As a city detective, Bruce used to hear this story over and over in the sweaty and dark little rooms set aside for interrogation. Sometimes he would even try a snappy comeback: Why won’t you talk about them? They’re right down the hall, talking about you. Sometimes the ploy worked, sometimes it didn’t, but that kind of lying always left him feeling grubby. Now the lie wouldn’t even wash. So he said: “Look, Nate. You can put any limits on your comments”—he had almost said confession—“that you want. I don’t have any power to coerce you to tell me what happened. I just think it’s in your interest.”
And so the boy started talking.
(III)
THE THING WAS, said Nate Knowland, they were just trying to have a little fun. They were students, they were young, it was Friday night, and they would be out of here and into serious jobs soon enough. They had been studying all day, except for a little squash in the afternoon, at least for Nate, and now they were looking for something to do. One or two of them had girlfriends, but this was a guys’ night out. They were five altogether, a couple of rich kids, a couple of hangers-on to rich kids. They had a couple of beers each down at Nelson’s—
“Nelson’s on Henley Street?”
He nodded. “Off campus,” he added, as if hoping to limit Bruce’s jurisdiction. “Anyway, most of us are over the drinking age, and it shouldn’t be against the law to get a little sloshed if you don’t hurt anybody”—and if Bruce thought maybe the five of them had sampled a few illegal substances along with their beers, he was not about to say so. Or not until mentioning the possibility could bring him some advantage.
“So, anyway, after that, we went over to the hockey game. But Dartmouth was creaming us, so it got old fast. One of the guys was meeting his girlfriend at nine, so we were out on Town Street, I’d say, ah, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, something like that. We were out on the street, trying to decide what to do next, and that was when we saw the car.” When Bruce, by design, failed to react, Nate tried again. “The gold Audi, the one Zant got killed in, parked right on the street.”
“Who said he got killed in his car?”
Nathaniel blinked, less frightened than confused. “It was on the news.”
“How did you know it was his car?”
Back to where they had started. Only, this time, Nate answered. “Because we saw him, too.”
This was new. Not quite the way Trevor Land had told, or failed to tell, the story. He wondered whether the university secretary had not known, or known and not told. Either way, it was always wrong for an interrogator to show surprise except for effect. So Bruce, not even raising his voice, said, “I’m sorry. Which ‘him’ is this?”
Nathaniel Knowland was impatient. “Zant. He walked right past us. One of the guys was an econ major and had a course with him.”
“And what was the name of your friend who recognized him?”
A shake of the head, as defiant as any child. “I told you, I’m not gonna get the guys in trouble.” He raised a forefinger, pointing toward the ceiling, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Trevor Land. “I have my ethics.”
“I understand.” Patting him on the back, straightening up, striding away across the spacious room. Sometimes Bruce had to be his own good cop and bad cop both. His voice remained gentle. “Okay. So you saw Professor Zant. What was he doing?”
“I told you. He walked past us, and got in the car.”
“Where from?”
“I don’t know. Behind us. I mean, ah, they came from the direction of the campus. We didn’t see exactly where.”
This time he could not keep the surprise from his voice. “‘They’?”
“Yes, they. If you just stop interrupting me, I’ll explain everything.” The student took a long breath. “He was with this woman. At least we think she was a woman. She could have been a small man, I guess. And, no, I don’t think any of us would recognize her if we saw her again. I mean, when they walked down the street, she was on the inside and he was on the outside, so he was kind of walking in and out of the glow of the streetlights, and she was more on the fringes. Like she was smart enough not to let anybody see her face. I can tell you she was black. Definitely black. And she was wearing a white rain slicker with a hood, so it sort of hid her face.”
“In the middle of a blizzard she was wearing a rain slicker? Not a parka? You’re sure?”
He nodded vigorously. “It was a slicker. And it was white. Kind of shiny. Made her hard to see in the snow.” He puffed out his cheeks and hugged himself as though struggling to stay warm, then continued. “So, anyway, they got in the car—he got in first, on the passenger side, and she got in the driver’s side—they got in the car and she drove away and that was it.”
Bruce pictured the image, found it all wrong, for no reason he could articulate.
Nate Knowland was still talking. “We figured, you know, he has a certain reputation. Had. So, we figured, he and this woman—I mean, there wasn’t any affection they showed or anything like that—but—”
“Let me be very clear. The car was parked on Town Street, across from the rink.”
“Uh-huh.”
The rink faced the rear entrance to Hilliman Tower, where Zant had his office. So far, at least, the story was plausible. “And you’re sure Professor Zant got in first? And the black woman in the white rain slicker was driving?”
“That’s right.” Nate Knowland was coming down from the wonderful high of terror. His elegant features had gone slack, and the eyes were moist and flat. “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what we saw.”
“Of course, you were pretty drunk.”
“We had a few drinks. We weren’t drunk. And we all saw the same thing.”
“The same woman in the rain slicker.”
“Yeah.”
Bruce made a note in his book, a tiny symbol only he could decode. Nate’s story was so simple and dull as to smack of invention by the witness, except for those two details.
“Do you remember anything else?”
He nodded. “She had a British accent.”
“So you overheard the conversation?”
“Only a sentence or two. But they were talking about President Carlyle.”
Another note. This, too, was well beyond Trevor Land’s oddly limited information. “What about him?”
Nate shook his head. “We didn’t hear much, I told you. But it sounded like she was trying to tell Professor Zant that he was too big for them to take him on.”
“Can you give me the exact words?”
“I think those were the words. ‘Too big for us to take him on.’ Something like that.” A nervous shrug. “That was all we heard.”
CHAPTER 17
THE DEBT
“NOT ENOUGH, CHIEF, I would think,” said Trevor Land mournfully. “A silly story by a drunken schoolboy. Not worth bothering the police about.”
“Mr. Secretary, they saw the victim the night he got shot. They saw him on the campus, where the police aren’t even looking. Not only that. They saw him with another person, something like an hour and a half before the body was found. How can it not be worth bothering the police?”
A long pause at the other end of the telephone. Bruce wondered whether the secretary was aware that his underling had omitted a detail: the tantalizing comment about Lemaster Carlyle. When Trevor Land spoke again, it was in the same sad tone. “I am not the sort, Chief Vallely, to tell a man how to do his job, especially a man of your qualification. If you think you have to go to the police, well, that would have to be your call, not mine. Delegated authority. My philosophy of management. One asks only that you consider the university’s good name. We cannot afford another scandal.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Just indulge me one moment more, Chief Vallely, if you would. Small point. You heard the young man’s story. But so far that’s all you’ve heard. Consider.” In his mind’s eye Bruce saw that finger pointing up at the ceiling again, so like a statue. “Perhaps he was drunk and
cannot remember what he saw, or perhaps his recollection is accurate. We don’t know which, or not yet.”
“It’s the job of the police to figure out which, not ours.”
“To be sure. To be sure. But, Chief Vallely, excepting your presence, of course, the police of our fine city are not notable for their discretion. Not where the university might be concerned. Most of the time, in my experience, Chief, telling the police is the same as telling the papers. They can no more keep secrets than Ulysses could resist the Sirens, and nobody to tie them to the mast, you see.” Bruce in fact did not see, but was not about to say so. “Now, Professor Zant was a highly valued member of this community, and we naturally would want to give our all to help bring his killer to justice. And that is why we are so fortunate, Chief, to be blessed by a man of your caliber. Now, what you decide to do is your own business. But may I offer a small bit of advice? From my decades, frankly, of dedicated service to the university?”
Orders, he meant. “Of course, sir.”
“Well, Chief, were it I facing the dilemma? I would perhaps prefer to firm up the case a bit before I risked the school’s reputation at the hands of the local journalists. Rock and a hard place, sort of thing, I admit, but perhaps it would be better to wait. Just until I had a little bit more information.”
Bruce waited for more, but Trevor Land was evidently waiting for him. He said, slowly and distinctly, “Mr. Secretary, are you proposing that I undertake a more thorough…investigation?”
Trevor Land’s voice seemed sleepier still. “Ah, well, Chief Vallely, I would prefer not to place so intense a characterization on my advice. Rather, I would propose that you should do as you and I discussed earlier. You should, I think, be about the business of tying up the loose ends. Don’t rush to judgment, that’s the thing. Get on it, say, after Thanksgiving. Patience. Diligence. Yes. So, Chief, my view? Make sure the loose ends are tied up, that you have your ducks in a row, kind of thing, and then, by all means, take what you have to the proper authorities, with my blessing.”
The director of campus safety gazed at the wedding photograph atop the credenza, Grace so beautiful and young, although she only grew more beautiful as she grew older. If only he could have a few minutes to consult her wisdom and humor. But she was dead over a year now, barely into her fifties, and he faced the secretary’s slimy cynicism armed only with his own integrity. He made no pretense—unlike a certain university president he could name—to be exceptional in that respect.
“May I ask a question?”
“By all means, Chief. Please.”
“Suppose that I agree to do as you…suggest. And suppose a moment comes, fairly soon, maybe, when I believe that I have all my ducks in a row, and you don’t.”
“Pardon me, but I did not get the question, Chief Vallely.”
Bruce preferred arguing face-to-face, where he could use his size to advantage, even against his titular superiors; but, aided by Grace’s glowing visage underneath the window, he was willing to tangle over the telephone. He had survived the vicious internecine warfare of the police department and, long ago, the vicious actual warfare of the Central American jungle; he could trade insincere, wordy threats with the likes of Trevor Land any day of the week.
So he rushed in where angels might fear to tread.
“Sir, as you know, the charter under which my department operates has as one of its cardinal rules that any evidence we uncover of a felony must be turned over, at once, to the police or the other responsible authorities.” A beat to let this sink in. “Maybe I can hold off a few days, but, sooner or later, I’m going to have all the loose ends tied up. Suppose, at that point, you and I disagree about what step to take next. Whose view wins?”
The answer, although surely prepared in advance, was a very long time coming, as if the secretary wanted Bruce to imagine that he was just now working through the options.
“Ah, I see your concern. Yes. But remember, Chief Vallely, it is fully up to you to choose what to do. My small suggestions are only that, suggestions. Naturally, I would consider it unlikely in the extreme that we would face such a disagreement. But if the time came when we did…well, let us reserve judgment, kind of thing. Cross that bridge when we come to it instead of burning it in advance, if you get my meaning.”
“I think I do.”
“Excellent, Chief Vallely, excellent. And, you know, Chief, when all of this is over, no scandal, the university protected, and justice served—when it is all over, Chief Vallely, remember, please, that you will have in me a friend and supporter for life, and I am not without a certain influence in affairs. And you yourself will be taken care of. That I can assure you.”
Bruce decided that enough was enough. “Meaning what exactly?”
The secretary, an old hand, correctly judged his underling’s mood. “I’m sure I meant no offense, Chief Vallely. I was suggesting nothing untoward.”
“May I ask what you were suggesting?”
“Only that you’re family, Chief. And that I think you will find me a useful person to have in your debt.” A laugh, because they both knew that he had gone too far, that he could easily, at this very moment, make an enemy of his subordinate.
Bruce asked the secretary to hold on.
He laid the telephone on the sagging desk and swiveled toward the window with its hideous view of empty buses. He remembered a strange conversation with his former partner, Rick Chrebet. The two men had met for a drink Monday night, and Bruce had steeled himself for some joshing, because the city and state cops thought the campus police had a soft life. Instead, a bitter Rick Chrebet had told him that higher-ups in the department had already decided that Zant’s murder was a robbery, maybe a carjacking gone awry. They were pressing the investigators to endorse the same theory. Rick thought he could hold them off for a week, maybe even two, but eventually he would have to cave. When Bruce expressed surprise—the man had been dead only three days!—Rick had smiled, downed another beer, and told him that the decision was coming down from the top, not up from the ranks. He would say no more.
It occurred to Bruce now, lifting the phone once more, that he might be able to succeed where his old team had failed, and put the university that had so tortured his parents into his debt. He could say no to Trevor Land and keep his job until retirement. He could say yes, for the wrong reason—personal ambition, for instance. Or for the right reason—getting into position to collect what was due.
“I’ll be happy to help,” he said to the secretary, not sure why his every instinct for survival was screaming at him to answer the other way.
CHAPTER 18
THE ORIGINAL THINKER
(I)
“GIVE ME A MINUTE HERE,” said Arthur Lewin, pacing his vast but spartan office in the economics department. He had another outpost in the math building and a third at one of the endless interdisciplinary programs every university spawns. He was thirty-two years old, but on the campus already a legend. “I mean, this is, you know, a little weird. Weird, but exciting, too.” It was Tuesday, December 2, five days after Thanksgiving, and Bruce, as ordered, was continuing to tie up loose ends.
“Is that so?”
“Well, you see, Bruce—do you mind if I call you Bruce?—it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever been interviewed by the cops. Well, you know, if you don’t count, like, college.”
Bruce Vallely remained seated on the far side of the round table stacked high with papers and reprints that served Arthur Lewin in lieu of a desk. Two casement windows were set into the narrow wall, and two computers—a laptop and a desktop—were on a table just below. On the desktop, numbers seemed to be crunching. The laptop displayed what looked to be the draft of a scholarly article, thick with equations, although the window actually in use contained a game that Bruce did not immediately recognize—something to do with placing colorful counters on squares that shifted. Art Lewin, playing against the machine, seemed to be winning. Near the computers stood a single lonely photograph in an antique g
ilt frame, a pair of girls with Arthur Lewin’s eager gray eyes. No other family snaps in evidence.
“Were you in trouble in college?” Bruce asked.
“Isn’t everybody?”
“I don’t know if everybody is. I just wondered if you were.”
Art Lewin kept on grinning. He wore jeans and scuffed boots and a raggedy brown sweater, and his reddish hair was thick and uncombed. He did not look to have shaved in days. His face was soft and pudgy, as though he had never lost his baby fat. His gray eyes were friendly and excited behind tiny lenses. He possessed the delighted optimism of a personal trainer, and the dressing habits of an exhausted student at exam time. He was an associate professor of economics and, according to a couple of people Bruce had asked, might be the greatest genius in the field since Kenneth Arrow. Not that Bruce knew, or much cared, who Kenneth Arrow was. His field of interest was narrower: he cared about Kellen Zant, and this man, by every account, was Kellen’s best friend.
Maybe his only friend.
Zant, some years older, had been Art Lewin’s teacher, his guide through graduate school, and his mentor in the department. Most people Bruce had talked to seemed to think mentee had long ago surpassed mentor.
Professor Lewin said, “Believe it or not, it’s true. Just about everybody does get into trouble in college. Well, not everybody. But a majority of males are in some kind of trouble with the law before they turn thirty. Listen. There are plenty of data on this. Do you want to know what proportion of young men have been arrested? This isn’t a racial thing, by the way. You read all those reports about one-quarter of the black men in Washington having been in the criminal-justice system or something, right? That’s a crock. The numbers are all skewy. They have to be a lot higher. Listen. In the general population? All males? The proportion of all males who have been arrested is on the order of one-third to one-half, maybe a little higher, depending on how far back you go—what age you measure—and what you consider an arrest.”
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