“Brilliant,” he repeated. “He composed it while fighting in the French Resistance. Taking the bastards' own pseudo-theories of racial superiority and throwing it all back in their faces with good, sound science. That was one of the things that attracted me to him when I was a resident. The combination of social conscience and psychoanalysis. Too many analysts live in a twelve-foot-square world—the office as universe, rich people on the couch, summers in Vienna. I wanted more.”

“Is that why you studied anthropology?”

“I wanted to learn about other cultures. And Andres supported me in that. Told me it would make me a better therapist. He was a great mentor, Alex. That's why it was so crushing to hear him sneer at those field hands—like seeing one's father in a disgusting light. I swallowed it in silence several times. Finally, I resigned and left town.”

“For Beverly Hills?”

“I did a year of research in Chile, then caved in and returned to my own twelve-foot-square world.”

“Did you tell him why you were leaving?”

“No, just that I was unhappy, but he understood.” He shook his head. “He was an intimidating man. I was a coward.”

“It had to take force of personality to dominate Katarina.”

“Oh, yes, and he did dominate her . . . after I returned from Chile, he called me just once. We had a frosty conversation, and that was that.”

“But Katarina wanted you at the conference anyway.”

“She wanted me because I was part of his past—the glory years. By then he was a vegetable and she was resurrecting him. She brought me pictures of him in his wheelchair. “You abandoned him once, Bert. Don't do it again.' Guilt's a great motivator.”

He looked away. Worked his jaws.

“I don't see any obvious tie-in,” I said, “but Rodney Shipler, the man who was beaten to death, was black. At the time of his murder, he was a school janitor in L.A. Do you have any memory of him at all?”

“No, that name isn't familiar.” He looked back at me. Edgy—guilty?

“What is it, Bert?”

“What's what?”

“Something's on your mind.” I smiled. “Your face is full of stress.”

He smiled back and sighed. “Something came into my mind. Your Mr. Silk. Probably irrelevant.”

“Something about Lerner?”

“No, no, this is something that happened after the “bad love' conference—soon after, a couple of days, I believe.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as if coaxing forth memories.