by Gregory Ashe
Check, Somers thought, even as he put on an apologetic expression.
“Oh. So you teach at the college?”
“I do more than teach.” That same snickering laugh, like Carl had an ace up his sleeve and Somers was too stupid to see it.
Check, check.
“Mr. Klimich, I was wondering—”
“Dr. Klimich.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s doctor. I have a doctorate. I didn’t spend seven years at Penn for you to call me mister.”
Check, check, check.
“Right. Dr. Klimich. And I believe someone told me that you teach the freshmen classes.”
“I teach all levels. Just last semester I taught a graduate-level course on non-binary gender identity in cartoons of the twentieth century.”
“Fascinating,” Somers said; Dulac, behind him, was coughing in a very suspicious way. “And what was your relationship with Jim Fabbri?”
“Professor Fabbri,” Carl laid unpleasant emphasis on the title, “and I were colleagues.”
“Of course.” Somers lowered his voice. “But, not really, right?”
Purple shot through Carl’s cheeks. “Yes, really. I wouldn’t expect a policeman to understand.” Then another of those shrill laughs, a little forced.
“Well, I understand that you are an adjunct professor, essentially contract labor, and Fabbri was hired with tenure and a very deep research budget.” The last part was a lie, but Somers decided to go with his gut.
“Of course they gave him a research budget.” The purple in Carl’s cheeks was darkening. He looked like some sort of obscene blueberry, very Wonka-esque. “Those assholes wouldn’t know good research if they saw it. You could put something down in front of them, Marx, you could put Das Capital in front of them and they wouldn’t even know what it was. You could give them Das Capital and they’d probably dump it.”
“But I understand Jim Fabbri’s research—”
“Research? Research? Elephants eating peanuts, that was his research. The flying trapeze, that was his research. It wasn’t a joke; it was worse than a joke. He was a glorified installation artist with a Ph.D. from a third-rate school. I was at Penn. I had Charles Lischinsky as my dissertation advisor, and I—”
Somers was murmuring agreement and managed to slip in: “Of course, I was told they didn’t have any other candidates.”
Carl went stiff, trembling as though Somers had stabbed him.
“Who said—how could they—an internal hire, I could have—”
“Oh,” Somers said. “You applied for the position as well.”
“Of course I did. And I was by far the more qualified. Jim had two articles in collections and a single book chapter. And his dog-and-pony show. I have a monograph under consideration at Oxford. I have four peer-reviewed articles. I have a letter from Charles Lischinsky—”
“In situations like this,” Somers said, “it’s usually some other, unspoken reason, isn’t it? Fabbri must have been a diversity hire.”
“Diversity? Straight. White. Cis. You could have put him in an Iowa cornfield and nobody would have blinked.”
Somers let his face slide into a troubled expression.
“It was politics,” Carl snapped. “If you have to know. Absolutely ridiculous. Half the members of the hiring committee are jealous of my work. They’d kill to have a monograph under consideration at Oxford. And when my book comes out, I’ll have universities lining up to hire me. Watch how fast they scramble then. Watch how this department tries to dance their way out of this mess. But it’s over; they had their chance.”
“So you won’t be applying for an interim position?” Somers waited. “I assume someone will have to take Jim Fabbri’s classes.”
It was obvious Carl hadn’t considered this. He managed not to salivate openly at the prospect, but it was close. After a moment, he managed to mumble something about a respectful waiting period and, of course, if the department needed him . . .
“What about tonight?” Somers said. “Why were you at the party?”
“It was a party.” That ugly snickering again. “Do I need another reason?”
“Maybe not, but it seems strange. It doesn’t sound like you were close with Fabbri.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t have anything to do with tonight, you understand.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cui bono. Who profits. You think because I stand to take Jim’s job, I did this.”
“We’re keeping all options on the table at this point.”
Carl wobbled in his seat, as though trying to gain his feet, and then seemed to change his mind. He settled back in the chair. “I went to the party, if you have to know, because I knew Lena was going to create an absolute shit storm.”
“Professor Brigaud?”
“She was going to ruin Jim Fabbri’s life. She was going to destroy him.”
“Really? How?”
Lifting his nose, Carl said, “Well, I don’t know.”
“Were you invited to the party?”
Carl didn’t answer, but color stained his face blueberry again.
“So you snuck into the party in order to see Lena Brigaud destroy Jim Fabbri.”
“No,” Carl said. “Don’t say it like that. If I’d thought someone was going to hurt Jim, I’d have—”
Somers spread his hands.
“I’d have told someone, of course. I’d have called the police.”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what happened at the party?”
“I’ve already given my statement.”
“Yes, well, it differs substantially from the other witnesses.”
Carl raised his nose again. “Do you have any idea how unreliable eyewitnesses are?”
Somers made an interested noise and pictured hitting Carl Klimich between the eyes with a baseball bat.
“Research has shown that eyewitnesses are subject to subconscious distortion, bias, restructuring based on subsequent information—”
“Very true, very true,” Somers said. “But still, I’d like to hear your account of tonight.”
Carl was the very picture of offended dignity. Somers doubted that very many eighteen-year-old students at Wroxall interrupted the venerable professor.
“Your cats,” Dulac said, tapping his watch. “Remember?”
“Yes, fine,” Carl snapped. “Someone shot Jim. Everyone started screaming. Then we all left, and you dragged me down here.”
“Perfect,” Somers said, feeling a frisson at the word shot. “Let’s go through that a little more slowly: did you see someone shoot Fabbri?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why is that ridiculous?”
“I was right in the middle of telling a story.”
“That’s interesting,” Somers said. “Several other witnesses mentioned a video with upsetting content.”
“And I’m telling you that I had that room’s rapt attention. I was explaining the socioeconomic implications of gender-neutral restrooms, and I had just gotten to a perfectly fabulous story about a men’s washroom in Virginia. They couldn’t look away.”
“So you’re saying that when Jim Fabbri was stabbed, a video wasn’t playing?”
“I suppose someone might have put a video on, but nobody was paying attention to it.”
“Ok,” Somers said. “You were telling a story.”
“And then Jim started screaming right when I was getting to the part about the governor coming out of the stall.”
“And?”
“And I already told you: he’d been shot. Everyone was screaming. Of course, I kept my composure. I tried to explain to everyone that he’d been shot, but they were in a panic.”
“You didn’t hear a gunshot?”
“Of course I heard a gunshot. That’s how I knew what had happened.”
“But you didn’t say
that. You said you were telling your story, you got right to the part where the governor was washing his hands—”
“Coming out of the stall, you see, which is very important because—”
“—and then you said Jim Fabbri screamed.”
Carl sniffed. “You don’t have to be so particular. I heard a gunshot.”
“When?”
“Well, when he was shot, obviously.”
“And nobody else reacted to this?”
“I told you that they all started screaming. Hysterical, all of them. Fortunately I kept my head. I announced that Jim had been shot, and I directed everyone to leave. Like herding cats, of course. You really can’t believe how far civilization has fallen—”
“Jim Fabbri was stabbed,” Dulac said.
That blueberry color swelled in Carl’s face again. “Excuse me?”
“He wasn’t shot,” Somers said. “He was stabbed. Why do you think you heard a gunshot?”
“Because I did. I heard a little pop.”
“A little pop?”
“Well, I assume it was on some sort of silencer. I know, I know. You’d call it a suppressor, but permit me the liberty.”
“So you heard something—this popping noise—and when people started to scream, you saw Jim Fabbri bleeding and assumed he’d been shot. Is that about right?”
“If you have to be so reductive.”
Somers smiled. “I really do. So then you were directing people to leave, and what happened?”
“Well, I really think that made a difference. I’m sure you’re too deep in the middle of it right now to realize, but I’d go so far as to say that I’ve been a critical part of this investigation.” Before Somers or Dulac could respond, Carl leaned forward. “What would have happened to all that forensic evidence if I hadn’t ordered people out of the room? Can you imagine?” Carl sat back, folding his arms. “You can thank me later, of course, although a private citizen doing his duty should never be—”
“Did you see the man who stabbed Fabbri? I know, you already said you didn’t. But even a glimpse? Maybe as he was leaving?”
“No. I was too busy trying to get everyone moving. Not that a certain young lady was willing to listen to reason. I tried; I really did. And I will admit that, for her sex, she’s a remarkable specimen.” That ugly purple flush invaded his face again. “But really, women. Can you imagine being saddled with an obstinate, irrational creature? There’s too much science out there to support the differences between the sexes. Physiological distinctions in the brain, biochemistry. It’s all there, plain as day.”
“That’s interesting,” Dulac said. “There was a lovely young woman asking about you earlier. She wanted to thank you, personally. I think she feels like you saved her life.”
“I—er.” Carl turned a shade of cotton-candy pink. “I don’t suppose you know—”
“I’m afraid I didn’t get her name, but I imagine you’ll be able to track her down.”
“Yes,” Carl murmured, eyes glazed. “I suppose. Well. The polite thing.”
“When you say a certain young woman wouldn’t leave the room,” Somers said, “who are you talking about?”
“Cynthia Outzen.” Carl was still staring off into space, apparently dazzled by the prospect of an obstinate, irrational creature who might know he existed.
“And what did you mean?”
“Well, she absolutely refused to leave Jim’s side. He was lying there. The poor man had been shot—”
“Stabbed,” Dulac put in with a smile.
“Yes. Of course. Well, I tried to tell her he was a lost cause. The rest of us needed to get to safety. I explained it quite logically, I think. But she absolutely ignored me. Really, I think very highly of Miss Outzen. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. She’s really quite remarkable for her sex.” Again, that sudden flush of purple. “But she was just kneeling on the floor, rooting through her bag, looking for God knows what.” That snicker, high and whinnying again. “A tissue? A feminine hygiene pad? Was she going to stop the bleeding with a tampon?”
“What did—”
“And can you believe I saw a condom in her bag? She was trying to hide it, of course, but I saw.”
“You saw a condom,” Somers said. “In her bag.”
“Yes.”
“How did you know it was a condom? From that distance, I mean.”
“I’m a man of the world.”
“Were they serving champagne?” Somers said.
Carl blueberried again. “Excuse me?”
“Did Fabbri have any champagne? Or another sparkling wine?”
“I really don’t see—”
“A cork,” Dulac said with a small smile. “Maybe that’s what you heard, that little pop.”
“Jim Fabbri wouldn’t know good wine if it was served on a silver platter,” Carl said. “He had all sorts of hard alcohol and beer, but he certainly didn’t have champagne. It was a Halloween party, after all.”
“Should be easy enough to check,” Somers said.
“I’ve just told you that he didn’t. That should be enough of an answer for you.”
It went on like that for a while, with Somers and Dulac pressing Carl for more information, and with Carl obstinately insisting on details that made no sense to Somers. When they finally let Carl go, it was past two in the morning.
Somers and Dulac spent time meeting briefly with the rest of the partygoers, but no one could add anything to the details that they had already collected. When the last of the witnesses had been released, Somers and Dulac drove back to campus, where half the city’s patrol officers were still sweeping the grounds, canvassing dorms, searching trash cans and dumpsters and flower beds, looking for any sign of the killer.
It was past eight when Cravens finally called a stop, and Somers went home.
CHAPTER TEN
NOVEMBER 1
THURSDAY
8:37 AM
HAZARD HAD SLEPT POORLY, and around two he left the bedroom. For a while, he walked the house, counting paces. This many steps from the hall closet to the bathroom. This many steps from the thermostat to the front door. This many steps from the utility room to the window where he watched a fox cross the backyard. The house got smaller and smaller, and after a while, he found himself on a couch, staring up into the dark.
The thing was.
The thing was that it was so easy to imagine: Somers with his sleeves rolled up, smiling, nodding, taking statements, studying a crime scene, moving through a place of violent death with grace and beauty. Somers seeing things that others didn’t see. Somers moving steadily toward justice for an unjust death.
More. Somers, everything about Somers. Somers interacting with people—even the simple, nonverbal things, the way Somers would roll his shoulder or shake his head, and somehow it would be enough to get Foley and Moraes laughing, like it had been the best joke in the universe—in that peculiar way Somers had of being utterly perfect without seeming to realize it.
Hazard let himself play the whole thing out. He ran it backward and forward like an old VHS tape. He let himself split off into what ifs: Somers picking up coffee and donuts because it was the only way to get Norman and Gross to do their job; Somers showing one of the new recruits how to keep people away from a crime scene, politely but firmly. Wilder: Somers chasing a suspect across rooftops; Somers in a shootout.
He played as many scenarios as he could until it hurt so much that he couldn’t breathe. He had to close his eyes.
Then, upstairs, his alarm buzzed. It was a new day.
He packed up all the broken pieces, swept that spot inside himself clean, and went to turn off the alarm. Then he went back to the kitchen, counting the steps automatically, and threw himself into the morning.
A little past eight-thirty, Hazard was sitting at the table, coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. He was reading the news when the garage door went up, and the fam
iliar rumble of the Mustang’s engine rolled into the garage.
Somers looked wrecked when he stepped inside. Hair mussed worse than usual, red eyes, fatigue visible in the lines of his face. He stopped just inside the kitchen. He smiled.
“Morning.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
“God, what a night.”
Hazard stood, set down phone and coffee, and walked toward his boyfriend.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” Hazard bent, kissed Somers, and unbuckled his waistband.
“Ree, I’m wiped. I’m not really—”
Hazard laughed as he undid Somers’s zipper an inch.
“Not that I mind the interest,” Somers said, his hand coming up to run over Hazard’s cheek. “It’s been a while since we . . . you know.”
Still laughing, Hazard slid his hands around Somers and unbuckled the waistband holster. He removed it and set it on the kitchen counter.
“Oh,” Somers said.
Hazard pushed him into a seat at the table. “I’m glad you didn’t mind the interest.”
“Ok, I just thought . . .”
“I know what you thought.”
“Well, when a guy starts taking off your pants the minute you get through the door, you’re bound to think something’s up.”
“Something is up,” Hazard said, navigating to the oven. “Breakfast.”
“Ree.”
“You’ve been up all night. You’ve been up over twenty-four hours, in fact. You need to eat something. And you need to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Try doing things in order, John.” Hazard pulled out a plate that had been warming in the oven. He poured juice and coffee.
“I can do that,” Somers said.
“Don’t you dare.” Hazard carried everything over to the table.
“I can do that too.”
“Uh uh.”
Somers stared at the plate.
“Goat cheese omelet with bacon and shallots,” Hazard said. “Grits. And asparagus.”
“I thought it was a little green spear.”
Hazard smiled and went back to his seat.
They sat there together in silence. Somers picked at the food, taking a few bites, but mostly just staring at the plate. He moved a piece of asparagus all the way to one side. Then he moved it back. The tines of his fork rang out against the ceramic. Then the asparagus had to go all the way over again. Hazard watched all of it out of the corner of his eye. The world-traveling asparagus.
