“Another thing,” I said. “I never heard any feminist outcry about her death, or the fact that it hadn’t been solved. Maybe because she wasn’t affiliated with any feminist groups—at least I didn’t see any listed in her resume.”
“True,” he said. “A loner?”
“She did the usual committee things, joined academic societies. But nothing political. Despite the tone of the book. And speaking of the resume, one thing caught my eye: She chaired something called the Interpersonal Conduct Committee. It sounds like it might have something to do with sexual harassment—maybe handling complaints by students against faculty. Which could have been another source of controversy. What if she put someone’s career in jeopardy?”
“Interpersonal conduct. I never noticed that.”
“It was just a notation at the end.”
“Thanks for paying attention. Yeah, that sounds interesting. Want to do me a favor and check it out on campus? The department head hasn’t returned my calls since the first time I spoke to him.”
“Ed Gabelle?”
“Yeah, what’s he like?”
“A politician,” I said. “Sure, I’ll ask.”
“Thanks. Now let me tell you what gets me about Professor Devane. The discrepancy between what she wrote and the way she acted on TV. In the book she basically tagged all men as scum, you’d think she was a major-league man-hater. But on the tapes she comes across as a woman who likes guys. Sure she thinks we’ve got some things to work out, maybe she even pities us a little. But the overall attitude is friendliness, Alex. She seemed comfortable with men—more than that. I guess to me she came across as the kind of gal you could have a couple of beers with.”
“More like champagne cocktails,” I said.
“Okay, granted. And not at the Dewdrop Inn. Paneled lounge at the Bel Air Hotel. But the contrast is still dramatic. At least to me.”
“You know,” I said, “you could say the same thing about the resume. The first half was all by-the-book academic, the second was Media Star. Almost as if she were two separate people.”
“And another thing: Maybe I’m not the best judge, but to me she was sexy on the tube. Seductive, the way she made eye contact with the camera, gave that little smile, crossed her legs, showing a little thigh. The way she said plenty by not saying anything.”
“Those could have been shrinks’ pauses. We learn to use silence to get others to open up.”
“Then she sure learned well.”
“Okay, what if she was sexy?”
“I’m wondering if she was the type to get involved in something dangerous. . . . Am I pop-psyching myself into a corner?”
“Maybe what you’re really talking about is compartmentalization. Separating aspects of her life. Putting them in little boxes.”
“Maybe little secret boxes,” he said. “And secrets can get dangerous. On the other hand, could be we’ve got something stupid—a stone nutso who saw her on the tube and God told him to kill her. Or a psychopath out stalking blonds on the Westside and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. God forbid. . . . Okay, I appreciate the time, Alex. Gonna be working late right here, if you think of anything else.”
“I’ll try Ed Gabelle on that conduct committee, call you if it gets interesting.”
“It’s already interesting,” he said. Then he cursed.
CHAPTER
3
Ed Gabelle was an aggressively casual physiological psychologist with a thick thatch of gray hair, a tiny mouth, and a whiny, singsong voice that sometimes veered toward an English accent. His specialty was creating lesions in cockroach neurons and observing the results. Lately, I’d heard, he’d been trying to get grant money to study drug abuse.
It was just after lunchtime and I found him leaving the faculty club wearing blue jeans, a denim shirt, and an outspoken yellow paisley tie.
His obligatory greeting faded fast when I told him what I wanted.
“The police, Alex?” he said, pityingly. “Why?”
“I’ve worked with them before.”
“Have you . . . well, I’m afraid I can’t help you on this. It wasn’t a departmental issue.”
“Whose was it?”
“It was . . . let’s just say Hope was somewhat of an individualist. You know what I mean—that book of hers.”