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.
CHAPTER 29
My 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.”