“Could he be a cop?” asked Snead.
“It’s possible.”
Snead turned to Huff. “How about interviewing police officers who might have come in contact with the victims during the past year?”
“Now we’re chasing our own tails,” I said.
“What’s that, Kane?”
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, we have our hands full without investigating cops. And if it gets out that we’re combing our own ranks for the killer, the media will go nuts. We won’t score any points with the rest of our brothers in blue, either.”
“Tough. Lieutenant Huff?”
Huff sighed, making another notation in his folder. “I don’t like it, but I guess we have no choice.” He glanced at Berns. “That it, Sid?”
Berns nodded. “For now, anyway.”
“Any other questions?”
No one spoke, but we all thinking the same thing. The killer had taken another family, and we were no closer to finding him.
26
Two days later, having a court appearance on a previous case, I took off early for lunch-allowing time to eat and still make it to the West Los Angeles courthouse by two PM. On impulse, however, I exited on Hoover Street after passing the Santa Monica Freeway interchange, drove a half mile south, and pulled into a USC visitors’ parking lot across from the Shrine Auditorium.
Not an active alumnus, I had visited my alma mater only rarely since graduating. As I made my way toward the USC School of Music, I noticed that much of the campus I remembered was now hidden behind newer buildings. At times I missed familiar landmarks, either concealed or torn down, and was forced to ask directions from passing students. Eventually I found myself standing before an unfamiliar, multistoried structure with a brass plate identifying it as the Albert S. Raubenheimer Music Facility Memorial Building.
Searching for the entrance, I took a walkway to the left, glancing through the open door of an annex building nearby. Behind a worn counter, racks of musical instruments gleamed in the dim light. Curious, I stepped inside. A young man looked up from behind a cluttered desk. “May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
I gazed around the interior of the room, surprised by the number of instruments jammed into cases and hung on the walls. Some appeared familiar, but many, like a collection of fat-bellied mandolins and pear-shaped lutes, did not. “What is this, some kind of musical pawn shop?” I asked.
The youth smiled. “Sort of. Students can borrow instruments here and experiment with them without actually having to buy one. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Some one. Alexander Petrinski.”
“Wednesday mornings, Professor Petrinski holds student conferences in his office. Ramo Hall. Second floor.”
“Where’s that?”
“Straight out the doors, past the coke spoon, first building you come to. You can’t miss it.”
“Coke spoon?”
“One of the sculptures. You’ll see.”
After thanking the youth, I continued down the curved pathway, pausing before a huge stone carving that in my opinion looked more like a double-ended washbasin. Proceeding beneath a canopy of sycamore and jacaranda, I found the Virginia Ramo Hall of Music around the next bend. Upon entering the building, I checked the directory, locating the name for which I was searching: Alexander Petrinski, Keyboard Studies Chair, Rm. 212. Instead of taking the elevator, I ascended a single flight of stairs and exited on the second floor. Petrinski’s office lay at the end of a short hallway. I stopped at the entrance and knocked.
“Come in.”
I opened the door. Two grand pianos, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a leather couch all but filled the small studio beyond. A young woman sat at one of the keyboards. A heavyset man with thick gray hair stood behind her, his robust bearing belying his advancing years. The man turned, his eyes registering surprise. “Dan. I’d about given up on you.”
“Sorry, Alex. I’ve been busy.”
Petrinski turned to his student. “That’s enough for today, Carla. Keep working on it. I’ll see you after the holidays.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young woman. She rose and started for the door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving, Professor.”
After she left, Petrinski and I regarded each other uncomfortably. Although we had known one another since Travis first began studying piano, our relationship had often been less than cordial. “I suppose I should have phoned before stopping by,” I offered. “I had a couple minutes, and-”
“I’m glad you came,” said Petrinski. “We haven’t talked since the funeral.”
“No.”
“Tom’s death was a great loss. I’m truly sorry.”
“Thanks. But that’s not why you called.”
“No. I want to discuss Travis.”
I sat on one of the piano benches, my back to the keyboard. Hunching my shoulders, I leaned forward. “What about Travis?”
Petrinski hesitated, seeming uncertain how to proceed. “Can I be frank?” he asked.
“Aside from myself, probably better than anyone else I know,” I answered.
Petrinski smiled. “I’ve been told that,” he agreed. “All right, but you won’t like what I have to say. No offense, Dan, but I’ve always believed that the best thing for Travis’s musical development would be for him to get out from under your influence. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know what’s wrong, but your son seems to need some form of guidance I can’t give.”
“The kid’s screwing up in school, and you want me to boot his tail back on the straight and narrow?” I said. “You could have told me that over the phone. I’ll talk to him, all right. Where is he?”
“Classes are over for the holidays, but Trav mentioned staying till Thursday. He’s probably in one of the annex practice rooms. And actually, your son is doing well in most of his university courses. Especially those given by the Music Department.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Instead of responding, Petrinski gazed at me for a long moment. Finally he asked, “What do you know of Travis’s world of music?”
I shrugged, aware of Petrinski’s irritating habit of broaching subjects obliquely. “Not much,” I answered, wishing he would get to the point. “I’m not totally ignorant on the subject, but country music’s more my style.”
“You may understand more than you think. I define good music as any that can repay our attention by enriching our lives and giving us pleasure, revelation, and maybe even enlightenment. Music, all music, if it fulfills its potential, can play a vitally worthwhile role in our lives.”
“I never said that I thought what Travis is doing isn’t worthwhile,” I objected, anticipating the direction the conversation seemed headed.
“Maybe not in so many words, but that’s what he thinks.”
“Even if that’s true, I still don’t see-”
Petrinski cut me off. “I think Travis is at a critical juncture. There’s no doubt he has the ability to become a world-class musician. After his success at the Van Cliburn International, many think he’s already achieved that status. I believe he has more to offer.”
“Like what?”
