The Evil That Men Do

by Robert D. Rodman

  “Yeah, sure.” He took the card and sauntered off.

  “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away,” said Lucy. “It won’t happen again. Anyway, Troy and I fight all the time. It’ll all blow over in a day.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he’s telling everything he knows, and your point about his not being at the defense is worth looking into, leastwise if we can learn more about Judy’s death.”

  “I’ll get us some orange juice,” said Lucy, hopping up. She returned with the drinks and we chatted until it was time for the next meeting. I followed Lucy out of the Student Union building, passing several buildings, including the library, until we reached Pearson Hall. We took a side entrance and climbed two flights of stairs to the third floor. Halfway down the hall was the office door of Professor Julius David Akrich.

  The top half of the door was heavily frosted glass with the professor’s name stenciled in two-inch high, black, glossy letters. Lucy knocked on the glass. I heard a chair creak, some footsteps, and the door opened.

  “Lucy, how nice to see you.” Professor Akrich then turned to me and held out his hand. “I’m Julius Akrich. Please come in.” He ushered us into his office.

  It felt like stepping into the curator’s study at a museum of natural history. There were Native American artifacts everywhere, some mounted on the wall, some leaning against the wall, some on top of filing cabinets, and others lying about on the shelves of bookcases, mixed in with the books. There were elaborately painted masks, elegantly dressed dolls, bows, arrows, spears, headdresses, articles of clothing, small drums, and long, flute-shaped objects that appeared to be blowguns.

  Stacks of books and journals covered the top of the professor’s desk. A computer sat in the midst of this sea of paper. On a credenza off to the side was heaped more paperwork, and in its midst was some large object covered with a vinyl dust cover. The middle of the office was relatively free of clutter, containing instead a circle of several chairs, two of which we were invited to take; Akrich took another of the chairs for himself.

  He was a portly man, pear-shaped, narrow in the shoulders, large in the waist. His hairline was ebbing, leaving behind a broad forehead. Thick glasses and an ample nose dominated a small, weak mouth and chin. A beard might have helped but he was clean-shaven. He was dressed in a rumpled suit, white shirt, and paisley necktie. Shoes that could have done with a polish completed the sartorial disaster.

  “Lucy, my dear,” he began mournfully, “I’m so, so sorry about what happened. It truly breaks my heart. Mrs. Akrich and I were up all night Friday after services. I felt so guilty, and poor Sylvia—well, Judy was like a daughter to her. Our rabbi tried to console us, but I know that I handled the whole business thoughtlessly. If only Judy were here, I’d beg her forgiveness.”

  Lucy retained perfect control, nodding and murmuring sympathetically while he spoke. When he had finished she said, “Professor Akrich, we both know that Judy was level-headed. She didn’t get emotional over her work. She never acted impetuously.”

  “One of her many strong points,” agreed Akrich. “She was always contemplative.”

  Lucy continued. “So I can’t get over the feeling that she wouldn’t kill herself. And if she did, I want to understand more about what happened, which is why I asked Ms. Jamison here to help me. She’s a private investigator.”

  “I’m Dagny Jamison, Professor.” I handed him a business card.

  “Shouldn’t any investigation be conducted by the authorities?” Akrich asked, a little less warmly.

  “The coroner will determine whether further investigation by the police is warranted. If there’s a ‘questionable death’ inquiry, I told Lucy I wouldn’t take the case.”

  “And if there isn’t?” said Akrich.

  “Then I’ll do what my client asks.”

  “Professor,” said Lucy in a conciliatory tone, “it’ll make me feel better to know I’m doing something about this dissonance between Judy’s personality and the act of suicide. Haven’t you always taught us to pursue and eliminate inconsistency in our work, and in our lives?”

  “Yes, I suppose I have. If it will ease your passage through this unspeakable calamity, by all means.” He turned to me. “Please, Miss Jamison, I shall endeavor to be as helpful as possible, consistent with the integrity of the department and the university.”

  “I don’t have many questions, Professor, but I was wondering why you couldn’t have told Judy in private about the problem with her dissertation.”

  “The answer is simple. I wasn’t handed the material she plagiarized until the last moment.”

  “Would you mind telling us who gave it to you?”

  “That I may not do until the university completes its own investigation.”

  “Why wasn’t the plagiarism discovered sooner? Surely someone read and approved her dissertation?”

  “Certainly. I read it. Her committee members read it. But the material she copied came from a little known journal that’s been out of print for fifteen years. It’s unfortunate, but nowadays there’s so much scholarly work in our field that it’s not always possible to read everything.”

  “Well, someone did,” I said.

  “Yes, someone did,” he agreed, “and we couldn’t grant a doctorate based on work we knew to be plagiarized. Obviously we had no way of knowing the disastrous consequences that would result, and I’m not responsible for those. But I am culpable for letting my indignation interfere with my sensitivities. I was terribly hurt that my student would commit such a breach of ethics. I wanted to castigate her with public exposure. I perceive now that I should have dismissed her from the room, canceled the defense, and offered explanations later. ‘The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on.’” He sighed, shaking his head sadly.

  “Is there anything you can add? Something from her private life that you’re aware of?”

  “I’m sorry, but no, I am unable to provide you with any further information.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. I thought it was time to leave. I caught Lucy’s eye. She said, still soothingly, “Dr. Akrich, thank you for seeing us. We won’t take up any more of your time.” I made nice-to-meet-you sounds and added my usual request to call me if he thought of something more. He opened the door for us and let us out into the hall, still maintaining his decorum.

  “I would like to know what son-of-a-bitch, fuckwad gave Akrich that shit at the last moment,” Lucy said fiercely as soon as we were out of earshot. I’ll kill his ass, I’ll cut his…” She stopped venting to let some people pass.

  I took advantage of the pause to interject evenly, “How do you know it’s a he?”

  “A woman wouldn’t do that to another woman,” she snapped.

  I didn’t want to argue the point. She’d learn soon enough what women are capable of doing to other women. Her temper had ebbed by the time we got outside.

  More people were on campus now, sitting in clumps in the grassy areas, or standing around talking. Others were walking this way or that, preoccupied with personal errands.

  We were a couple of minutes into the trek back to my car when someone called out to Lucy. The voice was vaguely familiar, but the face I knew instantly. The young woman trotted over to us. “Yo, Sparky,” said Lucy with delight. The two girls touched cheeks. Elaine Sparks looked at me and recognition dawned. “Dagny,” she cried, and threw both arms around my neck. I returned the hug. I hadn’t seen Sparky in years. She’d outgrown the teenage look I remembered, and had blossomed into an attractive young woman. She still had the long dark hair and dazzling green eyes, but the once sallow complexion and pudgy cheeks were now tanned and taut. She’d given up her cowboy boots for tennies, and of course jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt bore a picture of an endangered animal, the Tasmanian Devil.

  “Sparky, you’re looking terrific. How are you? How’s life treating you? Have you been able to get on without, you know…?” She’d gone to live
with an aunt during her rehab, since her parents were dead.

  “I’m doin’ fine. I mean, I miss my folks every day. I want to succeed for them and for me. I’m in school now—I guess you can see that—working on a degree in anthro. I may even go to grad school. Can you see me, ex-dope pusher, as a doctor?”

  I could, and I said so.

  “You know, Dagny, I owe all this to you,” she said, taking in the campus with a sweep of her arm. “You showed me respect even though I was a punk and a druggie. So when you said you wouldn’t turn me in if I went straight and kicked my habit, I knew I could do it. And when I kept my promise, you kept yours.”

  Sparky walked us back to my car, catching me up on the news, and giving Lucy sympathy and encouragement. She exaggerated my abilities in finding her parents’ killer to the point where I jokingly told her that if she didn’t quit I’d have to raise my rates and that would cost Lucy.

  When I reached my car, I hugged the two girls goodbye. I told Lucy to call with any news, and promised I’d do the same. I drove back to Santa Barbara feeling melancholy about Judy. Counteracting that was the joy in seeing how well Sparky had turned out; I made a mental note to remember this transformation the next time I was feeling blue about my work.

  I drove to the office. There was some mail on John’s desk, courtesy of Celia May, an all-efficient secretary shared by several of the building’s small businesses. The light on the answering machine was going blink-blink-blink, pause, blink-blink-blink, pause, which meant three messages. With John away, I was in charge. I put the mail in the in-box, grabbed a note pad, and played back the messages. The first one was a request for money from the Fraternal Order of Police. Back in North Carolina, it seemed the more I gave, the more they called, but being an ex-military cop, I was a sucker for it. They also gave me a sticker for my car with their logo on it, announcing to the world that I was a contributor. They admonished me that “the decal won’t get you out of a ticket, ha, ha,” but in truth it could, when embellished with courtesy and deference.

  The second call was a hang-up, probably a telemarketer. The third call was from Charles. The lab reports were all negative. The coroner had signed off on suicide. And, could he take me out to dinner that evening?

  We got back to John’s place around eleven. We’d talked a lot of shop. We were both interested in each other’s line of work. He was as interested in investigation as I was in pathology. We’d gotten intimate enough to exchange ages and hold hands briefly. He was six years older than I was—not the two I’d thought. We’d discussed our families, personal histories, education, sports, movies, and politics.

  Charles had talked about what it was like to attend one of England’s finest private schools—not all it’s cracked up to be, according to him. He’d told me of his fellowship to Harvard Medical School, and what fine training he had received there. He’d been genuinely impressed with my career successes and sympathetic towards my failures. He’d given no hint that he found his work any more or less significant in the world than mine.

  I’d wanted to tell him about my cancer and my fearful wait for five symptomless years. He was a medical doctor, after all, but I wasn’t ready to do it.

  I was, however, ready for a touch more intimacy, so I was scheming for a goodnight kiss as I put the key in the lock. The blink of the answering machine greeted us. One of John’s girlfriends, no doubt. I nearly let it go, but it could be business. I gave in and pressed the play button. A highly agitated Lucy blared out of the speaker. Akrich had revealed that it was Troy who’d handed him the photocopies minutes before Judy’s defense. Troy was last seen loading a duffel bag into his car and driving off.

  Chapter 5

  The sound of tires on gravel awakened me. I’d been asleep in the cramped front seat of a small Honda. My eyes were dry and sticky. One arm was numb and the rest of my joints ached from the confinement of the long overnight drive. I blinked hard a few times to adjust to the brightness of an early morning sky, and to squeeze up some moisture.

  We were in a parking lot near a one-story structure of glass and wood. Its front and rear walls were mostly glass, exposing the interior and making the building seem transparent. Within, some people were sitting at tables, while others were up and moving around. A red neon sign in Greek-styled letters proclaimed the establishment to be The Pantheon.

  “Good morning,” sang a pleasant voice. “What do you say to a hot drink and a bite to eat?”

  “Where are we?” I croaked. I focused on the driver who’d turned off the engine and was withdrawing the keys from the ignition. I twisted the rear view mirror for a look at myself and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said the voice again. “Most of the people here have been tripping for days. You’ll do fine. Welcome to The Pantheon.”

  “Why do you look as though you just stepped out of a L’Oréal commercial? Am I mistaken, or have you been up driving all night?”

  “Oh, I’m used to it. All-nighters are part and parcel of my work.”

  “Mine, too,” I said, “except I look like shit when I do it.”

  “C’mon, Dagny, The Pantheon has its own coffee bean designed with the espresso purpose of bringing Quaalude freaks back to life,” grinned the voice.

  “I am not a Quaalude freak,” I grumbled.

  Lucy was irrepressible, and I couldn’t help smiling as I eased out of her Honda, planted both feet solidly on the ground, and drew a breath of sweet and salty morning air deep into my lungs. I did a 360 to take in my surroundings. The restaurant was perched on a ledge overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The highway sign at the entrance to the parking lot answered my earlier question: The Pantheon, Big Sur, California.

  Lucy led us across the parking lot to the entrance, where the hostess who greeted us was adorned with rings in her eyebrows, tongue, lower lip, and navel. She was a pretty girl, cheerful as a robin, and no more than sixteen years old. She led us to a table by a window overlooking the ocean and left us a single menu.

  “Here, go ahead,” said Lucy politely, pushing the menu towards me.

  I opened it upside down in front of me and pushed it to the middle of the table. “I like to practice reading upside down—it’s a useful skill in my profession.”

  “That figures,” said Lucy.

  I ordered the coffee that Lucy recommended, and passed over the granola with fruit that I knew I should have, in favor of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and white toast. There are times when I need grease to sustain me.

  “They shouldn’t serve that shit here,” admonished Lucy. “This is supposed to be a health food restaurant.”

  I ignored her remark. Age has its privileges, and I was a good four or five years older than Lucy. The coffee, thank goodness, arrived quickly. I fortified it with three packets of sugar and took a sip. My heart revved into second gear and I could feel my blood begin to circulate as I came fully awake. After several more sips I became aware of a full bladder. Lucy pointed out the restrooms.

  I regarded the two doors, each adorned with an abstract icon that was supposed to distinguish boys from girls, but I found myself baffled. “Let’s hope this is the ladies’ room,” I murmured, and grabbed an arbitrary knob. I was about to turn it when the other door opened from the inside. This should have settled the matter, but I found myself unable to guess the gender of the person who emerged. I decided to stay with my original choice. A quick scan failed to turn up a urinal, so I entered one of the stalls. Sitting on a john will every so often invoke deep thoughts in me. On this occasion all I could muster was, “What in hell am I doing here?”

  Only a work-shift ago I was having dinner with Charles, feeling romantic and sexy for the first time in ages. I could deal with Lucy’s phone message in the morning. What was I supposed to do at midnight? Go chasing after Troy? Lucy’s personal phone call five minutes after I’d lured Charles into my lair was not, however, so easily put aside.

  “Dagny, at last. I’ve been calling you every five m
inutes for I don’t know how long. Did you get my message?” I indicated that I had. “I know where he’s going. We have to go after him!”

  Reminders of the hour, reminders that I preferred to work alone, reminders that Troy was not a fugitive requiring immediate pursuit: none of these fazed Lucy. “C’mon, Dagny, I thought you were working for me. He’s either in Big Sur or at U.C. Santa Cruz. I have to know his part in Judy’s death. I can’t sleep while he gets away.”

  In the end I gave in. Lucy insisted on driving. I gave her directions to my place and she gave me half an hour to get ready.

  Charles had followed the conversation from my side and was eyeing the door. I made him sit down on the sofa and plunked myself onto his lap, facing him, by straddling his legs with mine, and putting my hands behind his neck for balance. (I was not wearing a mini-skirt.) This he seemed to find pleasurable. I took the opportunity to get the first kiss behind us, which, judging by the distinctly non-British sound he made deep in his throat, he also found pleasurable. “This is a down payment,” I gasped. “The first installment will follow when I get back.”

  Charles found this, too, agreeable. He actually said “Cheerio” as he was leaving and I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. I followed that up immediately with one last kiss to show that I found him charming, not silly.

  The door to the restroom opened as I was pulling up my jeans. Masculine, feminine, or neuter, I wondered as I emerged from the stall. Definitely feminine. It was Lucy. “You figured it out,” she said.

  “The urinal was a dead giveaway,”

  “What urinal?” She looked around.

  “Precisely,” I said as I vacated the room.

  Breakfast came piping hot, perfectly cooked. I dug in while Lucy outlined her plan for locating Troy. “I’ll find him, you grill him,” she said.

  “My clients usually hire me to do the finding so they can do the grilling.”

  “I know I can find him,” said Lucy. “But you’ll know the kinds of questions to ask when we catch up with him. There’s more to this than an ex-lover’s revenge. Troy is no angel, but—” She broke off and thought for a moment, chewing her lip. “I mean, was there any sign of guilt when we talked to him yesterday? No. Arrogance maybe, but not guilt. Am I right, Dagny? You P.I.s, you’re good judges of people.”