Kane

by Steve Gannon

  I glanced around the room. Every detective present was concentrating on the sheets before them. “The last section may prove the most useful,” Berns went on, flipping to the final page. “As noted earlier, the killer’s selection of high profile victims, his leaving the front doors open, and his failure to conceal the bodies suggest a desire for recognition. Typically, he may try to inject himself into the investigation.”

  “Lend us poor dumb cops a hand,” I said.

  “Right. The Bureau guys think this may present an increased chance of locating him. Organizing community meetings to discuss the killings, for instance, then getting the names and license plate numbers of anyone who attends. Another proactive approach would be examining males who repeatedly phone in on the hotline. In that regard, news releases could be designed to encourage the killer to call. And, of course, unauthorized men visiting the crime scenes or gravesites should be considered suspect.

  “I like the idea of organizing community meetings,” said Huff.

  “The media angle might work, too,” I added. “It sure didn’t take our guy long to react the last time around. News release on Friday; murders on Sunday.”

  “There’s no proof that the Welsh killings resulted from Domingos’s arrest,” Snead said defensively.

  “Maybe not, but it’s possible.”

  Berns nodded. “The killer is undoubtedly following the case in the news. He had probably already planned the Welsh murders, but the false arrest may have angered him enough to make him accelerate his timetable.”

  “You said there were areas where you disagreed with the FBI report,” noted Huff. “Could you go over those?”

  “Of course,” answered Berns. “For one, I don’t accept the behaviorists’ assessment of the killer being of only slightly above-average intelligence. Everything I’ve seen suggests he’s smarter than that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Along the same line, I would be surprised if he gave away items taken from his victims. Too dangerous.”

  “Does that go for his calling in on the hotline, hanging around the crime scenes, and all the other mistakes we’re hoping he makes?” I asked.

  “In my estimation, yes. If he’s as intelligent as I suspect, he’s probably well versed in police investigative techniques.”

  “Could he be a cop?” asked Snead.

  “It’s possible.”

  Snead turned to Huff. “How about interviewing police officers who might have come in contact with the victims during the past year?”

  “Now we’re chasing our own tails,” I said.

  “What’s that, Kane?”

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant, we have our hands full without investigating cops. And if it gets out that we’re combing our own ranks for the killer, the media will go nuts. We won’t score any points with the rest of our brothers in blue, either.”

  “Tough. Lieutenant Huff?”

  Huff sighed, making another notation in his folder. “I don’t like it, but I guess we have no choice.” He glanced at Berns. “That it, Sid?”

  Berns nodded. “For now, anyway.”

  “Any other questions?”

  No one spoke, but we all thinking the same thing. The killer had taken another family, and we were no closer to finding him.

  26

  Two days later, having a court appearance on a previous case, I took off early for lunch-allowing time to eat and still make it to the West Los Angeles courthouse by two PM. On impulse, however, I exited on Hoover Street after passing the Santa Monica Freeway interchange, drove a half mile south, and pulled into a USC visitors’ parking lot across from the Shrine Auditorium.

  Not an active alumnus, I had visited my alma mater only rarely since graduating. As I made my way toward the USC School of Music, I noticed that much of the campus I remembered was now hidden behind newer buildings. At times I missed familiar landmarks, either concealed or torn down, and was forced to ask directions from passing students. Eventually I found myself standing before an unfamiliar, multistoried structure with a brass plate identifying it as the Albert S. Raubenheimer Music Facility Memorial Building.

  Searching for the entrance, I took a walkway to the left, glancing through the open door of an annex building nearby. Behind a worn counter, racks of musical instruments gleamed in the dim light. Curious, I stepped inside. A young man looked up from behind a cluttered desk. “May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.

  I gazed around the interior of the room, surprised by the number of instruments jammed into cases and hung on the walls. Some appeared familiar, but many, like a collection of fat-bellied mandolins and pear-shaped lutes, did not. “What is this, some kind of musical pawn shop?” I asked.

  The youth smiled. “Sort of. Students can borrow instruments here and experiment with them without actually having to buy one. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Some one. Alexander Petrinski.”

  “Wednesday mornings, Professor Petrinski holds student conferences in his office. Ramo Hall. Second floor.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Straight out the doors, past the coke spoon, first building you come to. You can’t miss it.”

  “Coke spoon?”

  “One of the sculptures. You’ll see.”

  After thanking the youth, I continued down the curved pathway, pausing before a huge stone carving that in my opinion looked more like a double-ended washbasin. Proceeding beneath a canopy of sycamore and jacaranda, I found the Virginia Ramo Hall of Music around the next bend. Upon entering the building, I checked the directory, locating the name for which I was searching: Alexander Petrinski, Keyboard Studies Chair, Rm. 212. Instead of taking the elevator, I ascended a single flight of stairs and exited on the second floor. Petrinski’s office lay at the end of a short hallway. I stopped at the entrance and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door. Two grand pianos, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a leather couch all but filled the small studio beyond. A young woman sat at one of the keyboards. A heavyset man with thick gray hair stood behind her, his robust bearing belying his advancing years. The man turned, his eyes registering surprise. “Dan. I’d about given up on you.”

  “Sorry, Alex. I’ve been busy.”

  Petrinski turned to his student. “That’s enough for today, Carla. Keep working on it. I’ll see you after the holidays.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young woman. She rose and started for the door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving, Professor.”

  After she left, Petrinski and I regarded each other uncomfortably. Although we had known one another since Travis first began studying piano, our relationship had often been less than cordial. “I suppose I should have phoned before stopping by,” I offered. “I had a couple minutes, and-”

  “I’m glad you came,” said Petrinski. “We haven’t talked since the funeral.”

  “No.”

  “Tom’s death was a great loss. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Thanks. But that’s not why you called.”

  “No. I want to discuss Travis.”

  I sat on one of the piano benches, my back to the keyboard. Hunching my shoulders, I leaned forward. “What about Travis?”

  Petrinski hesitated, seeming uncertain how to proceed. “Can I be frank?” he asked.

  “Aside from myself, probably better than anyone else I know,” I answered.

  Petrinski smiled. “I’ve been told that,” he agreed. “All right, but you won’t like what I have to say. No offense, Dan, but I’ve always believed that the best thing for Travis’s musical development would be for him to get out from under your influence. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know what’s wrong, but your son seems to need some form of guidance I can’t give.”

  “The kid’s screwing up in school, and you want me to boot his tail back on the straight and narrow?” I said. “You could have told me that over the phone. I’ll talk to him, all right. Where is he?”

  “Classes are o
ver for the holidays, but Trav mentioned staying till Thursday. He’s probably in one of the annex practice rooms. And actually, your son is doing well in most of his university courses. Especially those given by the Music Department.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Instead of responding, Petrinski gazed at me for a long moment. Finally he asked, “What do you know of Travis’s world of music?”

  I shrugged, aware of Petrinski’s irritating habit of broaching subjects obliquely. “Not much,” I answered, wishing he would get to the point. “I’m not totally ignorant on the subject, but country music’s more my style.”

  “You may understand more than you think. I define good music as any that can repay our attention by enriching our lives and giving us pleasure, revelation, and maybe even enlightenment. Music, all music, if it fulfills its potential, can play a vitally worthwhile role in our lives.”

  “I never said that I thought what Travis is doing isn’t worthwhile,” I objected, anticipating the direction the conversation seemed headed.

  “Maybe not in so many words, but that’s what he thinks.”

  “Even if that’s true, I still don’t see-”

  Petrinski cut me off. “I think Travis is at a critical juncture. There’s no doubt he has the ability to become a world-class musician. After his success at the Van Cliburn International, many think he’s already achieved that status. I believe he has more to offer.”

  “Like what?”

  “In a senior-level course Travis is auditing, he’s shown a wonderful talent for composition. It’s something I suspected he possessed, but I had no idea of its depth. That he’s waited until now to show it is puzzling, to say the least.”

  “And?”

  Petrinski paused, scowling at me like a headmaster dressing down a student. “I believe Travis has something of value to communicate through his music, not only by interpreting the writings of others, but also with his own compositions. Despite your son’s finally beginning to do work commensurate with his abilities, something’s holding him back. I believe it has something to do with you.”

  “I’ve never had a thing to do with Travis’s music.”

  “Do you think that could be part of the-”

  “No. His mom encourages him enough for the both of us,” I interrupted, checking my watch. “Alex, I have a one o’clock appointment. Can we cut to the chase?”

  Petrinski sighed. “All right. Does intuition sometimes play a role in your job?”

  “Sure. Cops go with gut feelings all the time.”

  “Well, I have a gut feeling, too. It’s telling me that something’s wrong with Travis.”

  “And you think I’m the cause.”

  “I don’t know. You and I have had our differences over the years, but I know you love your son. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s not enough.”

  “I’m not following. What do you want me to do?”

  Petrinski slumped, suddenly seeming old. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I believe Travis needs help. And although I don’t know why, I think you’re the only one who can give it.”

  Puzzling over Petrinski’s words, I returned to my car. Deciding to forego lunch, I jammed more quarters into the parking meter, asked directions from an attendant at a kiosk, and walked two blocks north.

  Another addition to the university since I’d attended, the Colburn School of Performing Arts, or the Performing Arts Annex as it is better known, sprawled the better part of a block between Thirty-Second and Figueroa. I entered through a door on the west end. Glancing up at the forty-foot-high ceiling, I surmised that the rambling structure had once served another purpose-probably, if the now abandoned catwalks and grids traversing the ceiling were any indication, as a sound stage during Hollywood’s heydays of years past. Now, like cells in a hive, row upon row of rooms partitioned the cavernous space. I followed a narrow passage, checking a warren of deserted practice rooms as I went. Many of the small chambers contained only a chair and music stand; others had upright pianos crammed in, some even two.

  After several wrong turns I arrived at a central receiving area. At a desk in the middle, a young woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a bored expression glanced up as I approached.

  “I’m looking for Travis Kane,” I said.

  The young woman flipped through a register. “D-eighteen,” she said, indicating a walkway behind me with a slight inclination of her head. “Straight ahead, left at the first bend.”

  “Thanks,” I said, starting for the corridor.

  Making my way down the hall, I began to hear the faint tones of a piano coming from somewhere up ahead. The sound grew louder as I rounded a corner. I listened as I walked, recognizing a piece I had occasionally heard Travis play at home. Now, however, the work contained subtle, foreboding alterations I couldn’t quite pin down. I paused as I reached a glass door marked “D-18.” Travis sat at an upright piano on the other side, concentrating on his playing. Abruptly, the music stopped. As I raised my hand to knock on the glass, Travis resumed, now playing an unfamiliar work. Letting my hand drop, I stood outside and listened.

  The new piece got off to a rocky start, stumbling in the opening. Travis began again, faltered, then set out once more-changing chords and phrases in the right hand, trying different combinations and colors and shadings. Realizing that I was hearing a work in progress, I leaned against the opposite wall and watched my son through the glass.

  Finally his new piece got off the ground, and for the next several minutes, as I waited outside the practice room, I found myself captivated by Travis’s playing. In those few minutes, almost against my will, I experienced a flow of unexpected emotion, indefinable yearnings, surprising and sometimes overwhelming moments of both arrival and despair. And for the first time, with a mix of both pride and amazement, I realized the true extent of my son’s ability and talent.

  The playing stopped. Looking up, I saw Travis staring at me through the glass. Clearly surprised by my presence, he closed the keyboard and walked to the door. “Hi, Dad,” he said uncertainly, joining me in the hall. “How long have you been here?”

  “A while.”

  “Is there something…?”

  “Petrinski’s been leaving messages that he wanted to talk to me. I finally made it over.”

  “What did he want?”

  I decided to take a direct approach. “He thinks you have a knack for writing music,” I answered. “Talks as if you could be the next Beethoven. He also thinks you’re going to blow it. He says you’re not really trying, like something’s holding you back. Is that true?”

  “No. At least I-”

  “Tell me the truth, Trav. If something’s wrong, I want to help.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Dad.”

  I decided to try another tack. “I didn’t recognize that piece you were playing. What was it?”

  “Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy.”

  “I mean after that. That was yours, wasn’t it?”

  He lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Hell, Trav, why are you acting so secretive? Has anyone else heard it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not done yet. Besides, I didn’t write it for anybody to hear. It’s sort of private.”

  “Travis, I’ll level with you, and I want you to level with me, too. You know I want the very best for you, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Then talk to me. Petrinski told me that classes are over till after Thanksgiving. If nothing’s wrong, instead of coming home, why are you here working on a piece you say nobody will ever hear? We have a piano at home too, in case you forgot.”

  “I was planning on making it home tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Travis. “I stayed here to catch up on some of my studies.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” I said. “Petrinski thinks that whatever’s eating you has something to do with me. If that’s the case, I need to hear about it.�
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  Travis remained silent. “It’s not you,” he said at last.

  “Then what?”

  Travis shifted uneasily.

  “Come on, Trav. Spill it.”

  Travis looked away. “Dad, for as long as I can remember, everyone’s expected me to do big things. Mom, Petrinski, lately even you. Since starting here at SC, it’s become even worse. I feel like an impostor. Like I’m going to let everyone down.”

  “What do you want, a guarantee?”

  “No, but-”

  “Petrinski says you have talent. I’m no expert, but from what I just heard, I’m inclined to agree. It’s natural to have doubts, especially as most of the big boys began writing music early on, but you wouldn’t be the first composer to start late. Hell, Schumann didn’t get going till he was in his early twenties.

  Travis, well acquainted with my magpie memory for useless facts, shook his head. “I’m not Schumann.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try? If you do something, kid, go all the way. You don’t score touchdowns sitting on the sideline.”

  Also well acquainted with my tendency to view the world in terms of football metaphors, Travis smiled. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Travis’s smile faltered.

  “C’mon, kid. I’m trying to help.”

  Travis hesitated. “Have you ever been unsure of yourself, Dad?”

  “Plenty of times.”

  “Like when?”

  I knew that Travis’s question had not been asked casually. “Two years after graduating from the academy,” I answered.

  “What happened?”

  “I was working patrol with a guy named Jerry Tannenbaum. Jerry had a drinking problem. One night we answered a call on a convenience store robbery. Jerry was way past his booze limit that evening, and he wound up involved in a bad shooting. Nothing intentional, and the guy lived, but it was a bad shooting nonetheless. I was still wet behind the ears. Tannenbaum had twelve years on the force. He wanted me to lie for him-told me disclosing the facts wouldn’t heal the hole in the guy’s shoulder and so forth. I knew Jerry’s wife and kids. Kate and I had been to their house for dinner. They were having financial difficulties at the time, and I knew what a suspension would mean for them. It was a tough decision.”