“Sounds like you were watching them, Jim.”
“No, no, that’s my point. It was hard to miss.”
“What else can you tell me about Mr. Hauer?”
“He’s from Argentina… he’s… self-assured. Teaches urban studies and psychology.”
“He and Elise had something going on.”
“That was my impression.”
“Problem is, Jim, that boils down to consensual hanky-panky, not harassment.”
“The same applies to me! It was
Winterthorn trailed off.
Milo said, “Okay, thanks for the help, Jim. Now, what’s your mom’s number?”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That your whereabouts are part of a routine investigation.”
“That’s going to freak her out,” said Winterthorn. “Could you say I’m not a suspect, you’re checking out other people?”
“Hmm—if you’ve been totally truthful I guess I could do that.”
“I have been, I swear. And you won’t tell Emily, right?”
“Same answer, Jim.”
“Thank you. I meant that.” Winterthorn’s eyes misted. Milo held out a tissue. Men usually refuse the offer.
Winterthorn didn’t.
CHAPTER
12
Enrico Hauer smiled dreamily, as if aroused from a pleasant nap. “How bizarre.”
Windsor Prep’s head of social studies had arrived ten minutes late, giving Milo time to call James Winterthorn’s mother and inquire about the science teacher’s whereabouts. Martha Winterthorn, Esq., played lawyer for a while, finally filled in the time frame. Her account left an hour or so unaccounted for and mothers were dubious guarantors, but Milo hung up saying, “At this point, you see any reason to bust the poor bastard’s life wide open?”
“Not yet.”
Bell ring number two.
The man we found striding into the empty living room was thirty-five to forty, tall, muscular, broad- shouldered, and handsome in a mirror-junkie way: thick, black, pomaded hair worn shoulder-length, perfectly arched eyebrows, glossed and buffed fingernails. He wore a body-conscious chocolate turtleneck, black slacks, two-tone brown-and-black clogs. His gold watch was thin, his pinkie ring bulky. As we got closer, the aroma of a lemony cologne thickened.
He took in the house’s interior. “Nice. When can we open escrow?” Mellow baritone, the barest hint of Latin accent.
Neither Milo nor I laughed.
Enrico Hauer said, “I’m joking because I’m upset and disoriented. Being called to face the police is Kafkaesque.”
Milo said, “One of those days, huh?” and guided Hauer to the back of the house. Seated in the chair James Winterthorn had occupied, Hauer slipped his hand between buttock and metal. “Already warm. This is the hot seat?”
“It’s good to have a sense of humor, Mr. Hauer.”
“Rico. As a defense mechanism it’s less damaging than others.”
“What have you been told about this meeting?”
“Dr. Helfgott’s secretary informed me Elise Freeman was dead and that the police wanted to talk to some of the faculty.”
“How well did you know Elise?”
“Not well at all.”
“It’s been suggested that you and Elise Freeman had an affair.”
“An affair? How silly.”
“Never happened, huh?”
“By silly I meant that word.
“For having sex with a dead woman.”
Hauer laughed. “I am not a necrophiliac.”
“Correction,” said Milo. “A woman who ended up dead.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that, but here are the facts: Elise and I had purely physical sex many times. Surely you guys don’t see that as strange. A woman I can see objecting. The blending of emotion and physicality. But we are different, no?”
“You teach psychology, right?”
“I love it,” said Rico Hauer. “One day I may pursue a Ph.D.”
“What other subjects do you teach?”
“Social justice. That’s a two-semester course spanning the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. As well as an honors seminar in urban studies and a super-honors mini-course in poverty and social adjustment.”
“Super-honors?”
Hauer winked. “Kids who are really motivated get rewarded with extra homework and long papers.”
Milo said, “Sounds like you’ve got a busy schedule.”
“One who loves his work is never busy, only engaged.”
“Ah… that apply to sex with Elise?”
“Oh, yes, Lieutenant. We were both definitely engaged—engrossed, really.”
“How often did you and Elise get mutually engrossed?”
“As often as we could—no, forgive me, I’m being flippant again because this really has unnerved me.”
“Being here.”
“Being here to discuss Elise’s death. Which I’m assuming was unpleasant and irregular, otherwise why would I be here, forgive the teleology—the circular logic.”
Milo handed over his card.
Hauer said, “I hope she didn’t suffer, Elise did not like to suffer.”
“She told you that?”
“Oh, yes, explicitly. ‘I’m not into pain, Rico.’”
“How did the topic of pain come up, Mr. Hauer?”
Hauer crossed long legs. White silk socks thin enough to suggest chestnut ankles contrasted with the black pants. “You’re probably assuming paraphilia—pain in a sexual context. But not so, Lieutenant, the conversation was postcoital. Elise did what many women do in that situation. Began talking about herself.” Conspiratorial grin.
Milo remained impassive. Hauer turned to me for empathy. I pretended to be a DMV clerk.
He said, “What I’m trying to get across is, Elise began talking about her childhood. A very unpleasant childhood, as it turned out.”
“How so, Mr. Hauer?”
“A father who withheld love. In my view, it had turned Elise needy and vulnerable. That particular night, her point was that she’d escaped an unsatisfying family situation and had no desire to repeat it. Hence, ‘I’m not into pain, Rico.’ To my mind it sounded like anxious denial—trying to convince herself that she was strong. On the other hand, not repeating history would be a positive step, so I didn’t debate her.”
