Dr. Leonard Paschelke’s home was hidden in a small grove of young redwoods a hundred feet off the road. His office was in the basement rec room and was a lot like the man himself: large, rumpled, and comfortable. Books lined the walls; a stack of well-thumbed medical journals held down a corner of his desk. The far end of the room was taken up with a cheap stereo system and an old TV set. The battered couch in front of it was half-filled with torn pillows and kids’ toys. Paschelke shooed his two small daughters off the couch and sent them upstairs to keep their mother company in the kitchen. He turned off the TV and waved Artie and Mitch to take a seat, then waddled over to an easy chair and sank into it with a sigh. “You said you wanted to talk to me about Larry.” He added affectionately: “The son of a bitch in some kind of trouble?” Paschelke peered at them over the top of his thick glasses. “You said you were friends of his, right?” They hadn’t talked to Paschelke about Shea’s death over the phone, and Artie was now sorry that they hadn’t; it was going to be much more difficult face-to-face.
