Devil's Waltz Part 60

"How Machiavellian."

"He fancies himself an intellectual. He's a professor."

"Here?"

"No, at a junior college. But he does his serious research at the U, which is why I'm calling you. My bet is he read up exhaustively on the syndrome in order to create a textbook case. His first child died of SIDS. Another textbook case, so I'm wondering if he set that up too."

"Oh, no-this sounds grotesque."

"I was thinking about the SAP system," I said. "If he's got a faculty account, would there be some way to find out?"

"The library keeps a record of all users, for billing."

"Do the bills list which articles were pulled?"

"Absolutely. What time is it? Nine forty-seven. The library's open till ten. I could call down there and see if anyone I know is working. Give me the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's name."

"Jones, Charles L. Sociology, West Valley Community College."

"Got it. I'm going to put you on hold and call them on the other line. Just in case we get cut off; give me your number."

Five minutes later she clicked in.

"Voila, Alex. The idiot left a beautiful paper trail. Pulled everything the system's got on three topics-Munchausen, sudden infant death, and the sociological structure of hospitals. Plus a few isolated articles on two other topics: diazepam toxicity and-are you ready for this?-women's fantasies about p.e.n.i.s size. It's all there: names, dates, exact hour. I'll get a printout for you tomorrow."

"Fantastic. I really appreciate it, Jennifer."

"One more thing," she said. "He's not the only one who used the account. There's another signature on some of the searches-a Kristie Kirkash. Know anyone by that name?"

"No," I said, "but I wouldn't be surprised if she's young, cute, and one of his students. Maybe even plays sorority softball."

"Sleazy affair for the prof? How do you figure?"

"He's a creature of habit."

35.

Hot morning and the Valley was frying. A big rig had overturned on the freeway, showering all lanes with eggs. Even the shoulder was blocked and Milo cursed until the highway patrolman waved us through.

We arrived at the junior college ten minutes behind schedule. Made it to cla.s.s just as the last students were entering.

"d.a.m.n," said Milo. "Improv time." We climbed the stairs to the trailer. I remained in the doorway and he went up to the blackboard.

It was a small room-half the trailer, part.i.tioned by an accordion wall and set up with a conference table and a dozen folding chairs.

Ten of the chairs were occupied. Eight women, two men. One of the women was in her sixties; the rest were girls. Both men were fortyish. One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other, Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried himself in a book.

Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. "Mr. Jones won't be making it today. I'm Mr. Sturgis, your subst.i.tute."

All eyes on him, except those of the reader.

One of the girls said, "Is he okay?" in a strained voice. She had very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic b.a.l.l.s on nylon fis.h.i.+ng line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth, tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of both.

Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.

Milo said, "Not really, Kristie."

She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.

She said, "Hey, what's going on?" and grabbed her purse.

Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.

"You tell me, Kristie."

She froze. The other students gawked. The reader's eyes floated above the pages of his book. Moving slowly.

I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.

Shoes.

Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn't go with his silk s.h.i.+rt and his designer jeans.

Milo's eyes narrowed. The reader's fixed on mine, then sank out of view as he raised the book higher.

Theories of Organizations.

Kristie started to cry.

The other students were statues.

Milo said, "Yo Joe! Cavity check!"

The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was enough.

Bland face. d.i.c.k and Jane's dad from a half-block distance. Up close, details destroyed the paternal image: five o'clock shadow, pockmarks on the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.

And the sweat-a coat of it, s.h.i.+ny as fresh lacquer.

He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.

He picked up his books and stepped away from the table while keeping his head down.

Milo said, "Hey, c'mon, stay. I'm an easy grader."

The man stopped, began to lower himself, then he threw the books at Milo and made a rush for the door.

I stepped in front of him, locking my hands in a double-arm block.

He shouldered me full-force. The impact slammed me against the door and pushed it open.

I fell backward onto the cement, landing hard and feeling my tailbone hum. Reaching out, I grabbed two handfuls of silk. He was on top of me, clawing and punching and spraying sweat.

Milo pulled him off, hit him very fast in the face and the belly and shoved him hard against the bungalow. The man struggled. Milo kidney-punched him, hard, and cuffed him as he sank, groaning.

Milo forced him down on the ground and put one foot on the small of his back.

A pat-down produced a wad of cash, a flick-knife with a black handle, a vial of pills, and a cheap plastic billfold stamped RENO: NEVADA'S PLAYGROUND. Milo pulled three different driver's licenses out of the fold.

"Well, well, well, what have we here? Sobran comma Karl with a K, Sebring comma Carl with a C, and . . . Ramsey comma Clark Edward. Which one's real, turkey, or are you suffering from multiple personality syndrome?"

The man said nothing.

Milo nudged one of the black shoes with a toe.

"Good old prison clumpers. County or state?"

No answer.

"You need new heels, genius."

The man's back muscles moved under his s.h.i.+rt.

Milo turned to me. "Find a phone and call the Devons.h.i.+re substation. Tell them we've got a suspect on a Central Division homicide and give them Dawn Herbert's full name."

The man on the ground said, "Bulls.h.i.+t." His voice was deep and muddy.

One of the young students came out onto the stairs. Twenty or twenty-one, short blond pageboy, sleeveless white dress, Mary Pickford face.

She said, "Kristie's pretty upset," in a very timid voice.

"Tell her I'll be with her in a minute," said Milo.

"Um . . . sure. What did Karl do?"

"Sloppy homework," said Milo.

The man on the ground growled and the girl looked startled.

Milo kept his knee on the man's back and said, "Shut up."

The blond girl gripped the doorjamb.

Softening his voice, Milo said, "It's okay-nothing to worry about. Just go inside and wait."

"This isn't some kind of experiment or anything, is it?"

"Experiment?"

"A role-play. You know? Professor Jones likes to use them to raise our awareness."

"Bet he does. No, miss, this is real. Sociology in action. Take a good look-it'll be on the final."

36.

The envelope arrived by messenger at 7:00 P.M., just before Robin got home. I put it aside and tried to have a normal evening with her. After she went to sleep, I took it to the library. Turned on all the lights and read.

TRANSCRIPT OF INTERROGATION.

DR# 102-789 793

DR# 64-458 990

DR# 135-935 827

PLACE: L.A.C. JAIL, BLOCK: HIGH-POWER.

T/DATE: 6/1/89, 7:30 P.M.

SUSPECT: JONES, CHARLES LYMAN III, MW,.