“You see, I take little notice these days of goings-on out in the world beyond academia,” he said, adding, “no TV, no interest in news anymore. 'Fraid I've botched it so far as my colleagues are concerned. They all come up with such interesting tidbits at the faculty meetings and the occasional party, but I have little to say. Puts people off, I know, but I have this dread of dealing with people in social settings, save for the classroom, you see, where I can confine myself to topics I know something about-poetry and literature and how to unlock the secrets of the masters. I know all their brushstrokes and techniques, you see. All quite cozy, you see. For me, that is; makes my students sweat, I fear.”
Jessica could see that Kim had been silently sizing up the man. He appeared to Jessica as harmless as a caterpillar, the one in Alice in Wonderland. No threat in the least, but rather a being completely engrossed in his little corner of the academic world, complete with glasses and bow tie. He looked like a man out of time, a man who had wandered in from the eighteenth century. Even his khaki clothing and vest appeared somehow turn-of- the-previous-century.
“I know I write some rather depressing and somber poetry, but I'm hardly an Edgar Allan Poe,” he told them. “But even then, Edgar was never accused of murder, only writing about the act.”
“Repeatedly and in novel ways,” replied Jessica, “and he had a fascination with death.”
Kim added, “ 'The Pit and the Pendulum,”Masque of the Red Death.' “
“ 'The Premature Burial,' “ added a grinning Burrwith, his eyes alight now behind the thick lenses.
“ 'Telltale Heart,' “ Jessica said. “Poe, like your poetic voice, seems fixated on death at a young age, premature death, burials in vaults and walls-being buried alive.” There is no writer worth his weight who has not explored death as a theme in his or her work, including the ostensibly staid recluse Emily Dickinson. Kafka's work is all about death or a living death. Would you have him or Miss Emily drawn and quartered for their work?”
“Of course not. We can't confuse the author with his characters, can we?” said Kim.
“Perhaps, most assuredly in fact, Poe lived with a death wish, born of a broken heart; he was, after all, a man born into a world he loathed, and it took from him the one ray of love and life he asked for, his little cousin whom he worshiped. It's a cruel world to any who are sensitive, and for Poe, this realm proved a world he could not embrace or long abide, and one which did not embrace or abide him- at least not in his own time. Although he's been all the rage for well over a century now, in his own lifetime he was regarded as a lunatic. Tragic fellow all around, I'm afraid, a kind of dark angel himself.”
Kim asked, “What are you saying, Dr. Burrwith? That… Edgar Allan Poe ought to've been put out of his misery by someone?”
“Do you have any idea of how literary America rejected the man? Perhaps suicide was in order, as apparently no one would do it for him. So he turned to alcohol for the answer.”
“I know he courted death, given his lifestyle,” countered Kim, but Burrwith cut her off immediately.
“The man was clinically depressed and was likely a manic-depressive, all ailments that his time had no cure for, save the poppy-seed sensation and alcohol. Regardless of his dark tales and poems, he was a hopeless romantic. And neither you nor I can begin to conceive the torture he must have endured.”
Jessica leaped in, asking, “What about our killer? Do you think he may have a Poe complex? ”I would have to study the poems, which I understand he left somehow on the bodies?”
“You've not seen them?”
“No, sorry, but I have not. I've heard a rumor that the dean has copies of them, but she hasn't seen fit to share.”
“I see.”
“The dean and I have not been on the best of terms, ever. She might share them with someone else in the department but certainly not with me.”
“What does she have against you?”
“Oh, I can't say, but it has always felt like professional jealousy of a sort. I routinely publish, while she can't seem to find a place for her own poetry. And I once made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with her. Foolish move for me, really.”
“Does every professor and administrator here write poetry?” Jessica asked.
“Not all, but many are wannabe writers, yes.”
“Here's some of the killer's work, sir,” said Kim, pulling forth copies of the poems she had first seen in Quantico. “Would you read them, appraise them, tell us what your sense as a professional poet and scholar tells you about the author?”
Burrwith bit his lower lip, frowned, and considered this for a moment. “Before I answer that, would you two care for a cup of tea? I have jasmine, mint, and green tea here.”
It seemed a peace offering. The two detectives took it, and soon the trio were sitting in the semi dark of Burrwith's office sipping at tea, steam curling from each cup. Having read the poems with interest, Burrwith finally cleared his throat, began to pace, and said, “Certainly brooding, but the poems you've shown me, the poems are… well, remarkable in their depth and passion.”
“Remarkable in depth and passion. Can you be more specific?” asked Jessica. “Why, they're beautiful, evocative jewels, in my opinion.”
Jessica thought the thin, pale, and sensitive man before them sincere; he appeared more ordinary and appealing than the misguided Byronic hero of these writings, who, she believed, thought himself to be releasing his victims from the suffering and agonies of this life. That being the killer's motive, the man before them simply could not be the author of this work. Burrwith, for all his brooding poetry, came off as a man who was on the side of life, not death.
“Despite my scribblings,” he began, pointing to the book Jessica had borrowed from Dean Plummer, “the idea that I could conceive of such murders and carry them out-it's laughable.”
“No one has said-”
“I suspect that Dean Blowhard Harriet Plummer put you onto me; I suspect she thinks I could be this horrid killer.” He laughed a hollow laugh, then apologized. “Look, as an expert in romantic poetry, I, too, received a copy of the FBI packet Dr. Plummer has in her possession, but I have simply been too busy, you see, to look into it. Had I done so, perhaps I could have headed Harriet off at the pass, knowing how flighty and downright susceptible she is to suggestion.”
“And exactly what did you do with our serious request for help, sir? Our tax dollars at work,” said Jessica, frowning.
“I wish for the life of me that I hadn't put the packet aside. It's just as well. In any case, I know it has led to your coming directly to me, and I also know the mailing from the FBI was enormous. For Plummer to assume I was not on the FBI's list of experts tells me a good deal about my future here, or lack of one.”
“Dr. Plummer thought you might be of help to us.”
“Nice try. For Plummer or anyone to think me the killer, well, it's preposterous, but ludicrous or not, it makes me uneasy all the same. I must wonder what she's told the rest of the faculty.”
“Makes you uneasy because of the gossip it no doubt will cause?” asked Kim.
“Oh, and why is that?” he asked. “Many an innocent man has been sent to prison or the gas chamber on preposterous evidence.” A timid knock at the door interrupted them. “Look, ladies-do I call you ladies or officers, agents or doctors? Look, I have a student conference scheduled. My young man is likely in the hallway now, waiting. Allow me a moment to reschedule, please.” He then stepped outside, leaving the two FBI agents alone.
Kim began investigating the items on the professor's shelves, from books to knickknacks, a stuffed armadillo to a puppet raven, a dartboard to a calendar of Waterhouse prints. “Remind you of anyone?” she asked, pointing to the calendar.
“Maurice's place was decorated with Waterhouse prints, but they're in vogue nowadays among the young and the romantic.”
“Perceptive fellow; knows the dean's out to get him.”
“You think she just hates him so much she'd sic us on him for no other reason?”
Kim whispered, “He hardly seems a madman. Maybe she's the sick one?”
“But the power of the sociopath is to blend in, and he certainly blends in here.”
“And at the pubs and coffeehouses frequented by the various victims?”
“Reminds me of a mad priest I once put away, a man who had been civilized and charming to a fault.” As criminal profilers, both Kim and Jessica knew that the greatest skill of the sociopath was his gift for disguise and
