Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  23

  Earl Pendergast no longer had an active Web site, but his textbook publisher did. And on it was an author photo. Dressed in an open blue shirt and smiling at the camera, he was a pleasant-looking man with dark sharp eyes, a prominent brow, and long brown hair pushed straight back. Except for the rimless glasses, he looked less like a scholar and more like an aging model.

  Steve printed the image, bringing it with him the next morning to the Mermaid Lounge. The place opened at eleven and closed at one A.M., so the daytime staff was different from the night crew and dancers. Steve went alone because Neil was at Terry Farina’s funeral.

  He interviewed dancers and staffers, but nobody could think of anyone who might have stalked Terry or wanted to do her harm. But DeLuca and a waitress recognized Pendergast. He had a favorite corner of the bar, the waitress said, and when Terry performed she’d play up to him, give him longer-than-usual glimpses. The waitress also said he was a big tipper. She added that Farina was good at manipulating customers, leading them to believe that they’d be going home with the beautiful naked woman who danced for them, but she’d just take their money and leave. No guilt. All business. But maybe some hard feelings. That Pendergast might be one of those whom Terry had playacted with was encouraging.

  Hawthorne State was only fifteen miles to the southwest near the Medford-Everett line. Traffic was light and Steve didn’t need to get back to the station until four. So he headed to the college to learn a little more about Professor Big Tipper.

  The Hawthorne Student News office was located on the second floor of the student union, a gray stone building with lots of windows and an outside eating area. A few students were working at desks in a large and cluttered office. At a computer near the entrance sat a young woman in jeans and a baggy T-shirt with a red lollipop in her mouth. She looked up from her keyboard and took out the pop. “May I help you?”

  Steve identified himself and said he wanted to know where he could find Matthew Seabrook. The woman looked at the badge. “Oh, wow, what’d he do?”

  Steve explained he wanted to talk to him about a story he had written last year. The woman said she thought he had graduated but that she’d get Lisa Snyder, who was the editor. She went into a back room and came out with another woman who was wearing shorts, an oversized work shirt, and a pink Red Sox cap. Steve asked if they could talk privately, and he followed her into the room she had come out of.

  He told her he wanted to see a copy of the Pendergast story. She said that the author had graduated last December, but she found the story in their files and printed a copy for him. Before Steve left, Snyder said that she was an English minor and had had Professor Pendergast for a course and that he was a terrific teacher and very popular. “The administration here is rather paranoid,” she said. “Like any other school, there’s a ruling against instructors getting romantically involved with students.”

  “Is that what the administration claimed?”

  “Yeah. I guess he was something of a flirt, you know, he put a hit on some students. But I think his suspension was a knee-jerk reaction. Besides, he got awesome ratings on ratemyprofessors.”

  “On what?”

  “Ratemyprofessors.com. It’s a Web site where kids can evaluate their instructors.”

  It was nearly two and Steve hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he headed for the student union, where he picked up a tuna sub and took a table where he read the piece on Pendergast:

  The sexual harassment charge stems from last Spring semester when a junior English major complained that Professor Pendergast had made sexual overtures. She complained that over the term he had become overly friendly, asking her to concerts and plays, sometimes making her feel uncomfortable in class by singling her out for comments or calling attention to her outfits or hair.

  The junior in question told the News that Professor Pendergast had a reputation for getting too personal with women students. She also said that when she refused his sexual advances following a date, she feared her grade would be affected.

  Pendergast admitted asking the student out on dates but denies making sexual advances. According to Dean Patricia Oliver, Pendergast had violated the sexual harassment policy of the college, which forbids instructors from dating students.

  Three years ago, Professor Pendergast was reprimanded by the college for his “controversial teaching style.” Apparently some female students in his Romantic Poetry course complained that he “repeatedly called attention to the sexual nature” of the material, often calling on certain women to comment on flagrantly sexual imagery, asking if such lines personally spoke to them. For those charges Pendergast was not suspended but required to take “sensitivity seminars to help him perceive the problem.”

  Pendergast has denied the current charges, calling them violations of his First Amendment rights for free speech. …He said he would appeal his suspension.

  Commenting on the suspension, junior English major Justin Pace said the two best courses he had taken were those taught by Professor Pendergast. “He’s awesome. He knows his stuff and is very dedicated.” Pace went on to say that the sexual harassment charges were ludicrous. “He’s just a warm, friendly guy.”

  Steve found an outlet and plugged in his laptop and typed in ratemyprofessors.com. A colorful page flashed on the screen, claiming to be an automated system for researching and rating approximately 700,000 college and university professors across the United States and Canada. He tapped in Hawthorne State College and got on a page for the school with the professorial staff alphabetically listed.

  Earl Pendergast’s name had forty-six entries, but he could access only the first two pages without a subscription. But the dozen he was able to read gave an intriguing profile: out of a high of 5.0 he got a 4.9 for quality of teaching and a 4.3 for ease of grading. Of course, the responses were subjective and probably affected by the grades of the evaluators. But Pendergast came across as popular, charismatic, fun, and attractive:

  Professor Pendergast kicks ass. And he’s oh so hot!

  Awesome professor, soothing voice but won’t put you to sleep. Knows his stuff and is passionate about the material.

  Professor Earl’s the best. Had him four years ago and still talk about his Rom. Poetry class. You’ll love his passion. Not to mention his cute butt.

  Several went on like these, with varying degrees of sophistication, most praising his teaching. It was a few personal insights that caught Steve’s attention:

  Got a bad rap with the sex charges thanks to FemMafia running the English Dept. and a wimpy administration. Tries too hard to be everybody’s buddy. Wants to be loved.

  This guy relies on smiling and flirting to get thru the semester. Ridiculously easy grader. Plays favs., esp. if you’re a hot female.

  Perv Alert! Makes sexual innuendos in class. Can find eros in a Grecian urn. Women: Smile and get an A. Go braless and get an A+.

  For comparison sake, Steve clicked on other instructor evaluations at random. The general tone and observations were consistent with Pendergast’s, except for the few personal claims. Most sounded fair-minded regarding the teaching quality. Steve e-mailed copies to Reardon and the unit detectives. Then he left and headed back to Boston for a four o’clock meeting, his mind playing over the tidbits: Plays favs. Wants to be loved.

  Hard to fault him on that. But Perv Alert! warmed his heart with possibilities.

  On the way, he called the answering machine at his apartment. There was a single message from Dana. The cosmetic surgeon had called to say that he could see her Friday morning for a Restylane procedure that would take only half an hour. The fee was only four hundred dollars and a good place to start. She was calling because Lanie would be out of town on Friday, her own car was in the garage on a recall, and she needed a ride again.

  What nagged at him was that she had left him a message instead of calling him on his PDA. It was her way of keeping her distance. Once husband, now cosmetic chauffeur hot line.

  24


  “Seems our Professor Cute Butt’s got a bunch of flags on his report card,” Reardon said, and gave Steve a nod of acknowledgment.

  Around the conference table with Steve were Neil, Sergeants Marie Dacey, Lenny Vaughn, and Kevin Hogan, plus two investigators from Jamaica Plain. Since Steve’s return from Hawthorne, they had probed Pendergast’s past and come up with more particulars, which animated Chief Reardon, who had been feeling the heat from the D.A.’s office because the Boston homicide rate was at a twelve-year high. The summer hadn’t even officially begun and the number of murders in Boston was at thirty-nine, seven ahead of last year’s pace. And the mayor, the statehouse, the media, and the public were demanding that something be done.

  “Besides the sexual harassment charges, he’s got a prior at Clark University in Worcester where he used to teach summer courses. He was released for trading grades for sex.”

  “Always good to find a teacher with standards,” Steve said, feeling buoyed by the finds. “What’s interesting is that he had targeted one particular female, a twenty-one-year-old redhead.”

  “Is that right?” Neil said.

  A few hours earlier Neil had attended Terry Farina’s funeral, so he, too, welcomed the news. Steve handed him a folder. “He also has a five-year-old charge for a lewd and lash in New Hampshire for sex with a minor of seventeen, a student at another summer course he taught at UNH. He had claimed the girl told him she was twenty. The charge was later dropped.”

  “We looked into the suspension and talked to the dean,” Dacey said. “What he’d do was drop notes or e-mails to females, complimenting them on their sexy outfits, saying things like he’d like to get to know them better, then invite them to concerts and movies.”

  “He also had a habit of using sexual language in class,” Vaughn added. “He’d read sexually provocative passages from books, or make sexual metaphors in his composition classes.” Vaught read from his notes: “‘Good writing begins with a sharp focus—like sex. You’re working to a climactic effect, creating ripples of associations.’”

  “Subtle,” Steve said.

  “What else do we know about him?” Neil asked.

  “Single, divorced for about fifteen years. No kids. Been at Hawthorne for twenty-three. Voted Instructor of the Year in ’94 then again in ’98,” Steve continued. “His sexual harassment suspension expired last week, the end of the academic year.”

  “So, he’ll be back in class in September.”

  “Right.”

  “Another thing,” Reardon said, glancing at his notes. “Detective Hogan talked to a Marsha Verchovny a.k.a. Jinxy who said that Terry Farina told her that she’d gone out with him but wasn’t sure how often. She also wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

  “So we’ve got a guy with some prior sexual improprieties, but no violence. He frequented the strip club, was taken by the victim, and dated her at least once. He lines up better than anyone else we’ve got so far,” Steve said. “But what’s the motive?”

  “Yeah, Bunky, what’s the motive?”

  From nowhere that voice was back, like Jiminy Cricket with fangs.

  “Seeing if they can fill you in?”

  Steve squeezed it down.

  “How about he goes to collect on his options?” Neil said. “They begin to get sexual, she turns him down, he loses it, and chokes her.”

  “So she’s naked before he kills her?” Steve said.

  Neil looked at him. “As opposed to what?”

  “To him stripping her after he kills her. If they were consensual, then the rage might have surfaced while they were being sexual.”

  “How about he’s impotent? Which may explain the porn sites: he’s trying to see if he can get aroused.”

  Impotent? Not getting much action of late, but the old mojo’s still working.

  “So you’re saying he comes in, he gets her to do a little private strip, but he can’t get it up so he murders her.”

  “Why not?”

  Reardon was studying Steve. “I think you’ve got a problem with that.” It was a flat statement to draw Steve out.

  “Sounds logical, except what little profile we have says he looks more like a guy who likes women than hates them.”

  “That’s my feeling,” Dacey said.

  Sergeant McCarthy from J.P.P.D. picked up a photo of Xena. “With all due respect, I think she could have aroused a dead man.”

  That got a chuckle from the others. “Whatever. He’s all we got,” Neil said. “I think we should check him out. Might also want to get a paper for his computers.”

  “Already in process. Also his home PC and any laptop. We’re waiting for the court magistrate on that.”

  Reardon checked his watch. “We called the English Department, and according to the secretary he’s in his office until around five—which gives you time if you hustle.” He directed the statement to Steve and Neil.

  They got up to leave.

  “By the way,” Reardon said, “the secretary says he’s leaving the country next week for a month. So if he’s our man, we’re going to have to show it fast, because we don’t have the funds to chase him all over Europe.”

  25

  “I haven’t even laid eyes on the son of a bitch,” Neil said, “but I’ve got a gut for him.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” Please. And for the second time today Steve drove to Hawthorne State.

  The English Department was located on the fourth floor of an old redbrick building across the street from a student dormitory. An office roster led them to Pendergast’s office. Steve tapped at the door, and the man from the Web site photo opened it. “Professor Pendergast?”

  “Yes.” He gave them a slightly annoyed look.

  When Steve introduced himself and Neil and flashed his badge, Pendergast flinched. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “The death of Terry Farina.”

  Pendergast blanched and Steve’s heart surged with promise.

  Pendergast pulled open the door so that they could enter. He glanced down the halls to see if anyone had noticed, then closed the door behind them. “Have a seat.” He nearly stumbled over himself setting out chairs for Steve and Neil.

  It was a long narrow office with bookcases on two walls and a rear window facing a tall building. Pendergast took refuge behind his desk, which floated a flat screen monitor containing a Word text. Leaning against the bookcase was a red Trek road bike with about ninety-seven gears on the rear wheel. Tacked to a corkboard over his desk was a photograph of him in bright riding gear, straddling his bike with mountain peaks in the distance. On the wall was a plaque for an Excellence in Teaching award.

  Pendergast’s age was listed as fifty-one, but he had a tight, smooth, boyish face and thick brown hair that made him appear younger. It also helped that he was about six two and trim and wore jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. He had a silver hoop earring in his right ear and he wore wire-rimmed bifocals that made him look like a fashion model trying to appear scholarly. Steve had little difficulty imagining him charming the clothes off coeds. As they spoke, he worked at the image of him stocking-strangling Terry Farina.

  “What’s this all about again?”

  “I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news, but a woman named Terry Farina was found dead on June third, and her death has been ruled a homicide. We’re wondering if you knew her.”

  Pendergast started to blink. “What’s the name again?”

  “Terry Farina.”

  Pendergast made a wincing frown as if trying to process the name. It was a lousy attempt that nurtured a joyful butterfly flutter in Steve’s chest.

  “Terry Farina?” Pendergast said, hedging to see how much they knew.

  “Yes. And I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to tape-record this, which is standard procedure.” Recorders were useful for detecting inconsistencies since, in Steve’s experience, most people were terrible l
iars. They also allowed an investigator to look for facial tics and body language clues to possible deception. And Pendergast had several.

  He looked at the tape recorder and his eyes fluttered as if the air were smoky. “I’ve been teaching for nearly twenty-five years and have had a lot of students.”

  “Of course,” Steve said. Pendergast was playing coy, but his forehead began to glisten. “She was an exotic dancer who performed at the Mermaid Lounge in Revere.” Steve laid two nude Xena shots in front of him.

  Pendergast’s eyes saucered. “She was murdered? How awful.”

  Steve could not spot a newspaper on the guy’s desk, but if he was near a television in the last two days, he could not have missed the story.

  “We’re just wondering if you knew her,” Neil said.

  “If you’re asking if she was a student of mine, I have to say that I don’t remember her in any of my courses. I could check my grade sheets.” He started to get up to check a file cabinet.

  It was a pathetic attempt, and Steve gave Neil a look that said, Hold back. “No, that’s okay. We checked with Admissions. She was never a student here.”

  “You’re asking me if I knew her from her professional life.” He blinked luxuriously at the photos. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, it’s the stage name I knew her by, which is why I was thrown.”

  “Sure, no problem. And we appreciate your candor. So you knew her professionally.”

  “Yes. As a dancer.” Then he made a little chuff. “And, you know, I’m no different than any other red-blooded guy who likes beautiful women.”

  “Of course,” Neil said, his head bobbing encouragement. “From the Mermaid Lounge, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was pretty popular up there,” Steve said, and shot Neil a look to take it.

  “Yeah, we were up there the other day,” Neil said, working the regular-guy-bond routine. “It’s a pretty hot spot, got some real babes working the pole.”