“Can't argue with you there. She's somehow, for some reason, developed a similar set of feelings for you, and somehow I find myself in the middle, a kind of referee.”
“Don't put yourself out on my account.”
“She's been a street cop for a long time, Jessica. This idea of working closely with the FBI, it's new to her, and her superiors forced us on her. You know how that goes.”
“Meanwhile, she tells me she's so glad to have us aboard, so anxious to work with us, so full of shit.”
“Get over it; you've seen it before. Now, how about getting over to the university, interview this Dr. Harriet Plummer.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute. “I suspect our killer is far more likely to spring from that rarefied air than from some sleazy bar where street punks hustle babes.”
“See if you can learn three things from Plummer. One, are the poems found on the bodies original or plagiarized? Two, stolen or not, does she recognize the poetry? Three, does she truly recognize the hand at work as this colleague of hers-who, by the way, is named Garrison Burrwith. Take her measurements, and be certain that she is acting out of something other than hurt, anger, or confusion. Meanwhile, I'm doing a background check on Burrwith.”
Jessica's eyes met Parry's, and for a moment the look lingered. Then, to cover her sudden embarrassment, she asked, “Anything come of your reading of Maurice's diary?”
“Nothing usable, no. Filled with a lot of whining.”
“Whining? About what?”
“Life.”
“Life?” she asked. “What about life?”
“You know, the usual soul-search stuff, and then the complaints, asking why can't life be kinder, gentler, all the usual claptrap from a person who can't handle life on its own terms. Guy needed a reality check big time. Reminds me of my college reading of Kafka's Metamorphosis. Who cares after a point to read on when the initial whine fest never ends?”
“Perhaps Kim ought to do a reading on the boy's diary.” Jessica thought Kim might well be more sensitive than Parry to Maurice's plight.
“Yeah, I'm sure she could get a lot more out of it than I did.”
“You mean we actually agree?” she asked, her eyes telling him she was only half kidding.
Jessica immediately lifted the phone and called Kim from her office upstairs, a large closet of a place off the task-force operations room. She'd wanted to be close to all the paraphernalia of the crime scenes that Sturtevante's team had gathered. Getting Kim on the line, Jessica explained what Parry had brought them.
“That sounds a lot more reasonable than rounding up street lowlifes like Sturtevante's people are doing,” Kim said, echoing Jessica's thoughts. “Most of whom appear too illiterate to write a letter home much less a poem.”
“We'll leave that line of inquiry for Sturtevante and company. You never know what will drop out in a shakedown of this magnitude,” Jessica replied, not knowing why she felt compelled to defend Sturtevante's approach.
“Are we any closer to determining any connections among the victims?” Kim asked. “Did you turn anything over to that house shrink, Vladoc?”
“Fact is, I have. Sent him all the poetry we have, our suspicions, minus what Mr. Rocky J. Squirrel had to say, and he said he'd get back to me ASAP.”
“What's he really like, Jess? I mean in the clear-and sober-light of day.”
“Don't know. Didn't meet face-to-face this time; spoke to his secretary. She handled everything.”
“You never saw him?”
“No. He never came out of his office.”
“Strange he wouldn't come out to meet you.”
“Burrowed in. Had a patient in with him, a local cop, rookie who had to bring someone down with deadly force, I hear.”
The entire way back out to the University of Philadelphia campus, Jessica and Kim discussed the victim profile. “Other than the geography, all living in and around Second Street,” Jessica said as she drove the PPD loaner, “and the fact that all were of the same approximate age and body type, they didn't appear to have known each other.”
“Although they certainly frequented some of the same shops and possibly the same coffeehouses,” Kim noted.
“They may well have been passing acquaintances.”
“Many took courses at the local colleges and universities.”
Jessica turned the vehicle off the main street and onto the lanes of the campus. “We know at least two of them used Ink, Line amp; Sinker for paper, pens, and art supplies, and several used Darkest Expectations for books, and Moulin Rouge for wall decorations and furnishings. “We need to question the people that work there.”
“Being done, I'm told, by Sturtevante's people. Nothing anyone remembers out of the ordinary about any of the victims. Actually, on Second Street, you and me, we are the strange ones. Everyone else down there sees straight people wearing matching blouses and suit pants, and they know we don't belong.”
“Agreed. “Maurice was taking classes at one of the colleges in town,” said Kim. “His diary makes mention of it.” She had skimmed the diary after Parry left it with her. “We need to find out who his instructors were, question them about Maurice. See what they knew about him, and see if they know anything about the poetic style of the killer. Might take less time and do more good to investigate the local boys than to ask for a national search on a student or other person whose writing style might ring a bell.”
“Here we are, another foray into academia.”
“Can't be any scarier than dealing with a Hungarian cowboy,” Kim replied.
“I don't know about that. I had a chat with the woman we're about to meet. Called for an appointment, thinking it best.”
“And?”
“Dr. Harriet Plummer. She's convinced she knows who the Poet Killer is.”
“Really?”
“Works under her in the English department here.”
“University of Philadelphia, where Maurice was enrolled.”
“Really? Do we suspect he knew his killer?” asked Jessica.
“We do, but it remains only a suspicion.”
“Then perhaps someone here at the university who knew Maurice killed him?” It's possible they could have bumped into one another.”
“We'll see what feathers we can ruffle on campus.”
“Maybe we can get everyone in English, professors and students alike, to submit a writing sample for Wahlbore, and let him feed them to Rocky. See what the flying squirrel spits out.”
“Sure, just try to get everyone to cooperate. You know how quick these academic types are to scream human rights violation?”
Kim replied to this, “And you think the accused should have no rights?”
“The known rapists and the known murderers ought to be stripped of anything resembling civil and human rights, just as they did to their victims.”
“Careful of such views. Upper-level types don't care for them,” Kim cautioned. “I know from experience, and look what's happened to your friend Parry.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Jessica looked up to see the tall, imposing building that housed the English department, a three-story Disney-like turreted castle with six to ten times more space than the linguistics department's small cottage. “Feudal system still at work on college campuses,” she muttered. Kim laughed as Jessica stared out at Dean and Professor Harriet Plummer, who was at that very moment coming toward the car as if chased by a demon. The scene recalled to Jessica the phone conversation she'd had with the distraught dean of arts and sciences.
When Plummer had come on the line and Jessica introduced herself, she had declared, “It's about time. I've been expecting you.” A faint trace of desperation, perhaps repressed fear, had laced the woman's businesslike
