Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 14

RETURNING TO THE same Urine-Scented corner of the basement, she lowered herself to the floor and leaned her back against the wall. The kitty had gone into hiding. Bernadette heard a scuffing noise, however. It was cleaning up after a visit to the makeshift litter box. She shifted uneasily, wondering if it had been a mistake to come without some sort of barrier between her jeans and the disgusting floor. Something else made her uneasy as well, but she tried to dismiss it as her earlier nerves acting up.

She set the bag on her lap and stared at the scarf inside it, wondering what it would bring to her at that late hour. Would he be sleeping next to his lover or fleeing her home with her body left behind in the tub? Would he linger, admiring her corpse in the water?

The scraping grew louder, and she knew it wasn’t an animal. She shoved the bag into her pocket and jumped to her feet.

A gravelly voice: “Hey, Blondie. What’s the rush?”

Two long-haired men in jeans and tattered camo hunting jackets were walking toward her. Had they been there all along, or had they just come in off the street? Had they been there when she and Garcia were down earlier? Didn’t matter; the building’s defective doors were to blame. “Stop right there,” she said.

The shortest of the scruffy pair froze, but his taller buddy—the one who’d addressed her—kept coming. He had an empty whiskey bottle in his right hand. He grinned, exposing a black gap where a row of front teeth had rotted away. “You got a tight little ass on you, Blondie.”

She took a couple steps backward but kept her attention on the tall one. His eyes were buggy, and he reeked of liquor. She instinctively reached under her sweatshirt to the waist of her jeans and felt her heart sink. Her gun wasn’t there; she’d left it upstairs after changing. Her eyes traveled beyond the men to the stairs behind them.

The tall one stopped a few yards away from her, threw his head back, and laughed, revealing a mouth filled with more rotting teeth. “You’ll never make it, Blondie.” He grabbed at his crotch with his grimy hand. “You’re gonna have to do the both of us, and then maybe we’ll let you out of here. Maybe.”

Shorty found his courage and his tongue and came up next to his partner. He swayed and slurred and pointed a filthy finger at her. “Fuckin’ right about that.”

“Fellas,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to do this. I’m an FBI agent.”

They were unimpressed. With a grunt, the taller man swung the whiskey bottle against the side of a pillar, knocking off the bottom. Brandishing the jagged half, he resumed his march toward her. “Gonna fuck you and cut you up good.”

The short guy was hanging back again. Bernadette figured she could weave through them and reach the stairs. She made a dash for the hole between the two. Shorty stayed where he was, but his pal spun around and went after her.

She was halfway up the stairs when she felt a hand around her ankle. He pulled her down, and they both slipped and fell on their faces on the steps. Miraculously, he lost his grip on the bottle. She heard it clatter and land on the concrete below them. The guy let go of her for an instant but then snagged her ankle again—this time with both hands. She yanked her leg away and turned. From a sitting position on the steps, she raised her foot and smashed his face with the bottom of her sneaker.

He stayed on his knees on the stairs. “Bitch! I’m gonna kill you!” He crawled up a step and lunged for her. Fell on top of her.

“Get the fuck off!” Pushing against his chest with both hands, Bernadette struggled to raise his body off hers. He smelled of sweat and booze and mildew and urine. The stairwell of a dirty parking ramp. He felt like a bag of wet sand, damp and heavy and immobile. She slid out from under him and, still on her back, pushed herself up two steps.

He crawled after her. “I’m not done with you, cunt!”

She cranked her foot back and landed another blow to his face, hitting him square on the nose.

He tumbled down the stairs and landed at the bottom, flat on his back. “Bitch,” he gurgled, holding his face with both hands. “You broke my nose!” He tried to get up and fell back with a confused look on his face.

She sat where she was for a moment, enjoying his pain. They were lucky she didn’t have her gun.

She jumped up and darted up the steps, ran all the way back to her place, and called the police.

AMAZINGLY, THE two drunks were still in the basement when the police arrived.

A young female uniform met Bernadette at her loft and took a statement. Bernadette followed her downstairs and stood in the hallway watching through the front glass doors as the two interlopers were loaded into the squad car by a team of policemen.

The female officer, a slender African American woman, put her hand on Bernadette’s shoulder. “You need me to call someone to stay with you tonight?”

Bernadette said, “I’m good. The bastards will be locked up. Was nice of them to stay put for you.”

“We’re not dealing with geniuses here. Plus they were both drunker than skunks. Maybe high, too. Talking crazy talk.”

“Crazy talk?”

“Bogeymen in the basement.” The policewoman closed her notebook and tucked it into her jacket.

“Appreciate the quick response,” said Bernadette.

“We aim to please,” said the officer, pivoting around and heading down the hallway.

“Thanks again,” Bernadette said after her.

The policewoman opened the door to leave and said over her shoulder, “Someone will contact you for follow-up. They’ve both got outstanding warrants, so neither one is going anywhere anytime soon.”

Harold Winston, the building’s elusive caretaker, padded barefoot out of his first-floor condo and came up next to Bernadette. His massive gut hung over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, and his curly white beard was so long that it met up with the fur poking out of his V-neck T-shirt. The snowy hair on his head was sticking straight up on top and matted on the sides. Even though he was still in his fifties, he looked ancient. Bernadette thought he could pass for a Santa Claus fallen on hard times. The only thing that gave away his younger age and strength were his thick arms. Santa never had a set of pipes on him like Harry’s.

He tipped his head toward her and said in a low voice, “Cops banged on my door and told me what went down, that you ran into a couple of lowlifes in the basement. You okay, Miss Saint Clare?”

“Ducky,” she said as she watched the red lights flashing outside.

“Really sorry about this.” He paused and tugged on his beard. “But I gotta ask: What were you doing down there, and so late at night?”

She gave him the same lame excuse she’d given the police officer: “The bureau is looking for more office space downtown. I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d check it out. See if it was something we could fix up and use.”

“But it’s one in the morning.”

Wanting to get him off the subject, Bernadette pointed through the glass as the squad cars pulled away with their seedy passengers. “When you gonna fix that front door, Harry?”

“Well, as I was telling the officers …”

“This was a bad deal.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Saint Clare,” he said, tugging harder on his beard. “I’m really sorry.”

“You keep saying that. Stop saying that, and let’s talk about some changes around this joint.” Hands balled at her sides, Bernadette realized she was starting to lose it with the caretaker. That rage she’d felt earlier in the evening was bubbling up again, and she willed herself to calm down.

“Changes?” Harry gave his beard a hard yank. “I can’t afford no changes. I need this job; I got bills to pay. Besides, Mr. Murrick’s will don’t allow for no changes.”

A former sports bookie and burglar (his clumsiness with numbers had doomed the first profession, and his weight had sabotaged the second), Harry had been a pro bono client of Augie’s for years. The soft-hearted attorney had made a cushy arrangement for the failed felon in his estate: Harry could have the caretaker’s job for as long as he wanted it and could stay in the condo indefinitely, free of charge.

“What I mean is, we need to get stuff done on a more timely basis,” she said, trying to soften her tone. “That’s all.”

He nodded. “We’re on the same page, Miss Saint Clare. I’m gonna get on that front door at first light. I swear to you.”

“The basement?”

“Then I’m gonna fix that door and swab the stink hole with a case of Clorox. One thing at a time.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be one thing at a time. I’m sure the association would approve subcontracting some of these repairs if they’re too much for you to handle.”

His posture straightened as he pulled himself up to his full height of five feet and a couple of inches. “I don’t need no help. I can do the job just fine.”

She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Go get some sleep, Harry. You look beat.”

“You okay by yourself tonight? You got a boyfriend who can come stay with you? Those scumbags must have scared the shit out of you.”

“I’m good,” she said. “You go on to bed yourself.”

“All right, then.” He turned and padded to his door. He took his collection of building keys out of his pants pocket and ran the mess through his fingers, looking for the key to his own door. He slipped one in the lock, turned to the left and right. Nothing. He pulled the key out and tried another.

Bernadette shook her head and went to the elevators. Pushed the Up button. While she waited for the door to open, she checked her watch. Dawn was hours away. Glancing down the hall, she saw Harry was still fiddling with his door. She yelled at him, “Need some help?”

He looked up from his keys. “Don’t you worry about me none.”

The elevator door opened. Bernadette put her foot on the threshold to keep the car open until she finally saw Harry get inside his condo. She stepped onto the elevator and punched her floor.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the elevator wall while the car went up. She wished for all the world that she did have someone to stay with her until daybreak. Opening her eyes, she checked her watch again and tried to imagine what Garcia would say if she gave him a call at this bizarre hour and asked him to come over. Why was Garcia the one she thought of tapping for such an intimate favor? Truth be told, she didn’t have anyone else. Her boss was her best friend. Pathetic.

The car stopped and she stepped off. As she walked down the hall, she told herself that she didn’t need Garcia or anyone else. She’d tough the night out by herself; she’d been doing that very thing for years.

Chapter 15

BERNADETTE PUSHED OPEN the door to her loft. She’d left it unlocked while she was running around the building; she’d no longer be so cavalier about her home’s security. Closing the door tightly, she turned the deadbolt and slid the security chain into place. While she flipped on every light, she continued to mull over the idea of calling someone. She picked up her cell and studied it, as if the screen would tell her whom to call or what to do. Finding no answers, she hurled the phone onto the couch and marched into the bathroom.

She stripped and tossed her clothes into a corner. Come morning, she’d chuck the works straight into the trash chute, including her tennis shoes. Cranking the water as hot as she could stand it, she stood under the shower and scrubbed for twenty minutes. She went through two towels drying herself off, rubbing her skin red. She wondered if she could have picked up any fleas from the drunk. Should have gone back downstairs with her gun and finished the both of them, she told herself.

Wrapped in a robe, she walked out of the bathroom, picked up the television remote, and collapsed onto the couch. She surfed through every cable channel twice before stopping at an old black-and-white horror flick starring Boris Karloff. It was one Frankenstein movie or another: Frankenstein. Bride of Frankenstein. Son of Frankenstein. Ghost of Frankenstein. House of Frankenstein.

After five minutes of angry villagers, she decided she couldn’t get into it and punched off the set. She changed into a nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and went upstairs to try to sleep.

Going down on her knees beside the mattress and propping her folded hands atop the bed, she launched into her nightly bedtime ritual. Though she’d been raised Catholic, she’d long ago stopped attending Sunday mass. The only time she set foot in a church was to use the tranquil physical space for her sight. She hadn’t stopped believing in God, however, and every night said the only two prayers she remembered from childhood.

“‘Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name …’”

Saying the words out loud muffled the commotion in her head more effectively than the loudest Frankenstein movie. By the end of the second prayer, the Hail Mary, her body was starting to surrender to exhaustion. She made the sign of the Cross, got up off her knees, and crawled between the covers.

THE MOB CHASED her along the riverfront, their torches casting bright reflections in the nighttime waters of the Mississippi. Bernadette could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she ran from the shouts. She didn’t know why they were pursuing her. She couldn’t understand what they were yelling at her. The only word she could make out was the name they’d given her.

Monster.

She stopped running and turned to plead with them, ask them to spare her life. They froze fifty feet from where she stood. The hollering hushed. Bernadette looked into the crowd of men and women and children, their furious expressions illuminated and animated by the dancing flames. She recognized two of the faces: they belonged to the bums from the basement.

“Monster!” screamed a female voice in the crowd.

“Monster!” repeated a raspy male voice. One of the bums.

Suddenly the entire throng was chanting the word.

“Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

“Why?” she yelled at them. “Why am I a monster?” “Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

At her side, her fists clenched in rage. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her Glock, and aimed into the center of the crowd. “FBI!” she hollered. “Drop your weapons!”

The chanting grew louder and faster. “Monster! Monster! Monster!”

She squeezed the trigger, and the crack of her gun silenced the throng. A small blond girl in a white dress and veil put her hands to her chest. A circle of blood appeared under her tiny fists. The stain widened and the girl’s face contorted. Then the child fell facedown on the ground.

“No!” Bernadette screamed, and threw her pistol and ran.

She could hear the villagers closing in on her, their voices loud with a new chant.

“Kill-er! Kill-er! Kill-er!”

“I’m not a killer,” Bernadette panted as she ran. “Not a killer. Not.”

The chant changed. “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

She spotted a dock up ahead and thumped onto the boards. At the end of the dock was a houseboat. Bernadette ran up to the front door and pounded with her fists. She heard music on the other side of the door, but no one answered her knock. She screamed the name of the only person she trusted. “Tony!” Bernadette yelled to the closed door. “Open up! Tony! Help me!”

The mob drew closer. Leading the charge was the blond girl, her dress dripping with blood. Raising her torch in the air, the child led her followers in a new chant, “Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!”

Bernadette flattened her back against the houseboat door and yelled, “No!”

The girl touched the torch to the dock, and an army of spiders spilled out of the fire. They rolled toward Bernadette like a gray, greasy wave. She collapsed against the houseboat door, closed her eyes, and curled her knees to her chest. Shuddering with horror, she felt the creatures enveloping her body. Biting her. A million tiny needles pricking her flesh. She took a final breath, and they invaded her nostrils, suffocating her.

HER EYES flying open, Bernadette bolted upright in bed. She’d kicked off her covers in her sleep. Though her loft was cool, her body was warm and covered with perspiration. She peeled off her wet nightshirt and tossed it onto the floor. Her heart was pounding like crazy, and she was panting as if she’d just finished a long run. She took a deep breath and let it out. Inhaled again, and let it out slowly. She swore she could smell something burning inside her condo. Had she left the oven on?

She slid off the mattress and took the stairs, hanging tightly onto the rails as she spiraled down. She flipped on the kitchen lights and checked the stovetop. No flame had been left burning on the range. She pulled open the oven door. Empty and cold. She slammed the door shut. Nothing had been left on during the night. She took down a tumbler, turned on the tap, and got a cold drink. It took three glasses of water to quench her thirst.

Exhausted but too tense to go back to bed right away, she stood at the counter and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She pressed her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face was feverish. “I’m losing my mind,” she said aloud.

Chapter 16

CREED FAILED TO make an appearance in the cellar Friday morning, and the construction noise had subsided. The jackhammer crew must have slept in. Enjoying the serenity, Bernadette sat at her computer to plug into government and other databases.

Professor Finlay Wakefielder had no criminal record. One speeding ticket three years ago. Married and divorced twice. No kids, or at least none that he claimed. Drove an eight-year-old Saab sedan. Lived in the Grove, an exclusive faculty neighborhood next to the university’s St. Paul campus. Ph.D. from Harvard University. Before coming to the University of Minnesota, served as an assistant professor in the department of English at Princeton. Scored numerous prizes and fellowships. Dissertation Writing Fellowship. Prize for Excellence in Teaching. Prize for Excellence in the Humanities. English Prize Fellowship. Published two books, one a history of poetry in the Midwest, the other a biography of the poet John Berryman.

The book about Berryman gave her pause. She remembered something about the famous poet and a bridge. She typed in Berryman’s name and read an online bio. In 1972 Berryman ended his life by leaping from the Washington Avenue Bridge—the same bridge from which the four Minnesota drowning victims had supposedly jumped.

She went to the university’s Web site and looked up the work phone number and address for the professor. Wakefielder’s office in Lind Hall, home to the University of Minnesota’s department of English, was barely a block from the bridge.

Next, research on the bridge itself. Even before the spate of coed drownings, the bridge was fraught with weird mojo. Despite cosmetic makeovers—the most recent being a coat of paint in the school colors of maroon and gold—the campus community complained that the structure had an indefinable bleakness about it. Certainly the girls weren’t the first to go over its railings. Students venturing on the bridge late at night reported hearing phantom footsteps behind them, supposedly the ghosts of those who had leaped or fallen from the bridge in years past.

“I wonder if Creed knows any of them,” she said out loud, and continued with her research.

SHE DROVE TO the east bank of the Minneapolis campus and parked the Crown Vic in the Church Street Garage, an underground ramp that was north of the university’s mall area. Before dropping in on the professor, she wanted to check out the bridge, which was at the south end of the mall.

She walked past Northrop Memorial Auditorium, a massive concert and dance venue that anchored the north end of the mall. Its wide steps led up to a front entrance lined with tall columns. Bernadette found it reminiscent of a Roman bathhouse on steroids. Other buildings on the mall echoed the design on a smaller scale, their fronts boasting tall columns, tall windows, and wide steps. She had no idea who the mall buildings were named for, but they all sounded sturdy and unassuming: Johnston Hall. Smith Hall. Walter Library.

The sidewalks of the grassy, tree-lined square were teeming with students lugging backpacks and books. Even in the bitter cold, some kids were tossing Frisbees on the grass or sitting outside with their morning coffee and Cokes.

The bridge itself was crowded, too. It crossed the Mississippi, connecting the east and west banks of the university, and was used primarily by students and faculty. The top was for walkers and bikers, and the bottom was for cars. The girls would have gone off the top, which was railed and dotted with globe light poles. A long roofed and walled structure with windows ran down the middle of the walkway. It served as a windbreak for walkers in the winter.

The walkway railing was about waist-high, and as Bernadette stood against it, she judged it wouldn’t take much to toss a small person over it. As she leaned over and stared down into the water below, a bicyclist dressed in fatigues zoomed past her. He turned his head and gave her a long stare while pedaling to the west bank end of the bridge. Two boys hiking across also gave her a funny look. She stepped away from the railing. The students were on high alert after the drownings. She didn’t need someone calling the campus cops on her because they thought she was a jumper.

She moved off the bridge and headed for Wakefielder’s office.

LIND HALL was an older, four-story brick building on Church Street, just off Washington Avenue. Bernadette glanced up at its tall windows as she mounted the steps leading to the Church Street entrance. Wakefielder’s office and classroom were both on the third floor. She hadn’t made an appointment with him but had uncovered his teaching schedule and office hours by poking around the university’s Web site. She’d timed it so she could catch the tail end of the class that Kyra Klein had attended Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

The classroom door was wide open, and Bernadette saw a few empty desks in the last row. The professor’s back was turned, and she sat down without drawing his attention. Students around her gave her a quick look and then went back to their papers. They were taking a test.

While Wakefielder wrote on the board—he was assigning reading—Bernadette studied his hands. No scratches or bruises. That didn’t mean anything; no skin had been recovered from Klein’s nails. Under his blazer, he seemed to be of average build. Stood six feet or better. Blond hair like the guy Klein’s neighbor had seen. Yes, this man was a solid candidate.

A female student got up, went over to the prof, and handed him her paper. She whispered something. To hear her, he bent to one side. Ever so lightly, he placed a hand in the middle of her back.

Definitely in the running, this Wakefielder.

Bernadette unbuttoned her trench coat and the blazer underneath. Holstered under the waist of her slacks was her Glock.

ONE BY ONE, the students quietly put their tests on Wakefielder’s desk and filed out the door with their books and bags. The professor was so immersed in his writing on the board, he didn’t see a stranger in the room. When a girl to Bernadette’s right turned in her paper and exited the room, Bernadette went after her. She waited until the girl was at the other end of the hall. She didn’t want Wakefielder to overhear.

“Miss,” Bernadette said.

The girl was hunched over a drinking fountain. She stood straight and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was a tall, slender African American girl with almond-shaped eyes and a head of braids tied back from her face. “Yes?”

Bernadette hesitated. College students tended to distrust anything federal, but she went for her ID wallet anyway. Held it up. “I’m with the FBI.”

The girl blinked. “Yes?”

“We’re investigating the deaths of some female students.”

She took a step back from Bernadette. “The bridge murders?”

“There’s a student from your class. She may have been another victim.”

Her eyes got big. “Jeez. Really? Who?”

“Kyra Klein.”

The girl tightened her hold on her books, clutching them to her chest like a shield. “She’s dead? Someone from my class is dead? When did she die? She went off the bridge?”

“You knew her?”

Chewing her bottom lip, the girl hedged. “Not really. I mean … I’ve heard Professor Wakefielder call on her. I think I know who she is. Sits behind me. Blond.”

“Short black hair.”

“Oh, her. Real skinny, right?”

“It’s a small class,” said Bernadette. “Don’t you all know each other?”

“Not really. We’ve only been in session about a month. We meet three times a week for like fifty minutes, if that. It’s not like we hang out together.”

“What if somebody is absent? Does anyone notice?”

“People skip out. It’s not like the teacher takes roll. Bunch were gone today, even though we had a quiz. Fridays are good for that. People turn it into a three-day weekend by cutting class.”

So that the girl wouldn’t think every male in the class was a sociopath, Bernadette worded her next question carefully. “Did Kyra mention to you that she was having problems with anyone inside or outside of school?”

The girl shook her head. “Never really talked to her. No one in our group talks to each other. After class lets out, everybody takes off.”

Bernadette dug into her coat and pulled out a card. “If you think of something—what’s your name?”

The girl took the card and examined it. “Alisha.”

“Look, Alisha, if you think of something, call me.”

“Now I feel bad that I didn’t talk to her.” She looked toward the open classroom. “Do you think whoever did it might come after the rest of us?”

“No, I don’t think that’s what—”

“Has it been in the papers yet? Wait until I tell my boyfriend at the Daily.”

“Do not tell anyone we had this conversation,” Bernadette said firmly. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation. A federal matter. You could get in big trouble.”

Alisha said, “But—”

“I mean it, young lady.” Bernadette couldn’t believe she had just called someone young lady. She was getting old.

“Yes, ma’am,” Alisha said.

Bernadette tried to lighten her voice. “So … that’s an interesting course you’re taking, The Poetry of Suicide. What’s the big attraction? The subject matter or the professor?”

“Both, I guess. At least it isn’t the same old, same old. Who wants to suffer through more Shakespeare, right?”

“Right.”

“Professor Wakefielder, well … I like him. He’s different.”

Still keeping her voice light, Bernadette asked, “Why is he different?”

“He gets it. He’s a guy, but he gets it. It’s like—I don’t know—he knows what it’s like to be …” Her voice trailed off.

“Female?”

“Yeah. That sounds sick, doesn’t it?”

“He’s a caring, sensitive male,” Bernadette said pleasantly. She made the zipper sign across her mouth. “Remember, Alisha.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bernadette turned and went back to the classroom. She didn’t want the professor to get away from her. While she walked, she looked around. The hallway was empty. She quickly transferred her gun to the pocket of her trench coat. Those caring, sensitive males could be dangerous when cornered.

THE STUDENTS had all disappeared from the classroom. Alisha was right; they weren’t a social group. Wakefielder was bent over the desk, squaring the stack of tests. Bernadette went up to the opposite side of the table. “Professor Wakefielder?”

He set down the papers. “I’ll bet you’re the student who called about my class on—”

“I’m with the FBI,” she said.

Glancing up, he gave her a nervous smile. “What fresh hell is this?”

Bernadette paused, her attention darting to the board for an instant. She extended her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

His eyes went to the badge and then back to her face. “What can I do for you?”

“May we talk in your office, Professor Wakefielder?”

“I’m … down the hall,” he said hesitantly.

He led the way. Bernadette followed a step behind him, saying nothing. He was scared, and at the same time she swore he was baiting her. Bernadette knew the “fresh hell” crack was Dorothy Parker’s signature greeting, and the dead girl had picked that writer for her paper.

THREE WALLS of his office were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books of all sorts, organized in no sane fashion. George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Homage to Catalonia both rested atop a row of Stephen King paperbacks. The Stranger by Albert Camus was crammed between a collection of Anne Rice’s vampire novels. The Time Machine, The Maltese Falcon, and Fahrenheit 451 were followed by the Harry Potter books, which were followed by a fat book titled Library of World Poetry. More books by and about poets were wedged between other volumes and were used in stacks as bookends to hold up other books. Bernadette recognized the most famous names of the lot: Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Keats, Blake, Emerson. Finally, there were textbooks with titles like The Role of Confessional Poetry in Contemporary American Literature.

The only wall without books—the one with the door—was plastered with posters and other pop art. Psychedelic Pink Floyd poster from a London Concert. Ad announcing a Metropolitan Opera visit to Northrop Auditorium. Muhammad Ali/Joe Frazier boxing poster. Tin street sign that said “Fenway Park.” Poster of Winston Churchill with a plane-filled sky behind him and the words LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER.

As she stood in the doorway—the door itself was propped open with a phone book—he lifted some books and papers off a folding chair. “Excuse the mess.”

“You should see my office.” She walked inside and lowered herself into the seat. She didn’t spot a computer. He had to have a laptop buried somewhere under the mess, she thought. She’d love to get her mitts on it.

He went around and sat down behind his desk, a metal clunker piled high with more papers and books. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair, a cushy leather piece with arms. It was the only modern furnishing in the office. He smiled nervously. “I assume you’re here about the suicides.”

Bernadette didn’t answer immediately; she was stunned he’d gotten right to it. “How did you know?”