He took the portable tapedeck into the library and loaded the video.
We sat across from one another, listening to screams, trying to shut out the context. Even with two people it was difficulthard to divide the howls into discrete segments.
We played and rewound, doing it over and over, trying to locate the sixteen seconds of the bad love tape amid the pain and noise of the longer video segment. The dog tolerated only a minute or so before scooting out of the room.
Milo and I stayed and sweated.
After half an hour, a triumph of sorts.
A discrepancy.
A second or two of sing-song, wordless jabber at the tail end of my tape that didn’t materialize anywhere on the soundtrack of the video.
Ya ya ya. .. the screamer lowering his volume just a bit-a barely discernible shift not much longer than an eyeblink. But once I pointed it out, it mushroomed, as obvious as a billboard.
“Two separate taping sessions,” I said, as stunned as Milo looked.
“Has to be, otherwise why would the shorter tape have something on it that’s missing from the longer segment?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, and I knew he was an ry at himself 9 for not catching it first.
He sprang to his feet and paced. Looked at his Timer.
“When’d you say you were going to the airport?”
“Nine.”
“If you’re comfortable leaving the place unguarded, I could go get something done.”
“Sure,” I said, rising. “What?”
“Talk to the clinic director about Hewitt’s social life.”
He collected his things and we walked to the door.
“Okay, I’m off,” he said. “Got the Porsche and the cellular, so you can always reach me if you need to.”
“Thanks for everything, Milo.”
“What’re friends for?”
Ugly answers flashed in my head, but I kept them to myself.
just as I was preparing to head out for LAX, Dr. Stanley Wolf returned my call.
He sounded middle-aged and spoke softly and hesitantly, as if doubting his own credibility.
l thanked him and said I’d called about Dr. Grant Stoumen.
“Yes, I got the message.” He asked several tortuous questions about my credentials. Then: “Were you a student of Grant’s?”
“No, we never met.”
“Oh. .. what do you need to know?”
“I’m being harassed by someone, Dr. Wolf, and I thought Dr. Stoumen might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Harassed?”
“Annoying mail. Phone calls. It may be linked to a conference I cochaired several years ago. Dr. Stoumen delivered a paper there.”
“A conference? I don’t understand.”
“A symposium on the work of Andres de Bosch entitled Good Love/Bad Love.”
The term bad love’ was used in the harassment.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Seventy-nine.”
“De Bosch-the child analyst?”
“Did you know him?”
“No, child analysis is outside of my. .. purview.”
“Did Dr. Stoumen ever talk about de Bosch-or this particular conference?”
“Not to my recollection. Nor did he mention any. .. annoying mail?”
“Maybe annoying’ is too mild,” I said. “It’s fairly nasty stuff.”
“Uh-hen.” He didn’t sound convinced.
I said, “Last night it went a little further. Someone trespassed on my property. I have a fish pond. They took a fish out, killed it, and left it for me to see.”
“Hmm. How. .. bizarre. And you think this symposium’s the link?”
“I don’t know, but it’s all I’ve got so far. I’m trying to contact anyone who appeared on the dais, to see if they’ve been harassed. So far everyone I’ve tried to reach has moved out of town. Do you happen to know a psychiatrist named Wilbert Harrison or a social worker named Mitchell Lerner?”
“No.”
“They also delivered papers. The co-chairs were de Bosch’s daughter, Katarina, and a New York analyst named Harvey Rosenblatt.”
“I see. … Well, as I mentioned I’m not a child analyst. And unfortunately, Grant’s no longer with us, so I’m afraid-” “Where did his accident take place?”
“Seattle,” he said, with sudden strength in his voice. “At a conference, as a matter of fact. And it wasn’t a simple accident. It was a hit-and-run.
Grant was heading out for a late-night walk, he stepped off the curb in front of his hotel and was struck down.”