tone.
“Oh, and why is that, Dr. Plummer?” Jessica had wondered if perhaps they might not be closer to some solutions to this case than she'd previously thought.
“I received a packet of information on this Poet Killer fiend a few days ago. I put it aside. Busy here, you know, extremely. I had no idea the killer's poems were being cut into the backs of his victims until I read the material from you people.”
It'll be all over the evening news tonight, Jessica had thought. “I see,” she said.
“I believe I know who your killer is. I believe he… he works under me here at the university.”
“Do you have any evidence of this?”
“The poems, the style, and the way they were left, yes. Now, will you come to speak to me, or do I have to come to you?” the dean had asked.
“A colleague and I will be right over, Dr. Plummer.”
“I'll change my schedule, put aside all else until we talk.”
Now, as the dean pounded on the car window, Kim's eyes were alight with the same curiosity about her as Jessica had felt during their phone conversation.
“He's here; in his office. Just so you know, just so in case he sees you and me together, well… I may need protection.”
Dr. Harriet Plummer had already considered the possibility that something strange might be going on at the U. of Philadelphia. She had pulled the files on three of the victims, all of whom had taken basic-level courses there. The other victims, while not students at the university, the dean had found, were students at other colleges and universities in the area, and furthermore, they were all taking poetry-and fiction-writing courses, some with Dr. Garrison Burrwith, the man she suspected of being the Poet Killer. This they learned all in the time it took to climb the considerable number of steps to the miniature castle entryway of the English department. Atop the tallest turret of the castle, a clock tolled four p.m.
Once they were inside the safe confines of Dr. Plummer's office, she confided, “He is a professor here at the university-our current writer-in-residence.”
“Writer-in-residence? Really?” Kim looked impressed.
“His specialty being poetic expression,” Professor Plummer informed them.
“How did you know we would be coming?” asked Jessica. “On the phone you said you were expecting us.”
“I got my packet from the FBI several days ago, asking if I recognized the poetry of this awful poisoner.”
“Yes, of course. And you suspect this Dr. Burr…?”
“Dr. Garrison Burrwith, yes, but it's awful; you see, he is a member of a prominent Philadelphia family, well known for philanthropy and public service. Dr. Burrwith is something of a prodigy. He's an accomplished violinist, fills in as needed at the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra-he's that good. At only twenty-six years of age, he's an acknowledged scholar of the Romantic poets, in particular Shelley, Keats, Byron, and Wordsworth.”
“And, as you say, you suspect he may be this killer of young people?”
“The poetry is so… so like his. He's an accomplished poet with a great ability to capture the essence of the romanticism of the Byronic era, and I feel much of this murderer's poetry does the same. Here, have a look at some of Garrison's work. Compare it with the murderer's work yourself.”
Jessica reached across to take the volume of poems that Dr. Plummer offered. The book was gilded and exquisitely bound; it must have cost a fortune to produce.
On the cover she read Oration of the Gifts of Those Angels of the Four Quarters. Beneath this, Poems to Still the Forest Soul and Various Jottings by Garrison Burrwith III.
“Old family name, huh?”
“One of the oldest in Philadelphia. Father is on every board in the city having to do with the arts.”
Enough to scar any child, Jessica thought but did not say. “Did you find the poems left on the bodies unique, original, Dr. Plummer?” she asked instead. “Yes, quite. Then we may assume they are from the killer's mind and hand, and not something he picked up somewhere?”
The professor stared back, confused.
“Lifted, plagiarized,” Kim clarified.
“As I said, they reminded me of the work of Garrison Burrwith.”
“So something in Burrwith's style alerts you to call us?”
“Style and subject matter. Read the page I have marked.”
Jessica scanned it and then read it aloud for Kim: SCORN 'S MISTRESS
Opportunity happens by on soft-soled and soft-souled shoe; traipsing merrily until one stumble sends Her falling away from fortune's prize, only to be seized by the middle, lifted overhead, and flattened against all earth, scrunched then into the dark of a rabbit warren. No prize at the end of rain bows lost in tombs of time…
Kim suggested, “Perhaps we should have a talk with Dr. Burrwith.”
“You'll find him in his office, down the hall in Room 21-B. Name's on the door. I always thought him an odd duck, but I would never in a million years have taken him for a killer.”
“Well, Dr. Plummer, we've got a long way to go before we can conclusively prove him to be the Poet Killer.”
“No, you have only a few yards to go to his office; that is all that separates him from me, and for that I have been living in fear since I received your information regarding the killings.” The frail, middle-aged woman's eyes bulged. “I had not heard that the bodies had been… written on, the poems cut into the flesh. Garrison asked me once if I would sit for such a thing, you see.”
“He did? He asked you to allow him to write a poem into your skin, on your back?”
“Along my arm, actually. We… we were seeing each other at the time. He wanted to brand me, I suppose.”
“I see.”
She looked faint. Kim asked if she'd like her to fetch some water, but the woman ignored this and went on: Moreover, I had no idea of the caliber of the poetry involved until, as I said, I received the FBI's information. I've been living in fear since then.”
“I'm afraid we will have to reserve judgment, Dr. Plummer,” Jessica calmly replied.
“Reserve judgment until someone else dies? Another poor unfortunate young person?”
As they left the office, Kim and Jessica heard the dean mutter, “Always knew Burrwith was strange.”
FOURTEEN
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme To take into the air my quiet breath…
Dr. Garrison Burrwith's hand, when shaken, felt like a dead mackerel, but his forthright voice and his penetrating eyes gave both Jessica and Kim the impression of a man who had nothing whatever to hide. It gave Jessica pause to think that the woman in the office a few doors down feared for her life because of this man, and that the dean had come to this conclusion based solely on the man's poetry. Burrwith struck Jessica as a charming man, all pleasantness and helpfulness, handsome and thin, with perfect posture and perfect skin. When told why they were in his office, Burrwith's crystal blue eyes registered complete shock. He swore, “I know nothing of the murders save what I've overheard about the halls.”
“We're not here to accuse you, sir,” began Jessica.
“No, I mean I absolutely know nothing of these murders. I'd heard not the least word on them until only this morning. Some colleagues of mine were discussing them in the hallway. The dean broke it up when I came along, but not before Peter Werner told me the news. Dreadful, altogether a dreadful thing, indeed.”
“Yes, we think so, too, but living in Philadelphia, how could you not have heard something of the news?”
