"Dolphins," said Pen approvingly. "Sexy beggars and opportunists too. You wouldn't be the only case of a cross-species romp."
"But it was male dolphin!" the bloke exclaimed in some distress. "And I'm not gay."
"Three possibilities," said Pen. "A bisexual dolphin, a homosexual dolphin, or a heterosexual dolphin with poor eyesight."
This observation generated a positive firestorm of calls, and perspiration began to run down Emily Whippet's face. Pen was obliged to state emphatically that she did not subscribe to bestiality as a way of life.
"There is no homosexuality in the animal kingdom," declared one irate woman. "These are all God's creatures, and each and every one follows God's design for natural, normal behavior."
Pen snorted at mat. "Homosexual and bisexual behavior is common. In fact, it's more common in other species than in humans. Read up on bonobo chimpanzees. It'll curl your hair."
The woman snorted right back at Pen. "I doubt anything you could say would curl my hair," she sneered.
"Wrap your ears around this," said Pen with a ferocious grin. "Bonobo chimpanzees are among humankind's closest relatives. All the bonobos that have been closely observed turn out to be one hundred percent bisexual." She paused for that to sink in. "You got that? Every last chimp swings both ways."
An inarticulate cry, and the caller disconnected.
"And that, listeners, is the sound of hair curling," said Pen with satisfaction.
It was half an hour into the program that Pen's stalker called. Whippet Emily gestured from behind the glass that she had something, then, in the next commercial break, she came on through our earphones. "Creepy Guy's the call after next-calling himself 'Robert of Agoura Hills.' I'm sure it's him."
"Put him through first, as soon as the break ends." Pen looked over at me, triumphant. "I knew he'd call."
The seemingly interminable commercials finally ended. "You're listening to Sexuality Unchained. And we're back with Dr. Penny…"
Pen purred into the microphone, "And our next call is from Robert of Agoura Hills. What do you have for us, Robert?"
"It's what I have for you, Dr. Penny."
Although masculine, it was a high-pitched, slippery voice with an unpleasant note of insinuation.
"You have a problem with your sexuality?"
"I have a problem with you, you ball-breaking bitch."
Emily made a cutthroat gesture to indicate the ten-second delay was in operation and the caller was off the air before listeners could hear his last words.
"Do women intimidate you, Robert?" Pen inquired sweetly.
He ignored that, saying, "You'll be getting a message soon-a very lethal message. You should learn from it." He sniggered. "I wish I could see your face when it's delivered."
There was a click, and he was gone.
Disappointed, Pen sat back in her chair. "That was a bummer," she said. "He hardly said a thing."
My imagination was buzzing with possible meanings of a very lethal message. "It was a threat, Pen. The message he mentioned could be a bomb, anthrax-"
"Kylie, I've heard much worse than that from callers," said Pen with a shrug, "and nothing's ever happened."
"Five seconds," said Roger.
As cheerfully outrageous as ever, Pen continued with depressed callers suffering premature performance problems, premature rejection problems-"You must be making a lousy first impression," Pen remarked at one point-as well as upbeat callers who readily shared the most intimate particulars of their sexual experiences in surprising detail.
Near the end of the program, Pen was busily quizzing a woman who claimed to have discovered some amazing techniques while traveling in Tibet, when a movement in the control room caught my eye. I was astonished to see Rube Wasinsky, his face haggard, staring through the glass at Pen.
She saw him too. "What's wrong?" she mouthed, while the caller burbled on about secret Tibetan sex arts.
When he put his face in his hands, Pen turned back to the microphone. She interrupted the woman, with, "I'm so sorry, but we're out of time," then she rapidly wrapped up the show.
Pen and I took off our earphones as Rube came into the room. "Oh, Pen," he said. "Oh, Pen."
She stared at him, white-faced. "What is it?"
"It's Oscar."
Pen leaped up. "He's hurt?"
"He's dead, Pen. Oscar's dead."
SIXTEEN
Ariana arrived at UCLA before Pen, Rube, and I did. I had volunteered to drive, as Pen was so shaken and Rube was so distracted that they would have been a danger on the roads. Rube knew Oscar's body had been found near one of the university buildings presently being extensively renovated. I'd become familiar enough with the campus to make an educated guess where this might be.
As it happened, we didn't have to search for the site, as the irritating strobing of the emergency lights of several patrol cars and the white glare of spotlights made it obvious. As the death had occurred on campus, UCLA's police force was also involved. I parked quite illegally next to sign that read NO PARKING AT ANY TIME and had scarcely stopped the car before Pen was out and rushing toward the lights. Rube and I caught up with her when she slowed suddenly at the edge of the crowd that had gathered. I was sure I knew why. Pen was imagining, like I was, the horror mat would be waiting for her.
Spectators, mainly students, watched everything with avid eyes. They were clustered outside the scaffolding enclosing a red-brick and sandstone four-story building. They were held back from the action by police tape, which was strung around the floodlit area.
Ariana was just inside the police tape talking with a heavily built man with a world-weary expression. Everything on his face had a downward droop)-his eyelids, his cheeks, his long nose, the corners of his mouth, the flabby jowls that blurred the definition of his jaw.
Ariana gestured for us to join them. The curiosity of the crowd was aroused when we were allowed to duck under the tape. Ariana introduced us to Detective Lark, a name that seemed singularly inappropriate for him. As Lark made a perfunctory statement of sympathy, Pen looked past him and shuddered.
I felt like shuddering too. It wasn't like the movies or TV-Oscar's body hadn't been decently covered. I recalled reading somewhere that contamination of a crime scene often occurred when bodies picked up fibers from the material used to hide them from curious eyes. Oscar lay facedown, his limbs splayed. Around his bushy head a dark stain- surely blood-had seeped into the dry earth.
Pen swayed, and seized Rube's arm for support. Obviously fearing she might collapse, Lark took her other arm and together he and Rube helped her to the nearest patrol car.
"Pen shouldn't have seen that," I said.
"Could you have stopped her from coming here?"
I shook my head. "Of course not."
Ariana looked grim. "As next of kin, she'll be asked to identify the body anyway."
I had the unreal feeling I was a character in a script in a TV crime show and that any moment the director would yell, "Cut!"
I said, just as my TV character would, "What happened?"
Indicating the scaffolding looming above us, Ariana said, "It appears Oscar fell from somewhere up there."
I could see figures on the roof silhouetted by the flashlights they were using. "What could Oscar possibly be doing on a building site?"
Ariana shrugged. "As a cop, I found people do the strangest things," she said. "Without a thought of personal danger, they get themselves into hazardous situations. Sometimes it's fatal."
My gaze was drawn magnetically to Oscar's body. If he would only get up, and laugh, and say, "I fooled you, didn't I?" But he would never shake that shaggy head again or exclaim, "Bloody Yarrow!"
"Ariana, are you saying this is just a stupid accident?"
"It's much too early to come to any firm conclusion, but I get the impression Ted Lark is leaning that way."
"You know Detective Lark?"
"Very well. We worked together several times when I was on the force."