Cover image for The clinic
The clinic
Kellerman, Jonathan.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York, NY : Bantam Doubleday Dell Audio, [1997]

Physical Description:
4 audio discs (360 min.) : digital ; 4 3/4 in.
When psychology professor Hope Devane is found stabbed to death, her life is unraveled to reveal secrets that lead to her demise.
General Note:
Compact disc.

Format :
Audiobook on CD


Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Item Holds
XX(1070534.46) Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
XX(1070534.2) DISC 5 Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks

On Order



Upon his return to Los Angeles from a harrowing adventure in the South Pacific, Alex is called upon by his friend Milo Sturgis to help solve the murder of a celebrity author.For three months the police found no clues to the murder of Hope Devane, psychology professor and controversial author of a pop-psych bestseller about men. She was found stabbed to death on a quiet, shaded street in one of L.A.'s best neighborhoods. The evidence suggested not random slaughter, but cold, calculated stalking. And the list of potential suspects was as extensive as the audience for her book and her talk show appearances.Newly assigned to the cold case, homicide detective Milo Sturgis calls on his friend, Dr. Alex Delaware to seek out insights into the victim's high-profile life. What Alex uncovers is a series of troubling inconsistencies about Hope, including her contradictory personas: the sensational, anti-male bestselling author versus the low-key scholarly university professor.But it is when Alex delves into Hope's childhood that he begins to understand the forces that made her the formidable woman she was--and the ties that entangled her life until the horrifying act of betrayal that ended it.


In the eleventh installment of Jonathan Kellerman's Alex Delaware series, author Hope Devane is mercilessly murdered, prompting homicide detective Milo Sturgis to once again call on the help of psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware. As the duo investigates into Devane's life, they discover a dark past filled with an abundance of enemies and secrets.

Author Notes

Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to 16 consecutive bestselling novels of suspense, including The Butcher's Theater, Jerusalem, and Billy Straight and 32 previous Alex Delaware novels, translated into two dozen languages. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children's books, and three volumes on psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children.

(Publisher Provided) Jonathan Kellerman was born in New York City on August 9, 1949 and raised in Los Angeles. He received a B.A. in Psychology from UCLA and a Ph.D. in Psychology at the University of Southern California. At the age of 22, he won the Samuel Goldwyn Writing Award for fiction.

He has served as Clinical Associate Professor of Pediatrics and Psychology at the School of Medicine at USC and as a consultant to the State of California, the U.S. Army and the Superior Court of Los Angeles. He is the founding director of the Psychosocial Program at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles. The first books he published were medical texts: Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer (1980) and Helping the Fearful Child (1981).

His first novel, When the Bough Breaks (1985), was made into a television movie and received the Edgar Allan Poe and Anthony Boucher awards. He has also written many bestselling crime novels featuring the Alex Delaware series, children's books, and nonfiction works. His fiction book, co-authored with son Jesse Kellerman, The Golem of Hollywood, made the New York Times bestseller list in 2014. His recent books include The Murderer's Daughter and Breakdown.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Publisher's Weekly Review

PW gave a starred review to this thriller about a psychologist's entanglement in a murder case. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

Kellerman is perhaps crime fiction's hottest author at the moment, so his latest is certain to draw a crowd. It begins with psychologist Hope Devane, a respected academic who wins fame and fortune with a radical-feminist, pop-psych book. But her promising career is cut short when she's brutally murdered outside her house. Three months later, there are no clues, no suspects, and no leads. The unsolved case winds up on the desk of LAPD detective Milo Sturgis, who figures the psychology angle could be an important one and quickly enlists the help of Dr. Alex Delaware, Kellerman's warm and cuddly hero. Probing both Devane's personal and professional life for clues, Delaware finds plenty of oddities, from the professor's ill-fated University Conduct Committee to the odd relationship she had with an unscrupulous fertility doctor to the mysterious past she tried so hard to hide. When one of Devane's students is killed, Alex figures he's getting close to the truth. This may be Kellerman's most riveting story yet, but even if it were his worst, libraries would still need to buy plenty! --Emily Melton

Library Journal Review

Kellerman's popular series hero, psychologist/sleuth Alex Delaware (e.g., The Web, LJ 11/1/95), delves into a murder involving a controversial female author. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Few murder streets are lovely. This one was. Elm-shaded, a softly curving stroll to the University, lined with generous haciendas and California colonials above lawns as unblemished as fresh billiard felt. Giant elms. Hope Devane had bled to death under one of them, a block from her home, on the southwest corner. I looked at the spot again, barely exposed by a reluctant moon. The night-quiet was broken only by crickets and the occasional late-model well-tuned car. Locals returning home. Months past the curious-onlooker stage. Milo lit up a cigarillo and blew smoke out the window. Cranking my window down, I continued to stare at the elm. A twisting trunk as thick as a freeway pylon supported sixty feet of opaque foliage. Stout, grasping branches appeared frosted in the moonlight, some so laden they brushed the ground. Five years since the city had last pruned street trees. Property-tax shortfall. The theory was that the killer had hidden under the canopy, though no hint of presence other than bicycle tracks, a few feet away, was ever found. Three months later, theory was all that remained and not much of that. Milo's unmarked Ford shared the block with two other cars, both Mercedeses, both with parking permits on their windshields. After the murder, the city had promised to trim the elms. No follow-through yet. Milo had told me about it with some bitterness, cursing politicians but really damning the cold case. "A couple of news stories, then nada." "Current events as fast food," I'd said. "Quick, greasy, forgettable." "Aren't we the cynic." "Professional training: aiming for rapport with the patient." That had gotten a laugh out of him. Now he frowned, brushed hair off his forehead, and blew wobbly smoke rings. Edging the car up the block, he parked again. "That's her house." He pointed to one of the colonials, smallish, but well-kept. White board front, four columns, dark shutters, shiny fittings on a shiny door. Three steps up from the sidewalk a flagstone path cut through the lawn. A picket gate blocked the driveway. Two upstairs windows were amber behind pale curtains. "Someone home?" I said. "That's his Volvo in the driveway." Light-colored station wagon. "He's always home," said Milo. "Once he gets in he never leaves." "Still mourning?" He shrugged. "She drove a little red Mustang. She was a lot younger than him." "How much younger?" "Fifteen years." "What about him interests you?" "The way he acts when I talk to him." "Nervous?" "Unhelpful. Paz and Fellows thought so, too. For what that's worth." He didn't think much of the first detectives on the case and the common ground probably bothered him as much as anything. "Well," I said, "isn't the husband always the first suspect? Though stabbing her out on the street doesn't sound typical." "True." He rubbed his eyes. "Braining her in the bedroom would have been more manual. But it happens." Twirling the cigar. "Live long enough, everything happens." "Where exactly were the bicycle tracks?" "Just north of the body but I wouldn't make much of those. Lab guys say they could have been anywhere from one to ten days old. A neighbor kid, a student, a fitness freak, anyone. And no one I talked to when I did the door-to-door noticed an unusual biker that whole week." "What's an unusual biker?" "Someone who didn't fit in." "Someone nonwhite?" "Whatever works." "Quiet neighborhood like this," I said, "it's surprising no one saw or heard anything at eleven p.m." "Coroner said it's possible she didn't scream. No defense wounds, no tentatives, so she probably didn't struggle much." "True." I'd read the autopsy findings. Read the entire file, starting with Paz and Fellows's initial report and ending with the pathologist's dictated drone and the packet of postmortem photos. How many such pictures had I seen over the years? It never got easier. "No scream," I said, "because of the heart wound?" "Coroner said it could have collapsed the heart, put her into instant shock." He snapped thick fingers softly, then ran his hand over his face, as if washing without water. What I could see of his profile was heavy as a walrus's, pocked and fatigued. He smoked some more. I thought again of the preautopsy photos, Hope Devane's body ice-white under the coroner's lights. Three deep purple stab wounds in close-up: chest, crotch, just above the left kidney. The forensic scenario was that she'd been taken by surprise and dispatched quickly by the blow that exploded her heart, then slashed a second time above the vagina, and finally laid facedown on the sidewalk and stabbed in the back. "A husband doing that," I said. "I know you've seen worse but it seems so calculated." "This husband's an intellectual, right? A thinker." Smoke escaped the car in wisps, decaying instantly at the touch of night air. "Truth is, Alex, I want it to be Seacrest for selfish reasons. Cause if it's not him, it's a goddamn logistical nightmare." "Too many suspects." "Oh yeah," he said, almost singing it. "Lots of people who could've hated her." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Clinic by Jonathan Kellerman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.