“I can’t think of anything that would reflect on you.”
Singh said, “That sounds upsettingly vague.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s too soon to be more specific. I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes.”
Singh touched his turban. “Much obliged.”
“Were you aware that Gavin didn’t stick with Gull?”
“Really?” said Singh.
“No one told you.”
“The only communication I got was from Gull. A week in, he called, thanked me, said everything was going fine. Never heard from him again. What happened?”
“Gavin didn’t get along with Gull and was transferred to Dr. Koppel.”
“Guess she found time for him. Poor Gavin. Whatever he did to Beth, the boy had it rough. Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”
He walked me out.
I thanked him for his time, and said, “Dallas?”
“Houston. Born and bred; my daddy was a heart transplant surgeon on Denton Cooley’s team.” He smiled. “Cowboys and Indians, and all that good stuff.”
CHAPTER
27
I got home just after five, tried the Times human resources office, found out it was closed. I tried to recall the names of colleagues Ned Biondi had mentioned and came up with one, Don Zeltin, like Ned, once a reporter, now a columnist. I phoned the paper’s switchboard, asked for him, got patched through.
“Zeltin,” said a gruff voice.
I started to explain who I was and that I wanted to get in touch with Ned.
“Sounds complicated,” said Zeltin. “You could be some nut.”
“I could be but I’m not. If you don’t mind calling Ned—”
“Maybe Ned didn’t leave you a number because he doesn’t want to hear from you.”
“Would calling him and asking be a huge imposition? It’s important.”
“Psychologist, huh? My ex-wife decided she was going to be a psychologist. Back when she was still my wife. I’ve got three friends in the same boat. Wife talks about going back to shrink school, get on the horn to your divorce lawyer.”
I laughed.
He said, “It’s not funny. Actually, it is. She ended up dropping out, and now she lives in Vegas and sells clothes at a crappy boutique. Okay, what the hell, I’ll call Ned. Give me your name again.”
*
I looked up Franco Gull in my American Psychological Association directory. He’d gone to college at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. Double major: psychology and business. His move to Berkeley for grad school had been delayed by two years playing semipro baseball at a farm club in Fresno. Not the kind of thing generally listed in the APA book; Gull had been proud of his athletic stint.
Charismatic at a young age, sure about his physicality.
Gull had no academic appointments, had conducted no research since grad school that he cared to specify. His areas of interest were “interpersonal relations” and “insight-oriented therapy.” From what I could tell, he’d gone straight from a postdoc at UC Riverside into private practice with Mary Lou Koppel.
While I had the book in front of me, I checked out Albin Larsen. His bio was considerably longer and more impressive. Undergraduate work at Stockholm University, followed by a one-year fellowship in public policy at Cambridge, back to Sweden for a doctorate at Göteborg University and an assistant professorship in the Social Sciences Institute at that same institution. His areas of interest were cultural factors in psychological assessment, the integration of social and clinical psychology, the application of psychological research to conflict resolution, and the appraisal and treatment of war-related trauma and stress. He’d done relief work in Rwanda and Kenya, consulted to Amnesty International, Doctors Without Borders, the Human Rights Beacon Symposium, World Focus on Prisoners’ Rights, and a child welfare subcommittee of the United Nations. Though he’d lived in the U.S. for eight years and had earned a California license shortly after arriving, he’d maintained an academic appointment at Göteborg.
Substantive fellow. Would Koppel and Gull’s shenanigans have offended him?
I got on the computer, logged on to the California Board of Psychology website and checked the list of disciplinary actions. Nothing on Gull or Larsen. Whatever Gull’s transgressions had been, they’d remained private.
Which might very well be the point.