“Would
kids with A.D.D. be considered special needs?”
“Absolutely.
It’s a recognized disability. Is there any point in my asking you why you want
to know all this?”
“There
are some people under suspicion,” I said. “Milo wants to know if they’re
getting rich at the public trough.”
“Dear
Milo. Has he lost weight?”
“Maybe
a little.”
“Meaning
no. Well, I haven’t either. You know what I say to constitutionally skinny
people? Go away. Anyway, if you want you can give me names of these suspicious
individuals, when I get back to the office I’ll run them through the computer.”
“Drew—
probably Andrew— and Cherish Daney.” I spelled the surname and thanked her.
“Cherish
as in I love you?”
“As
in.”
“Except
maybe she loves money too much?”
“It’s
a possibility.”
“Anything
else you want to tell me?”
“How
many foster children can one family care for?”
“Six.”
“These
people have eight.”
“Then
they’re being naughty. Not that anyone’s likely to notice. There’s a shortage
of what the state feels are decent homes and very few caseworkers to look into
details. If nothing terrible happens, no one pays attention.”
“What
comprises a decent home?” I said.
“Two
parents, middle class would be great but not necessary. No felony record.
Optimally, someone’s working but there’s also someone in the home to
supervise.”
“The
Daneys fit the bill on all accounts,” I said. “Does the state pay for
homeschooling?”
“Same
answer: It depends on how you fill out the forms. There’s a clothing allowance,
a supplemental clothing allowance, all sorts of health care surcharges that can
be tapped. What’s up, darling? Another one of those scams?”
“It’s
complicated, Olivia.”
She
sighed. “With you it always is.”
* * *
Fulton
Seminary offered one degree, a master of divinity. According to its website,
the school’s curriculum emphasized “scriptural, ministerial, and public service
aspects of professional evangelical training.” Students were allowed a range of
“intellectual concentrations” including Christian Leadership, Evangelical
Promotion, and Program Supervision.
Several
paragraphs were devoted to the school’s philosophical underpinnings: God was
perfect, faith in Jesus superseded all actions, humans were depraved until
saved, worship and service were essential elements of fixing a world in dire
need of repair.
The
campus sat on three hilly acres on Glendale’s northern rim. A fifteen-minute
ride to the motel on Chevy Chase.
I
scrolled through pages of photos. Small groups of clean-cut, smiling students,
rolling lawns, the same glass-fronted sixties building in every shot. No
mention of an on-site cemetery.
The
faculty numbered seven ministers. The dean was Reverend Doctor Crandall
Wascomb, D.Theol., Ph.D., LL.D. Crandall’s picture made him out to be around
sixty, with a thin face above a high, smooth dome of brow, silver-white hair
that covered the top of his ears, and crinkly eyes of the exact same hue as his
powder blue jacket.
I
called his extension. A woman’s taped voice told me Dr. Wascomb was out of the
office but he really cared about what I had to say. “Please leave a detailed
message of any length and repeat your name and phone number at least once.
Thank you and God Bless and have a wonderful day.”
My
message was short on details but I did toss in my police affiliation. There was
a good chance I’d made it sound more official than it was, but Dr. Wascomb’s
training prepared him for minor transgressions.
Repeating
my name and number, I hung up, reflecting on human depravity.
* * *
Just
after nine p.m., Dr. Crandall Wascomb called while I was out with Allison. My
service operator said, “Such a nice man,” then she gave me the number.
Different from his office. It was nearly eleven but I phoned anyway and a
soft-voiced woman picked up.
“Dr.
Wascomb, please?”
“May
I ask who’s calling?”
“Dr.
Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”
“One
second.”
Seconds
later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a
lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that
you’re a police psychologist?”
“I
consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”
“I
see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”
“Pardon?”
A
beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Sorry
to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton
alumna.”
“Alumna.
A woman.”
“Cherish
Daney.”
Pause.
“Is Cherish all right?”
“So
far.”
“So
she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.
“No.
Is there some reason you’d think that?”
“The
police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about
Cherish?”
“I’ve
been asked to learn about her background— ”
“In
what context?”
“It’s
a bit complicated, Dr. Wascomb.”
“Well,”
he said, “I certainly can’t talk to you over the phone about something
complicated.”
“Could
we meet face-to-face?”
“To
talk about Cherish.”
“Yes.”
“I
must tell you, I have nothing but good things to say about Cherish. She was one
of our finest students. I can’t imagine why the police would want to learn
about her background.”
“Why
didn’t she finish her degree?” I said.
And who’s Baylord Patterman?
“Perhaps,”
said Wascomb, “we should meet.”
“I’ll
be happy to come to your office.”
“My
office calendar’s quite full,” he said. “Let me leaf through my
book . . . it appears as if I have one opening tomorrow. One
p.m., my usual lunch break.”
“That
would be fine, Dr. Wascomb.”
“I
wouldn’t mind getting away from campus,” he said. “But it has to be somewhere
close, I’ve only got forty-five minutes . . .”
“I
know a place,” I said. “A bit south of you on Brand. Patty’s Place.”
“Patty’s
Place . . . haven’t been there in ages. Back when the school was
undergoing remodeling I’d sometimes meet there with students— did you know
that, sir?”
“No,”
I said. “I just like pancakes.”
* * *
Baylord
Patterman
pulled up five hits on
Google. A Burbank-based attorney, he’d been arrested a year ago for running an
insurance fraud ring that set up phony traffic accidents. The bust resulted
when a fender bender on Riverside Drive turned into an air-bag disaster that
killed a five-year-old girl. Patterman, his hired drivers, a couple of crooked
chiropractors, and assorted clerical staff were charged with vehicular
homicide. Most were pled down to white-collar crimes. Patterman ended up with a
conviction for involuntary manslaughter, was disbarred, and sentenced to five
years in state prison.
The
Fulton Seminary connection appeared in two of the citations: Patterman was the
son of a founding trustee of the school and a continuing donor to the cause.
Dr. Crandall Wascomb was quoted as being “unaware and appalled” by his
benefactor’s dark side.
If he
was sincere, I felt sorry for him. All those years pushing virtue and he was
going to be disappointed again.
M
y week for coffee shops.
Patty’s
Place smelled of butter and eggs, meat on the grill, pancake batter, the
soap-and-water breeze that accompanied a cheery young Latina waitress
name-tagged Heather who said, “Anywhere you like.”
The
restaurant was half-filled with serious eaters of retirement age. Big portions,
tall glasses, grease on chins. To hell with the food nazis. My presence brought
down the median age by a decade. I took a booth with a view of the entrance and
Happy Heather brought me a mug of dangerously hot coffee unspoiled by
pretentious labeling.
Dr.
Crandall Wascomb showed up at seven after one, tugging at the knot of his tie
and smoothing his white hair. He was short, very thin, wore black-rimmed
eyeglasses too wide for his knife-blade face. He had on a brown herringbone
sport coat, a white shirt, lighter brown slacks, and tan loafers. His bright
blue tie stood out like a nautical spinnaker.
When
his eyes found mine I gave a small wave. He came over, shook my hand, sat down.
The
hair was shorter and sparser than in his official photo. His smooth dome was
scored by parallel lines. I guessed him at seventy or so. He blended right in
with the clientele.
“Thanks
for meeting with me, Dr. Wascomb.”
“Certainly,”
he said. “Do you have preset notions about evangelical Christians, Dr.
Delaware?”
“When
I judge people it’s by behavior not belief.”
“Good
for you.” His eyes didn’t move. Bluer than in the photo. Or maybe they’d
absorbed some of the necktie’s intensity. “I assume you checked into the
Baylord Patterman issue.”
“I
did.”
“I
won’t offer excuses but I will explain. Baylord’s father was a fine man, it was
he who helped us get started. That was thirty-two years ago. I’d come out from
Oklahoma City, worked in the petroleum supply business before going back to
school. I wanted to make an impact. Gifford Patterman was that rare man of
wealth with an open, warm heart. I was naive enough to think the same applied
to his son.”
Heather
arrived, pad in hand.
Wascomb
said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Are the flannel cakes still
fabulous?”
“They’re
awesome, sir.”
“Then
that’s what I’ll have.”
“Full
stack or half?”
“Full,
butter, syrup, jelly, the works.” Wascomb flashed cream-colored dentures.
“Nothing like breakfast in the afternoon to make the day seem young.”
“Something
to drink, sir?”
“Hot
tea— chamomile if you have it.”
“And
you, sir?”
“I’ll
try the flannel cakes, too.”
“Good
choice,” said Heather. “You’re gonna love your meal.”
Wascomb
didn’t watch her leave. His eyes were on his napkin.
I
said, “Baylord Patterman let you down.”
“He
let Fulton down. The investigation into his activities gave us a black eye
because we were the largest beneficiary of his filthy lucre. You can imagine
the reaction of some of our other major donors.”
“Race
to the exit.”
“Stampede,”
said Wascomb. “It hurt. We’re a small school, operating on a shoestring budget.
I call us the seminary that does more with less. The only reason we’re able to
survive is that we own the land the school sits on and maintenance costs are
just about covered by a good Christian woman’s will. Baylord Patterman’s
grandmother.”
His
tea arrived. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his head and uttered a
silent grace before sipping.
“Sorry
for your problems,” I said.
“Thank
you. We’re getting our head above water. Which is why I chose to meet you here
rather than at the school. I simply can’t afford any more bad publicity.”
“I
have no intention of giving you any.”
He
studied me over his tea. “Thank you. I’m going to deal openly with you because
I’m an open person. And frankly, there’s no longer any privacy. Not in the
computer age. But that doesn’t mean I can talk freely about a former student
without that student’s permission. Not without good reason.”
Holding
on to his cup, he sat back in the booth.
I
said, “What would be a good reason?”
“Why
don’t you tell me what you’re after?”
“I’m
limited in what I can say, too, Dr. Wascomb. There are certain details the
police keep to themselves.”
“So
this is a homicide case?” He smiled at my surprise. “I took the liberty of
researching you, Dr. Delaware. Your consultations to the police seem to center
on homicide. That shocked me. I can’t imagine Cherish involved in anything
criminal, let alone homicide. She’s a gentle person. As I told you, one of our
finest students.”
“But
she didn’t finish her degree.”
“That,”
he said, “was most unfortunate. But it had nothing to do with her.”
I
waited.
Wascomb
looked over at the counter. Heather was standing around, talking to the
cashier.
“Doctor?”
I said.
“Cherish’s
misfortune was somewhat similar to mine,” said Wascomb. “Vis-à-vis Baylord
Patterman.”