. How did you get involved?”

“I- you're right about it being a game. That's exactly what it was. Just a game. I don't expect you to be tolerant of… divergence, but that's all it was.”

Milo smiled. “Divergence?”

Seacrest ignored him.

“So they asked you to diverge with them.”

“No. They- I happened upon them. One afternoon when I was supposed to be lecturing. I felt a touch of something coming on, canceled class, came home.”

“And found the two of them?”

“Yes, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Where?”

“In our bed.” Seacrest smiled. “The marital bed.”

“Must have been a big shock.”

“To say the least.”

“What'd you do?”

Seacrest waited a long time to answer. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That's right, Mr. Sturgis. Nothing.”

“You didn't get angry?”

“You didn't ask me how I felt, you asked what I did. And the answer is nothing. I turned around and walked out.”

“How'd you feel?”

Another delay. “I really can't say. It wasn't anger. Anger would have been futile.”

“Why?”

“Hope didn't take well to anger.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had no tolerance for it. Had I displayed anger, things would have gotten… confrontational.”

“Married people fight, Professor. Seems to me you had a damned good reason.”

“How understanding of you, Mr. Sturgis. However, Hope and I never fought. It didn't suit either of us.”

“So what did you mean by confrontational?”

“A war. Of silence. Interminable, frigid, seemingly infinite stretches of silence. Psychological exile. Even when Hope claimed to forgive, she never forgot. I knew her emotional repertoire the way a conductor knows a score. So when I saw the two of them, I maintained my dignity and simply walked away.”

“And then what?”

“And then…” Seacrest pulled at his beard again, “someone closed the door and I assume they… finished. I'm sure you find my reaction contemptible. Cowardly. Wimpish. No doubt you think you would have reacted differently. No doubt you'll be going home tonight to a dutiful wife and dutiful children- probably somewhere in the Valley. A charmingly conventional 818 lifestyle.”

Milo sat back and pressed a thick finger over his lips.

Looking suddenly tired, Seacrest covered his eyes with both hands, pulled down at the lids, let the hands trail