by Tami Hoag
“Exactly.”
“All right,” Dixon said. “Let’s get out there and find out who felt the need to send that message.”
9
“How is Mrs. Morgan?” Vince asked as they climbed into the car.
Mendez looked over at him as he stuck the key in the ignition. “Not happy to see me. I can tell you that.”
“She went through a lot last year,” Vince said. “Anne gets together with her and Wendy every so often. She really wants to maintain that contact with the kids. Wendy has had some trouble coping. She’s withdrawn a bit. It’s a sad thing.”
“Is the husband still in the picture?”
“As far as I know.”
“I don’t get that.” Mendez shook his head. “The guy cheated on her with a woman who ended up dead, lied about it, withheld information from a murder investigation. He’s a Class-A prick and she stays with him. What’s wrong with women? She’s a beautiful, talented lady. She deserves better.”
“He’s the father of her child,” Vince said. “I’m sure Wendy loves her dad. Given the choice, kids want their parents to stay together. Tension in a marriage is a scary thing for a child, but not as scary as losing one of the two most important people in their life.”
“You were married before. How did your kids take it?”
Vince made a face. “I was an absentee father most of their lives. My girls already knew what it was like to live without me. Their day-to-day didn’t change all that much when I moved out.”
“You regret that.”
“Hell, yeah. They’re my daughters. I love them. I blew it. My ex-wife is a great gal, but she got tired of being a single parent and eventually she found herself another partner. I picked my career over my family.”
“But think of everything you’ve done in your career, man. You were a fucking pioneer. The Behavioral Sciences Unit wouldn’t have evolved in the same way without you. Think of the cases you’ve helped solve, the killers you’ve helped put behind bars. That’s worth a lot.”
“It is. I don’t discount that,” Vince said. “I’ve made important contributions to the larger world. Unfortunately, those contributions cost me a big price. They cost me my marriage. I missed watching my daughters grow up. But we make our choices and we live with the good and the bad of them. I just know I’m not making the same mistakes twice, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” Mendez groused with good nature, “rub my nose in it, why don’t you?”
Vince grinned. He had beaten his protégé to the punch where Anne was concerned—a fact that never ceased to please him. “You snooze you lose, Junior. But don’t take it too hard. Maybe we’ll name our first-born after you.”
“Asshole.”
“Ha!”
Their first stop was the administration building at McAster College. The school’s campus was beautiful, impeccably maintained, shaded with huge old oak trees. Established in the 1920s, many of the buildings were original, a mix of traditional ivy-covered brick and Spanish Revival stucco.
The administration building would have looked just as at home on the campus of Princeton. Wide front steps led to a grand set of doors.
“What do you think that says?” Mendez pointed up to the inscription carved in stone above the doors.
“If I had absorbed any of the Latin the nuns tried to pound into me in school, I could tell you.”
“I think it says, If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
They took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to the president’s office. Vince had met McAster’s president, Arthur Buckman, nearly a year ago, after the press had finally gotten wind of Vince’s role in the See-No-Evil cases. He had been swamped with requests for interviews and speaking engagements.
Still an agent at the time, he had to route all requests through the Bureau. The FBI was not keen on agents grandstanding or freelancing. Most of the requests had been denied. Vince had personally asked several people to hold off, pending his retirement. Arthur Buckman had been one of those.
“Vince!” Buckman greeted him, coming out of his office. A transplanted New Yorker, he was a vertically challenged, balding doughboy in wire-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit. Always smiling. As the head of one of the top private colleges in the country, he had a lot to smile about.
Vince pumped his hand. “Art. This is Detective Mendez with the sheriff’s office. Tony, Arthur Buckman.”
Buckman motioned them into an impressive, wood-paneled corner office that boasted a view of the McAster quad, busy now with students crisscrossing from class to class. “You shouldn’t be surprised to hear your lectures are already full, Vince. Our psych department is thrilled.”
“I’ll do my best to live up to expectations,” Vince said, taking a seat. The scent of lemon furniture polish went up his nostrils and seemed to stab into the backs of his eyes. Damn bullet.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Buckman asked.
“Just a little background on a faculty member,” Vince said.
For the first time the president lost his smile. “Has something happened?”
“Alexander Zahn,” Mendez said, digging his notebook out of the inside breast pocket of his sport coat.
“Dr. Zahn? Has something happened to him?”
“No, no,” Vince assured him, sitting back, squaring an ankle over a knee. The picture of relaxation. “He reported a crime against a neighbor of his this morning. We just want to get a feel for who he is. Someone told us he teaches here.”
“Yes. Periodically,” Buckman said.
Mendez glanced up at him. “He’s not on the faculty?”
The president squinted behind his glasses, pained somehow. “It’s ... complicated . . .”
“We met Dr. Zahn this morning,” Vince said. “He’s a complicated kind of guy.”
“Yes. That’s safe to say,” Buckman agreed. “Zander is a genuine genius. We’re very lucky to have him in any capacity. But he does have certain ... limitations.”
“Some high-functioning offshoot of autism?” Vince asked.
“Good guess.”
“And this guy can be a professor?” Mendez said. “Here?”
“He’s not intellectually impaired,” Vince explained. “He’s socially challenged.”
Mendez grimaced as he stared down at his notebook. “I’ll say.” “Of course, you understand I can’t really discuss a faculty member’s mental health with you,” Buckman said.
“No, of course not,” Vince said. “I’m just trying to get some insights on the man. Put some things into context.”
“You said something happened to a neighbor of his?”
“A woman he was friends with was murdered,” Mendez told him. “Zahn discovered her body.”
“Oh my God,” Buckman said. “Another woman murdered? Not again. It’s not like the others—”
“No, no,” Vince assured him. “Unrelated.”
“That’s not good news either, is it? You don’t think Dr. Zahn—?”
“We don’t have any reason to think that, sir,” Mendez said. “He reported the crime and cooperated fully this morning.”
“Thank God.” Buckman sighed. “That explains why he hasn’t come in today. He was supposed to give a lecture this morning. His assistant reported he wouldn’t be able to make it, that he was terribly upset, but that he wouldn’t say why.”
“Does he do that often?” Vince asked. “Cancel?”
“Sometimes he cancels. Other times he becomes so absorbed in the subject matter he goes on with a lecture for hours over his allotted time. He’s difficult, but he’s a brilliant mathematician. The students are all aware of his issues, but his classes are always full with a waiting list.”
“He has an assistant?” Mendez prompted.
“Rudy Nasser,” Buckman said. “Brilliant young man. He has advanced degrees in physics and mathematics from USC. He could have a very good position at any top school in the country. He came up here to work with Dr. Z
ahn. He’s probably one of a handful of people in the world who can truly follow the density of Zahn’s reasoning. He probably understands the man better than anyone. You’ll want to talk to him.”
“Marissa Fordham is dead?”
Mendez went instantly on guard. All he had said was that Dr. Zahn’s neighbor had been killed.
“It has to be Marissa,” Nasser explained. “She’s the only neighbor Dr. Zahn ever visits.”
Rudy Nasser sat back against the edge of the desk. The lecture hall had emptied out except for a couple of students still copying notes from the big chalkboard. It looked like Aramaic to Vince. The students—both cute girls—seemed more interested in stealing glances at their teacher than his mathematical concepts.
“Did you know her?” Mendez asked.
Nasser pulled in a deep breath and blew it back out as he processed the information and whatever it meant to him.
“This is bad, man.”
In his mid-twenties, he looked like a beatnik with the black goatee and soulful dark eyes, and dressed like a Miami Vice drug lord in a slouchy charcoal suit over a black T-shirt and loafers with no socks. He was undoubtedly as socially smooth as his mentor was socially awkward.
“Yes, I knew her,” he said. “Dr. Zahn ...”
He shook his head and left the thought unfinished.
“Dr. Zahn what?”
Nasser shrugged, not wanting to say too much. “Was fond of her. He found her body?”
“Yes,” Vince said. “He called nine-one-one.”
“He didn’t tell me. When he called this morning I knew something had happened. He was so agitated. But he wouldn’t tell me.”
Vince could see him planning damage control, how to get his eccentric boss away from the fray of a murder investigation.
“How well did you know her?” Mendez asked.
“Well enough to have a conversation. I gave her my number to call if she needed me.”
“Needed you to what?”
“To come get Dr. Zahn. He doesn’t always know when he’s worn out his welcome. When he gets manic he loses all sense of time.”
“Does that happen often?” Vince asked, trying to imagine Zahn in a manic state. He had seemed closer to catatonic that morning.
“Not often.”
“Recently?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“How is he during these episodes?” Vince asked.
“Happy,” Nasser said. “Euphoric, in fact. Like he’s in the throes of some kind of rapture. He becomes animated, can’t stop talking about whatever idea has taken hold of him. He’s done some of his best work in that state of mind.”
“How did Ms. Fordham react when this happened?” Mendez asked. “Was she afraid?”
Nasser shook his head. “No. Marissa took it in stride. She’s been his neighbor for several years. She knows Dr. Zahn isn’t a violent man. I can’t imagine him ever hurting anybody. He doesn’t like touching people or having people touch him. I’m sure it never entered Marissa’s mind that he might hurt her somehow.”
“Were they involved?”
“Sexually?” Nasser laughed, flashing an array of brilliantly white teeth. “No. God, no. Like I said: Dr. Zahn doesn’t like touching anyone. If you shake his hand, he’ll go open a fresh bar of soap and scrub like a surgeon.”
“He’s obsessive-compulsive?” Vince said, not surprised to hear it. He thought back to Zahn wringing his hands over and over as they asked him questions.
“To the tenth power.”
“What about you, Mr. Nasser?” Mendez asked. “Ms. Fordham was a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she was. But my first obligation is to Dr. Zahn. I would never jeopardize my position with him. The man is fucking brilliant. He has one of the brightest minds of our time.”
“And you’re one of the few people who can understand it,” Vince said.
“I’ve been a disciple for a long time. I realize how fortunate I am to be working with him.”
“What exactly is your role here?” Vince asked.
“Dr. Zahn doesn’t like to interact with people,” Nasser said.
“That must make it difficult for him to teach.”
“That’s where I come in,” Nasser said. “Mathematics is his world. He’s most comfortable with numbers, not people. And he loves trying to open that world to others, but he’s socially awkward. I’m here to do the actual interaction with the kids, sort of a liaison, if you will.”
“That makes sense.”
“And Ms. Fordham?” Mendez asked. “What was your take on her?”
Nasser glanced away and shrugged. “She seemed nice enough. I wasn’t a fan of her art. Too sweet, too idyllic for my tastes.”
Vince thought of the scene in Marissa Fordham’s retro-ranch kitchen. There had been nothing sweet or idyllic about that—except perhaps in the eyes of the person who had wanted her dead.
“We have some additional questions for Dr. Zahn,” he said. “Can you give us directions to his house?”
“I’m finished here,” Nasser said. “I’ll take you.”
10
Rudy Nasser led the way out of town in his old black BMW 3 Series convertible. The two-lane road wound through beautiful country quilted by four-rail fences and studded with spreading oak trees. They passed horse ranches and vineyards, and a lavender farm that colored the valley floor purple as far back toward the mountains as the eye could see.
“I’m surprised you let him come along,” Mendez said, glancing over at Vince.
“Let’s see that dynamic,” Vince said. “Let’s see how Zahn interacts with someone we can assume he’s comfortable with. He might let his guard down more.”
“In that case, I’m surprised you let me come along. I make the guy nervous.”
“You need to learn patience.”
Mendez rolled his eyes. “I know, I know.”
“You’re like a great fastball pitcher,” Vince said. “But you can’t just throw fastballs for the whole game. You’re going to come up against guys who can belt your best one out of the park. Your arm is going to get tired and you’re not going to get them all over the plate. You need a repertoire. You need a change-up. You need a slider. The occasional spitball.”
This was one reason Mendez had chosen to remain in Oak Knoll, even though Leone had encouraged him to make the move to the Bureau with an eye to eventually becoming a part of the Investigative Support Unit. He wanted to learn from the best. Vince Leone was the best, and Vince Leone was here.
He slowed and turned the department Taurus onto Dyer Canyon Road, and gave it a little gas to catch up to the quicker BMW.
“What do you make of him?” Vince asked.
“Nasser? He’s got it all going on—the smarts, the looks, working his dream job with his hero,” he said, grinning. “Kinda like me.”
Vince laughed.
“He’s a little on the slick side,” Mendez commented. “He’s sure as hell not like any math teacher I ever had.”
“I guess the new math is sexy,” Vince said. “My math teachers all had horn-rimmed glasses and thick ankles.”
Zander Zahn’s home sat behind a high stucco privacy wall. Only the tile roof of the house was visible from where they parked the cars on the shoulder of the road.
“He won’t want you going inside the house,” Nasser explained. “And he won’t like it if you touch anything in the yard.”
He keyed in the gate code and the solid wooden gate rolled back.
Mendez had been about to ask why they didn’t just drive in, but the reason was obvious. Every inch of Zahn’s yard was covered with stuff. Whatever lawn there had been at one time had been removed and replaced with decomposed granite dust, creating a parking lot for all manner of junk—all of it neatly arranged in categories.
Groups of old kitchen chairs. A collection of plant pots organized by size with the smallest in the front row and the largest in the back. Concrete statuary—from gargoyles to lions to replicas of
Michelangelo’s David and the Statue of Liberty.
He seemed to have a special affinity for refrigerators, which were lined up front to back, row after row, like a platoon of soldiers; and for chest-style freezers, rectangular box after rectangular box, like so many rusty white coffins.
“I’ll buzz him at the front door,” Nasser went on as they followed the narrow path to the house. “Hopefully, he’ll agree to come out. Better if the two of you stay a good ten feet back.”
He hustled up the steps ahead of them.
Mendez glanced at Leone. “What the fuck?”
“He’s a hoarder,” Vince said, looking over the collections through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Interesting.”
“It’s part of the obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
“It would seem to be, but there’s a lot of conflicting opinions on the subject. For instance, we’ve already seen that Zahn is a germaphobe, yet hoarding often creates unsanitary conditions. The two seem not to go together, yet here we are.”
“When I was in a uniform in Bakersfield, I had a call-out on a possible missing person,” Mendez said. “A woman reported her elderly mother missing after not hearing from her for several days. She had gone to the mother’s house. No sign of her.
“Me and my partner get there. You can’t believe this place. It was like a landfill inside a building—and smelled like one too. You could hardly walk inside. Every window was blocked. There were mice and rats like something out of a horror movie. Long story short: It took three days and a cadaver dog to find the woman’s body. A pile of stuff had fallen on her and buried her alive.”
Vince looked around at the yard. “At least Dr. Zahn is tidy.”
Contrary to Nasser’s instructions, Vince took the step below him and struck a casual stance with his hands in his pants pockets. The breeze flipped his necktie back over his shoulder.
Zahn’s voice came out of the squawk box on the wall above the doorbell. “Who are you?”
Nasser answered, “It’s me—Rudy.”
“Who’s with you? Someone is with you. Why would you bring someone here? You know not to bring someone here. Why would you do that?”
