Silent Partner

He made cud-chewing motions with his lips, as if trying to bring up the right word. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak. “You’ll find no scandal here. Everything’s been done through proper channels.”

“I’m willing to test that hypothesis.”

“Delaware-”

“I spent the morning reading a fascinating document, Frazier. ‘The Silent Partner. Identity Crisis and Ego Dysfunction in a Case of Multiple Personality,’ et cetera. Ring a bell?”

He looked genuinely blank.

“The doctoral dissertation of Sharon Ransom, Ph.D. Submitted to the department in partial fulfillment. And approved- by you. A single case study, not a shred of empirical research- a clear violation of every rule you pushed through. You signed your name to the damn thing. How’d she get away with it? How much did Kruse pay you to bend that far?”

“Sometimes,” he said, “allowances are made.”

“This went beyond allowances. This was fraud.”

“I fail to understand just what-”

“She wrote about herself. About her own psychopathology. Camouflaged it as a case history and palmed it off as research. What do you think the Board of Regents would make of that? Not to mention APA’s ethics committee. Time and Newsweek.”

Whatever remained of his composure crumbled and his color got bad. I remembered what Larry had said about a heart attack and wondered if I’d pushed too hard.

“Jesus God,” he said. “Don’t pursue this. I didn’t know- an aberration. I assure you it will never happen again.”

“True. Kruse is dead.”

“Let the dead rest, Delaware. Please!”

“All I want is information,” I said softly. “Give me some truth and the matter’s dropped.”

“What? What do you want to know?”

“The connection between Ransom and Kruse.”

“I don’t know much about that. That’s the Lord’s truth. Only that she was his protegee.”

I remembered how soon it was after Sharon arrived that Kruse had filmed her.

“He brought her with him, didn’t he? Sponsored her application.”

“Yes, but-”

“Where did he bring her from?”

“Wherever he was from, I assume.”

“Where was that?”

“Florida.”

“Palm Beach?”

He nodded.

“Was she from Palm Beach too?”

“I have no idea-”

“We could find out by checking her application records.”

“When did she graduate?”

“’81.”

He picked up the phone, called the department, and mouthed a few orders. A moment later he was frowning, saying, “Are you sure? Double-check.” Silence. “All right, all right.” He hung up and said, “Her file is gone.”

“How convenient.”

“Delaware-”

“Call the registrar’s office.”

“All they’d have would be her transcript.”

“Transcripts list prior institutions attended.”

He nodded, dialed a number, pulled rank with a clerk, and waited. Then he used the yellow marker to write something in a column of the manuscript and hung up. “Not Florida. Long Island, New York. A place called Forsythe Teachers College.”

I used his paper and pen to copy that down.

“By the way,” he said, “her grades were superb- undergraduate and graduate. Unblemished A’s. No indication of anything other than exceptional scholarship. She might very well have gotten in without his help.”

“What else do you know about her?”

“Why do you need to know all of this?”

I stared at him, said nothing.

“I had nothing to do with her,” he said. “Kruse was the one with a personal interest in her.”

“How personal?”

“If you’re assuming something… corrupt, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Why would I assume that?”

He hesitated, looked queasy. “It’s no secret that he was known for certain… proclivities. Drives.”

“Were those drives directed toward Sharon Ransom?”

“No, I… That’s not the kind of thing I pay much attention to.”

I believed him. “Think those drives helped her get straight A’s?”

“Absolutely not. That’s simply-”

“How’d he manage to get her in?”

“He didn’t get her in. He sponsored her. Her grades were perfect. His sponsorship was simply an additional factor in her favor- nothing unusual. Faculty members have always been allowed to sponsor applicants.”

“Tenured faculty,” I said. “When have clinical associates ever had that kind of clout?”

A long silence. “I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He cleared his throat, as if ready to spit. Expelled a single word: “Money.”

“Blalock money?”

“As well as his own- he came from a wealthy family, ran in the same social circle as Mrs. Blalock and her ilk. You know how rare those kinds of contacts are among academics, especially at a public university. He was regarded as more than just another clinical associate.”

“A clinical associate with training in psychological warfare.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” I said. “So he was your bridge between town and gown.”

“That’s correct. Nothing shameful about that, is there?”

I remembered what Larry had said about Kruse treating one of the Blalock children. “Was his only connection with Mrs. Blalock a social one?”

“As far as I know. Please, Delaware, don’t make something ominous out of all this and get her involved. The department was in dire financial straits; Kruse brought substantial funds with him and promised to use his connections to obtain an ample endowment from Mrs. Blalock. He made good on that promise. In return we offered him an unpaid appointment.”

“Unpaid in terms of salary. He got lab facilities. For his pornography research. Real academic rigor.”

He flinched. “It wasn’t that simple. The department did not simply yield like a harlot. It took months to confirm his appointment. The senior faculty debated it heavily- there was