The phone jangled so abruptly it made his body jerk.
There’s such a thing as concentrating too hard.
He reached for the receiver and pressed it to his ear, at the same time glancing at caller ID.
“Whaddya know, Jerry?” he asked Lido.
“Something you should,” Lido said. “I was on my computer, giving my browser a workout, when it came up with something interesting. A couple of kids trying to camp out illegally and build a fire pit dug it up.”
“Fire pit?”
“Yeah. They dig down a couple of feet so they can build a fire slightly below ground level and it won’t be spotted from a distance.”
“Smart.”
“Not this time. They happened to be on top of a shallow grave and dug up a body.”
Quinn had been leaning back in his chair. He let it tilt forward. “When did this happen?”
“Last night. Kids had their cell phones handy and called it in right away. Creeped the hell out of them. That was the end of the camping trip.”
“Body identified?”
“Not yet. Woman probably in her twenties, average size, what look like knife nicks on some bones, like she was tortured with a blade. Body bent back and bound. She was buried in an awkward position.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Yeah. The ropes hadn’t rotted completely away. Neither had the tape that was used as a gag.”
“Ropes rotted away? How old is this body?”
“The M.E. there figures at least twenty-five years.”
“Where’s there?”
“Near Leighton, Wisconsin.”
“Long way from here. Long time ago.”
“They might know who it is. Girl named Sherri Klinger, disappeared in nineteen eighty-six. Her family’s since moved out of the area. Father died five years ago. A mother’s all that’s left. They’ve contacted her, but I can’t scare up any info on that yet.”
Quinn was silent for a while, trying to process this.
“It might mean nothing,” he said.
“Yeah, but I got a couple of things I’d like to fax to you. A police artist’s drawing of how the dead woman might have looked with flesh on her. Also, there are some old photographs of Sherri Klinger.”
Even as Lido was speaking, the fax machine on the other side of the office started to click and buzz.
“Coming through,” Quinn said, and the two men sat and waited.
When the buzzing and clicking stopped, and a beeper sounded, Quinn stood up and went over to the fax machine.
He drew four pages from the plastic basket. The first was the police artist’s rendition of how the dead woman might have looked when alive, front and profile. The three accompanying pages were copies of old newspaper photos of Sherri Klinger.
All of them looked like Pearl.
Quinn stood staring for several seconds then, carrying the faxes, returned to his desk.
“Pearl,” he said.
“Not exactly,” Lido said, “but it could be her sister. Anyway, that was the first body.”
“What?”
“A cadaver dog found another body, buried about twenty feet from Sherri’s Klinger’s grave. Young woman, killed the same way as Sherri. Haven’t identified that one yet.”
“She’ll resemble Pearl,” Quinn said.
And then said something else, under his breath:
“Daniel Danielle.”
80
Quinn phoned Chancellor Schueller at Waycliffe and posed the same questions.
The chancellor’s voice got higher, as if he were experiencing sudden gravitational pull. He said, absently, “I’m not aware of any of these so-called connections. As for Professor Pratt gathering material for a topical subject… why, that’s easy enough to understand.”
Yet you seemed troubled when I asked you about it.
“I suppose,” Quinn said.
Schueller absently repeated it. “An eminent domain case in the city… does it have something to do with Waycliffe?”
“It might.” Quinn could picture Schueller, youthful and dynamic, as university chancellors went, seated at his desk, sucking his unlit pipe, wearing his blazer with the leather elbow patches, lying his ass off.
What’s wrong with this picture?
“Ah! Yes!” Schueller said. Was he snapping his fingers, up there at Waycliffe? He was trying to sell what he was saying; Quinn could easily sense that, even over the phone. For a guy like Schueller, who was used to lying and was practiced and smooth at it, the slight upward pitch of his voice told Quinn he was hearing bullshit.
Quinn waited.
“I remember now,” Schueller said. “If I’m not mistaken, some of Waycliffe’s money is invested in Meeding Properties stock. But then so are the funds of a number of investment firms.”
“I’m thinking of a law firm that recently celebrated a woman’s death so they could advise their clients to move in on her property.”
“You’re speaking of Enders and Coil, I assume. We and that firm have a long history. They employ several Waycliffe alumni. Two associates and an intern, if memory serves.”
“I think it does.”
“Even students bright enough to matriculate at Waycliffe like to party,” Schueller said.
Quinn couldn’t argue with that.
“Law firms aside, why do you suddenly inquire about a serial killer in connection with Waycliffe?” Schueller asked.
“He isn’t nearly finished.”
“Good Lord! How can you know that?”
“There were two similar murders in Wisconsin,” Quinn said.
“Recently?”
“About twenty-five years ago. Two young women, buried not far apart.”
“Surely that has nothing to do with what’s happening in New York now.”
“ Surely is a word I use carefully.”
“I understand that. But what have murders that happened long ago in Leighton, Wisconsin, have to do with-”
“Did I mention Leighton?”
For a fraction of a second, Schueller was silent. When he did speak, there was no uncertainty in his voice. “I’m pretty sure you did. Or maybe I saw or heard it on the news without realizing it and it stuck in my mind.”
“That word sure again,” Quinn said.
“Perhaps, like many people, I use it too much,” Schueller said.
“I think we all do,” Quinn said. “I overheard some detectives talking about the Wisconsin cases and was sure somebody mentioned Waycliffe. He might not even have said that, but something that rhymes with it. Or maybe somebody named Waycliffe. Turns out it had nothing to do with the college. You’ve satisfied my curiosity, Chancellor.”
“Good. That’s more or less our business.”
“I appreciate you taking the time.”
