Marvin Small said, “This joker, Drummond, anywhere else he could’ve rabbited other than Boston?”
Milo said, “Your guess is as good as ours.”
Dick Schlesinger shook his head. “Another whodunit.”
Petra said, “Had a few, lately?”
“Two others still on the burner. Little girl disappears from a supermarket where she’s shopping with her mom. We’re thinking one of the box boys, he’s got a molestation record. But no body, no evidence, and for a stupid guy, he’s being smart. We’re also working a shooting on Lincoln, one of the hookers who works the stretch between Rose and LAX. Whoever did it left her with a purse full of dope and cash, and this time we’ve got a pimp who actually seems to care. They had three kids together. A few city employees have been busted there recently, mostly Cal Trans losers and bus company folk heading home after the night shift, veering off for a quickie. We’re hoping it’s not the beginning of another serial. A municipal employee killer, at that.”
Small said, “But don’t weep for me, Argentina. Sounds like you guys have been plenty busy, yourselves.”
Knock on the door. The smiling woman entered with a tray of free appetizers that she placed on the table. Milo thanked her and she left.
“That one has a crush on you,” said Marvin Small.
“The old charm,” said Milo.
Petra grinned.
Everyone trying to deal with the frustration with levity. Except Stahl, he just sat there.
Detective Small eyed the food with some anxiety. “Multicultural time. This is one culture I’ve never done, food-wise.”
“It’s not bad, Marve,” said Schlesinger. “My wife’s a vegetarian, we go to Indian restaurants a lot.” He reached for a samosa, held it up, named it. Petra and Milo and Marvin Small took food. Stahl didn’t.
The remnants of a pastrami sandwich had taken residence in my gut- Milo’s call interrupting my digestion- so I stuck with the hot spiced tea.
Stahl seemed off in another world. He’d arrived with a large white envelope, placed it in front of him. Hadn’t talked or budged since the meeting had started.
The rest of them munched as Small and Schlesinger summarized the Armand Mehrabian case. Passing around death photos to the sounds of chewing. I flipped through them quickly. The abdominal wound was a horrible gape. Shades of Baby Boy Lee and Vassily Levitch.
The outdoor dump matched Angelique Bernet and China Maranga.
Flexibility. Creativity.
I said so. They listened, made no comment. Ate some more. Went over old ground for twenty minutes. Then Milo said, “So what’s up with the Murphy family tree, Eric?”
Stahl opened the white envelope and removed a computer-printed genealogy chart. “I got this from the Internet, but it seems reliable. Erna Murphy’s father, Donald, had a brother and a sister. The brother, Edward, married a woman named Colette Branigan. Only cousin there is one daughter, Mary Margaret. Edward’s dead, Colette lives in New York, Mary Margaret’s a nun in Albuquerque.”
“There’s a hot lead for you,” said Small. “Maniacal Sister Mary.”
Stahl said, “Murphy’s sister is named Alma Trueblood. I ran into her at the rest home where Murphy’s dying. She’s got two sons from a previous marriage, one’s deceased. Her first husband’s dead, but she divorced him before he died. I found a few distant cousins but none of them are local and none are Drummonds. No connection to Kevin I can find.”
“The whole cousin thing was probably nut talk,” said Small.
“A cousin who likes art,” said Schlesinger. “So what?”
Milo reached for the chart, scanned it absently, gave a disgusted look.
I took a look.
“Who’s this?” I said, pointing.
Stahl leaned across the small table and read upside down. “Alma Trueblood’s first husband. He was a real estate agent in Temple City.”
“Alvard G. Shull,” I said. “Kevin’s faculty advisor at Charter College is a guy named A. Gordon Shull. The two sons you’ve got listed here are Bradley- deceased- and Alvard, Junior.”
“A. Gordon,” said Petra. “My first name was Alvard, I’d want to use the middle name.”
“Damn,” said Marvin Small. “This professor like art?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said.
Dead silence in the room.
I said, “Shull told me he’d grown up ‘grounded’ in art and literature and theater. He’s also got red hair.”
“Big and strong enough?” said Milo.
“Easily,” I said. “Six feet, close to two hundred. Outdoorsy. Outgoing. And not at all protective of Kevin, the way you might expect from a mentor. At first, he expressed surprise that Kevin was under suspicion of anything. But as we talked, he warmed to the subject of Kevin’s eccentricities. I remember one phrase he used: ‘Kevin wasn’t the type of kid you’d want to have a beer with.’ At the time, I didn’t make much of it, but in retrospect, it’s cruel. One of the last things he told me was Kevin was a lousy writer.”
“Oh, boy,” said Petra.
Milo rubbed his face.
“Something else,” I said. “When I first talked to Shull’s department head about Kevin, she put on a full-force stonewall. Cited academic freedom, confidentiality. Exactly what you’d expect from a department head. Then she found out Shull had been Kevin’s advisor, and her attitude changed completely. All of a sudden she was more than willing for me to talk to Shull. I didn’t think much of it, but maybe she had a reason.
“Shull’s been a bad boy?” said Petra.
“For a professor,” said Small, “being a bad boy could mean giving the wrong kid a bad grade. What do we really have on this guy except he likes art and had a nutty cousin?”
“A cousin who got strangled,” said Petra. “And was spotted at the scene of one of our 187s.”
Small tickled his own mustache. “So, what, we’re thinking two bad guys, now? Teacher and student? Like Buono and Bianchi, Bittaker and Norris, pair of lowlife scumbag psychopaths pulling a duo?”
“We’ve got a
I said, “Shull’s influence could also explain the shift in Kevin’s writing style. Kevin started off simple, but Shull guided him toward greater complexity. I told Shull Kevin’s style had gotten pretentious. He laughed, and said, ‘Ouch.’ But maybe he wasn’t amused.”
Milo said, “He show any signs of weirdness, Alex?”
“Not really. Very self-possessed. But right from the beginning I’ve thought our guy wouldn’t come across strange. Someone who can move in and out of artistic venues without being conspicuous. Someone smart enough to plan.”
“Someone older than Kevin,” he said. “His age bugged you from the beginning.”
“Shull’s how old?” said Petra.
“Midthirties to forty.”
“Right in the zone.”
Schlesinger said, “Where’s the family money from?”
Stahl said, “The second husband.”
I said, “Some of it may have found its way to her sole living child. Any idea how Shull’s father and brother died?”
Stahl shook his head.
Petra said, “Good work, Eric.”
The merest flicker of emotion livened Stahl’s eyes. Then they went flat, again.
“Life’s like that,” said Marvin Small. “All of a sudden things change.”
“A philosopher,” said Schlesinger, with the good humor of a long-suffering spouse. “I wouldn’t mind some good change.
Petra said, “Minute we’re out of here, I’ll run him through the data banks.”
