The Book of Kills

by Ralph McInerny

  “I am going to leave you now with Detective Knight. I am going to get a lawyer for you so we can go through all this thoroughly.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The door closed behind Stewart and silence fell over the room, a silence Phil did not intend to break. His presence at the interrogation was not according to Hoyle and Stewart would have to go through the questions again once he had secured a lawyer for Byers.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “I would be surprised if you admitted it.”

  “Of course I haven’t. Because I didn’t do it.”

  Silence.

  “You’re the brother of Professor Knight, aren’t you?” “That’s right.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “The university has retained me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know my brother?”

  “I know who he is. He’s hard to miss.”

  Phil did not react. He did not encourage comments on Roger’s girth. He himself was beginning to wonder if he really enjoyed being back in the saddle again, to the degree that he was. From the beginning, he had been quietly scandalized by the series of events meant to embarrass the university in the matter of its claim to its land. He might have felt differently if any real Native Americans were involved in the incidents. But it all had the look of radical chic, borrowed indignation, an exercise in political correctness. It dismayed him that anyone should want to bring the university into disrepute. It dismayed him more that the administration seemed to have no swift way of handling the charges. He had heard of the planned White Paper, not a bad idea, but by the time it was written, time would have passed and it might serve only to stir up what had died down.

  The door opened and Jimmy beckoned him into the hall. “Wait for me,” he said to Byers.

  The busy hallway was a contrast to the isolation of the interrogation room. Jimmy waited for several officers to pass.

  “I’m going to let him go.”

  Phil nodded. Jimmy must have been thinking how difficult it would be to get an indictment.

  “The murderer has confessed.”

  “Bacon?”

  Jimmy looked directly at him then, and it was difficult to decipher his expression.

  “No. Professor Otto Ranke.”

  42

  PROFESSOR OTTO RANKE’S confession that he had killed his former student Orion Plant electrified the campus. Roger Knight had been kept abreast of developments by Phil, and by Lieutenant Stewart’s visits as well, but he had not felt any impulse to get involved, not after his inquiries had turned suspicion on Orion Plant. The investigation pursued all the available spoors, but Roger was a firm believer in the contingency of things and thought, but did not say, that the murderer could easily be someone utterly unconnected with what Jimmy and Phil were pursuing. Bacon had conveniently admitted to transporting the body, but his denial that he had killed Orion was plausible to Roger just because it seemed so implausible that he would go to such trouble to remove the body of a man he had not killed. As for Byers, the events had the requirements for a fictional plot, but seemed devoid of solid legal base. Roger’s heart sank within him when Phil called to tell him of Otto Ranke’s confession. In a way he would have hesitated to call intuition, Roger was immediately struck by the plausibility of the professor’s confession. It might seem that Ranke had no compelling motivation for killing Orion, but Roger knew otherwise. Above all, he knew about Ranke’s daughter, Laverne. He decided to go to Holy Cross House and talk with Father Carmody.

  It was the first time he had used his golf cart since its role in transferring Orion Plant’s body had become known. The police had finally returned it to him, but Roger had eschewed its use. When he came within sight of the library, he abruptly changed his mind. First he would have a chat with Whelan.

  The news about Ranke brought back Whelan’s stammer and for half a minute he could say nothing. Then his ease with Roger asserted itself.

  “He confessed?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “He says because he killed Orion.”

  “I meant, why would he kill him?”

  “Revenge.”

  He explained it to the learned archivist, but Whelan was inexperienced in the ways of love, of man for woman, of parent for child. “The man was dropped by the university. He would have gone away.”

  “But he hadn’t.”

  He realized that Whelan did not know all he knew. It took time away from more interesting topics to pass on to the archivist the twists and turns of the investigation into Orion Plant’s death. Laying out in linear order the things that Orion had engineered to embarrass the university, the effort apparently accelerated by the expulsion Whelan had mentioned. On the fatal night, there had been a meeting and then Orion had set out to stage a solo raid on the worshipers at the grotto. He never got there, though his lifeless body might have been carried past the grotto as it was taken to where it was found.

  “But none of that has anything to do with Professor Ranke. Surely he didn’t take part in any of those things.”

  “His daughter did.”

  Whelan sat back. “The girl who worked downstairs.”

  “Laverne Ranke.”

  “She has the reputation of being strange.”

  “She and Orion were very close. I think it was assumed that marriage was in the offing, and then suddenly he married Marcia.”

  “She worked in the Huddle.”

  For an apparently dedicated bachelor, Whelan seemed well informed about unattached females on the campus.

  “Leaving Laverne in the lurch.”

  “So.”

  “Recently they had renewed their relations. To Professor Ranke’s disgust. If he learned of his daughter’s involvement in Orion’s silly pranks, well . . .”

  “You really think he killed Orion Plant?”

  It would have been so easy to say no. Roger wanted to say no. But from what he knew of Professor Ranke he could believe that the eminent historian would take strong measures against a man who threatened to ruin his daughter’s life a second time.

  “I don’t believe it,” Whelan said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  But Whelan suddenly changed gears. “I better get busy gathering materials on this, for the archives.”

  “For The Book of Kills?”

  “I hate puns.” But it was the amateur compiler of the initial account of strange deaths at Notre Dame who peeved Whelan.

  Roger left, and when he emerged from the elevator on the first floor he was surprised to see Laverne Ranke working at the check-out counter. She performed her task with chill efficiency—scanning the identification card into the computer, doing the same with the books, running their spines over a magnet that would deactivate them so they would not sound the alarm when the bearer left the library. She was pasting a slip into the back of a book when she noticed Roger. Her cold mask of a face broke into a grotesque smile and she waggled her fingers at him.

  She could not know yet about her father. Roger had no inclination to be the bearer of such news. He waggled his fingers in answer and passed into the concourse of the library.

  Outside, snow had begun to fall, driven at a slant by the north wind. Roger gathered his scarf more tightly around his neck. The action put him in mind of a noose. Professor Otto Ranke had put his own head into a noose. He would not include in his confession that he was doing this for his daughter. When that occurred to the investigators, it would prompt them to ask why he would do anything so drastic to protect Laverne. What had she done? Or what had Professor Ranke thought she’d done? Roger stood for a moment peering through the blinding snow. There was of course the straightforward explanation that Ranke gave. He had killed Orion because the man was a dangerous fool who had brought dishonor on his former department and on the university. That he had also trifled with Ranke’s daughter only adde
d fuel to the fire of his rage. It was quite possible that Otto Ranke had confessed to killing Orion Plant because in fact he had killed him.

  But how must Mrs. Ranke be taking all this? Roger lowered his head and headed into the weather toward his golf cart. He would stop by the Ranke house to talk with Freda.

  She looked out at him over the door chain with frightened eyes. He threw back the hood of his commodious jacket and she cried out with recognition.

  “Professor Knight, come in, come in.”

  The house was warm as toast, but the absence of Otto was palpable. He was surprised to find her alone, but so she was. She took his coat and still holding it looked at him tragically. Suddenly, she threw herself in his arms and he tried to comfort her. She was babbling in the German dialect of her girlhood, but it was scarcely articulated sound. This was the wail of a woman crushed by events. She stepped back, her eyes aswim with tears, looked at his dripping coat and then, scolding herself, bore it away to the closet.

  “He didn’t even tell me what he was going to do. I received a phone call from a reporter and then I checked and it’s true. He has gone mad.”

  “Does Laverne know?”

  “Oh my God, the girl.”

  “Sit down, Freda. Sit down.”

  “What possessed him to say he killed that terrible young man?”

  “Who will believe him?”

  “The police! They are holding him. What should I do?”

  “My brother Philip is with him. In a moment I will call him and get news.”

  “You must take some schnapps.” The suggestion was an order. She poured two small glasses with a deft twist of her wrist and brought one immediately to her lips. It was clear who needed the schnapps. Roger lifted his glass and sniffed it, he rolled the viscous liquid in the glass, and set it on the table. If charity demanded, he would drink it, but there was enmity between him and alcohol.

  Freda sought the great therapy of talk. She gave a jumbled account of their dealings with Orion Plant. She said the name as if doing so were a confessable fault. How he had led poor Laverne on, and all of them, if the truth were known. That the young couple should marry seemed inevitable. Freda had only realized when Orion married another how much she disliked him. It had broken Laverne’s spirits. Freda took the rest of her schnapps and looked speculatively at the other glass. He pushed it toward her.

  “Then he came back. A married man, and he came calling on Laverne as if nothing had happened. How she welcomed him. Oh, the stupid stupid girl. But there is more, something worse.”

  “What?”

  “Laverne . . .” Her eyes had been full of tears all along, but now they leaked from her eyes and ran down her Dresden china cheeks. “The stupid, stupid girl.”

  There is no easy way for a mother to communicate such a disgrace. Roger would have been hard pressed later to recall the exact words Freda had used. Some of them were German. But the message was clear. Laverne was with child. The father had to be Orion.

  “Didn’t she say?”

  “She boasted of her condition. She has no shame.”

  “I wonder if Orion knew.”

  Freda didn’t know. There was a sound of the lock of the front door turning, but Freda had put up the chain. She went to the door.

  “Mother, let me in. Why have you chained the door?”

  A moment later, Laverne came in. Her uncovered head was asparkle with melting snow, her cheeks were flushed, she looked momentarily beautiful. She stared quizzically at Roger Knight. Not half an hour before they had exchanged waves in the library. She turned to her mother.

  “Is it true?”

  “You’ve heard.”

  “I was told to come home, something had happened to Dad. Where is he?”

  “In jail!”

  Roger did not want to sit through another rendition of the story. Freda got his coat and kissed him wetly on the cheek, her lips sticky with schnapps. “Thank you for coming, Professor Knight. You are a good man.”

  Laverne gave him a small smug smile, a woman with a secret. Roger could imagine her boasting of her condition. He went out into the snow.

  43

  THE REACTION IN THE MAIN Building was ambiguous. The arrest of Bacon had seemed to write finis to the troubles that had been plaguing the university, but then Ballast brought word to the chancellor that the police had taken another graduate student in for questioning. Scott Byers. Anita Trafficant brought up his file, printed it out, and brought it in to the chancellor. He looked at her like a man who had just learned that his canceled execution was rescheduled for the morning. He studied the print-out. It meant nothing to him. Ballast took it and frowned over it.

  “Did you ever hear of him?” he asked Anita.

  “No.”

  She had heard the soap opera details of Byers’s on-again, off-again relations with Marcia Younger Plant. “The life of the mind?” The chancellor hit his head. “And people complain about the behavior of our athletes.” Another storm that had blown over.

  “Maybe Byers is one of the band that kidnapped me.” He looked around with a Lone Eagle expression. Anita felt something akin to compassion. Who does not magnify his own troubles? She went back to her adjoining office. It was there that she got the call from Maudit that Professor Otto Ranke had turned himself in and confessed to the murder of Orion Plant. Maudit wanted to know what the reaction of the administration was.

  “You’re making this up.”

  “So you haven’t heard.”

  There was a lilt in his voice at the possibility. “Look, go tell the great man and then come back and describe it for me.”

  She hung up. After a moment’s hesitation, she called the police and asked for Lieutenant Stewart. He was busy. She was giving the number he should call when she had a thought. “Is Philip Knight there?”

  “Just a minute.”

  And in less than a minute Philip Knight was on the line.

  “Is it true about Professor Ranke?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Do they believe him?”

  “He is very persuasive. And calm.”

  “He says he killed Orion Plant?”

  At that moment Ballast passed her desk and heard the question. He skidded to a halt. Anita ignored him.

  “He couldn’t have. Are they holding him?”

  “He insists on it.”

  Philip Knight had to go, they were still going over Professor Ranke’s story with him. Anita rose and, with Ballast at her heels, went into the chancellor. She felt like Captain Hornblower about to witness a flogging.

  “Professor Ranke has confessed to the murder of Orion Plant.”

  “Otto Ranke? Nonsense.”

  Anita waited. He saw that the message was true. Ballast cried, “I’ll get down there to represent our interests.”

  “Yes, yes. Can it be kept quiet?”

  Ballast knew when to answer and when not to answer. He hurried off. The chancellor plunged his face in his hands. Anita withdrew, not wishing to see a grown man cry. Had he given any thought to poor Professor Ranke?

  Her phone rang off the hook and she directed callers to public relations. Bartleby from that office called and asked what the hell was going on. She directed him to the police.

  “They’re saying that Professor Ranke has been arrested for murder.”

  “Actually, he confessed.”

  “And you didn’t let me know?”

  Bartleby managed to slam down his phone before she could slam down hers. And then a moment of silence reigned. But in Anita’s mind an old thought started up again. The jail was filling with people suspected of killing Orion Plant. Images of Harold rapidly replaced one another on the screen of her mind, mental MTV. Doubts she thought she had quelled came back with renewed force. After he admitted erasing his middle name from his file when he found it on her computer, he had gone on about his family. She had been almost surprised by the atavistic enthusiasm with which he spoke of his ancestors. The fact that they had li
ved here from the beginning obviously meant much to him. His job at the university, however humble, promised promotion, and it had reestablished the connection of his family with the university, after all these years. He talked of the Cruelles and the Youngers.

  Younger. She called up Orion Plant’s file, still in the database despite the fact that he had been dropped from the graduate school, despite the fact that he was now dead. Married? Yes. Spouse’s name. Marcia Younger Plant. The Youngers had been one of the early families too. Marcia worked in the Huddle. Had that reestablished a link between her ancestors and Notre Dame? Anita had a sudden sense of a vast infrastructure beneath the present, a past all but unknown to those who occupied this land now. Had Marcia Younger’s pride been similar to Harold’s? Had she been behind her husband’s mad campaign to prove this land had been gotten in a questionable manner?

  Sandra Trepani, the toothy senator, called and asked if they could talk.

  “So talk.”

  “Can I come there?”

  “I guess so.”

  She blew in on the bad news she had just picked up, smiling like Bugs Bunny. She glanced at the closed door of the chancellor’s office.

  “How is he taking it?”

  “I talked him out of hanging himself.”

  “He should have followed the advice of the senate.”

  “Which advice?”

  “The open hearing.”

  Quinlan, his mind agog after hours of C-Span, had indeed proposed an open hearing, himself presiding, in which testimony would be given on the matters now contested concerning the title rights to the land on the shores of Saint Mary’s and Saint Joseph’s lakes. It would be televised, of course. Had he imagined himself bearing down on administrators and extracting incriminating admissions?

  “How did they drive Ranke to do this? What do they have on him?”

  “It obviously benefits the university to have a senior professor confess to murdering a graduate student.”

  But irony was wasted on Trepani.

  “Quinlan has a new idea.”

  “Ah.”

  “He has already summoned the executive committee of the senate for an emergency meeting.”