'A joke in terms of scholarship?' I said.
'A joke, period. When his application came across my desk and I noted that he'd graduated from Charter, I got hold of his undergrad transcripts.'
'Suspicious?'
She smiled. 'I was rather displeased to be advised. When I read the transcript, my displeasure turned to wrath. To say Gordon had been an undistinguished student would have been too kind. He was on academic probation several, semesters, put together a C-minus average by taking Mickey Mouse courses, took five years to graduate. Somehow along the line, he managed to get himself a master's.' Her lips curled. 'I got my doctorate at Berkeley, did a postdoc at London University, and another at Columbia. Susan Santorini's doctorate is
from Columbia, she taught in Florence, Italy, and at Cornell before I snagged her. The way the job market for academics is running, we could've had our pick of bright Ph.D.s from top places. Instead, we were forced to occupy the same intellectual space as that clown.'
'Which helps the budget,' I said.
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Every year the department receives a check from The Trueblood Endowment - the stepfather's foundation. Just enough to keep us... motivated.'
'Academic stranglehold,' said Milo.
'Very well put, Detective. And, truth be told, your visit tonight may very well have crystallized things for me. If Gordon's transgressions have stretched beyond my wildest imagination, I may finally have to make some serious life choices. But before I tell you more, I need one thing: You must keep me informed, provide me enough lead time so I can take my leave well before the storm and thus avoid embroiling myself in criminal-legal matters.'
'You're resigning, ma'am?'
'Why not, if the parachute's sufficiently golden?' said Martin. 'Vernon's been talking about cutting back, the two of us have been itching to do more traveling. Perhaps this is providence. So if you want to know more about Gordon's character flaws, you must keep me in the loop.'
'Fair enough,' said Milo. 'What problems have you had with Shull?'
'Pilferage, sloppy expense accounts, spotty attendance as a teacher, shoddy grading,' said Martin. 'His lectures -when he chooses to show up - are execrable. Low-level discourses on pop culture with cretinous reading lists. Everything centers on Gordon's insight of the moment,
and Gordon's attention span is severely attenuated.'
'A dilettante,' I said. Shull had applied the term to Kevin Drummond.
'He'd have to work at being a dilettante,' said Martin. 'Gordon is everything I despise about what passes for scholarship in contemporary academia. He fancies himself an avatar of pop culture. Oracle on the mount passing judgment on the creative world. No doubt because he sees himself as an artist but has failed miserably.'
Milo sat up. 'How so?'
'Gordon fancies himself quite the Renaissance man. He paints horrid blotchy canvases - garden scenes purporting to be Impressionistic but at a level of competence most middle-school children could surpass. Shortly after he came on, he brought several canvases to me, asked for a one-man show sponsored by the department.' She snorted. 'I put him off and he went to the dean. Even Gordon's connections couldn't help with that.'
'Renaissance man,' said Milo. 'What else?'
'He plays the drums and guitar very poorly. I know that because he's always talking about gigging or riffing, whatever. Last year he volunteered to play at a party Vernon and I threw for the honor students. This time, I was foolish enough to agree.' Her eyes rolled. 'As if all that self-delusion wasn't enough, he also claims to be working on a novel - some magnum opus in progress that he's been touting since I've known him. I've never seen a page of manuscript.'
'Big talk, no walk,' said Milo.
'A real California guy,' said Martin. 'Without family
money, he'd be waiting tables and lying about his next big audition.'
'You said his attendance was spotty,' said Milo.
'He's always off on some jaunt, financed by his stepfather.'
'What kind of jaunts?'
'Alleged research trips, symposia, conventions. In addition to his other pretensions, he sees himself as an adventurer, has been to Asia, Europe, you name it. It's all part of that macho thing he has going on - plaid shirts with ties, hiking boots, the Arafat beard. He always claims to be working up some profound paper, but, again, he's never produced.' She jabbed a finger. 'In a sense, the world's fortunate he never follows through. Because Gordon's a horrid writer. Incoherent, puffed up, pompous.'
'Faithful Scrivener,' I said.
Her eyes widened. 'You know about that?'
'Know about what?'
'Gordon likes to refer to himself in the third person. Graces himself with a slew of obnoxious nicknames. The Gordster, The Intrepid Mr Shull, Faithful Scrivener.' She bared her teeth. 'He's always been a joke. Unfortunately, he's my personal sick joke. And now you're telling me he killed someone... and our offices are footsteps away... that is unsettling. Am I in danger?'
'Not that I see, Professor,' said Milo.
'Who has he killed?'
'Artistic individuals.'
Martin's eyes saucered. 'More than one?'
'I'm afraid so, Professor.'
She sighed. 'I'm definitely going to take some time off.'
'What can you tell us about Kevin Drummond?' said Milo.
'What I told Professor Delaware was true: I have no specific memory of the boy. After the visit, I took a closer look at his transcripts. Mediocre student, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.'
'You have no memory of his hanging out with Shull?'
'Sorry, no. Students come in and out of Gordon's office. To a certain type, he's appealing. I don't recall Mr Drummond, specifically.'
'What type of student finds him appealing?' said Milo.
'Gordon stays abreast of all the latest trends, and that impresses the easily impressed. I'm sure what he'd really like would be to host a show on MTV.'
I said, 'Has Shull acted out sexually with students?'
'Probably,' she said.
'Probably?' said Milo. 'Just like that?'
"There've been no complaints, but it certainly wouldn't surprise me. Most of the students who take advantage of Gordon's office hours seem to be female.'
'But there've been no actual sexual harassment complaints.'
'No,' said Martin. 'Faculty-student sex is a fixture of college life and complaints are very rare. For the most part, it's consensual. Isn't that so, Professor Delaware?'
I nodded.
'Kevin Drummond's gay,' said Milo. 'Should we be looking at that?'
'You're asking if Gordon's bisexual?' said Martin. 'Well, I haven't picked up on that, but the truth is nothing you'd tell me about him would surprise me. He's what used to be referred to as a scoundrel. Nice word,
that. Too bad it's fallen out of usage. He's your prototypical spoiled brat, he bounces along, doing exactly what he pleases. Have you met his mother?'
'Not yet.'
Martin smiled. 'You really should. Especially you, Professor Delaware. Right up your alley.'
'A font of psychopathology?' said Milo.
Martin regarded him with a long, amused look. 'The woman's devoid of basic courtesy and simple good sense. Every year at the endowment luncheon she corrals me and reminds me how much money her husband's doled out, then she proceeds to lecture me about the wondrous accomplishments of her baby boy. Gordon comes by his pretentiousness honestly. She presents herself as society, but from what I've gathered, her first husband - Gordon's real father - was a drunk. An unsuccessful real estate agent who spent time in prison for fraud. Both he and Gordon's brother died in a house fire when Gordon was young and a few years later, the mother found herself a sugar daddy.'
Milo scrawled in his pad.
Martin said, 'This has been educational, but I'm tired. If that's all-'
'If you've got a writing sample from Shull, that would be helpful.'
'Back at my office,' she said. 'I've got his lates
t end-of-year self-assessment. Every faculty member's required to submit one - listing accomplishments, goals. Gordon's is a formality because we both know he's got life tenure.'
'Maybe not,' said Milo.
'What a lovely thought,' said Martin. 'I'll come in early
tomorrow, messenger it to you first thing.'
She saw us to the door, and Milo thanked her.
'My pleasure,' she said. 'Really... you know, now that I think about it, Gordon's being a murderer doesn't really surprise me all that much.'
'Why's that, ma'am?'
'Someone that false, that shallow, could do anything.'
Petra was having a decent night. The air was cool, the sky was a velvety purple-black where Hollywood neon didn't bleach it gray, and A. Gordon Shull was well known at clubs and dives and alternative bookstores.
The recollections of a hungover barkeep at the Screw, a rancid thrash-metal cave on Vermont, were typical:
Yeah, I seen him. Wears black and tries to pick up young chicks.
Does he succeed?
Maybe, sometimes.
Any girl in particular?
They're all the same.
What else can you tell me about him?
Just an old guy trying to be cool - y'know.
I know what?
It's the way things go.
A whole different ball game than her futile attempts to find any links to Kevin Drummond. But something gave her pause: none of the sightings paired Shull with Kevin. Was the younger man even involved in the bad stuff?
Despite the IDs, her attempts to link Shull specifically to dope, violent tendencies, aberrant sex, or Erna Murphy were unsuccessful. By shift's end, she realized it added up to very little they could use in the short term, and she felt her mood sinking. Then she got a little gift from God: During her first pass down Fountain Avenue, the Snake Pit had been closed - NO SHOW TONIGHT - but when she passed by on the way to the station, she spotted cars parked in front and a door left slightly ajar.
She went in and encountered a fat, ponytailed bouncer nursing a gin and tonic. The place smelled like a toilet.
'Closed,' the fat guy told her. 'Maintenance.'
That meant him standing around guzzling and a diminutive man who looked like a rain forest Indian sweeping the sticky floor. Music - some kind of harmonica-driven, bass-heavy Chicago blues - blared on the sound system. Bare, plywood tables were arranged haphazardly. A drum kit sat on the stage. A microphone stand with no mike looked decapitated. Nothing sadder than a dive without patrons.
Petra stepped in farther and looked around some more and smiled at the bouncer.
'Yeah?' He folded thigh-sized forearms over his sumo belly. His skin was the pink-gray of raw pork sausage. A brocade of tattoos turned the arms into kimono sleeves. Prison art and finer work. A swastika graced the back of his neck.
He hadn't been one of the interviewees on Baby Boy's murder. She showed him the badge and asked him about that.
'I was off that night.'
She'd requested a full staff list from the management.
So much for that. She showed him Shull's photo.
'Yeah, he comes here.' Pork Sausage downed his drink, waddled behind the bar, and fixed himself another. He took a long time cutting a lime, squeezed it into the glass, then tossed the slice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, rind and all.
'How often does he come here?' said Petra.
'Sometimes.'
'What's your name?'
He didn't like the question, but he wasn't the least bit intimidated. 'Ralf Kvellesenn.'
She had him spell it for her, write it down. Ralf with an 'F'. Some Viking ancestor was rolling over in his grave. 'Be more specific than "sometimes," Ralf.'
Kvellesenn frowned, and his greasy forehead furrowed. 'Dude comes in once in a while. He ain't a regular, I only know him because he comes on real friendly?
'With you?'
'With the acts. Dude's into talking to them. Between sets. He digs going backstage.'
'Is he allowed to do that?'
Kveliesenn winked. 'It ain't the Hollywood Bowl.'
Meaning a few bucks opened doors.
Petra said, 'So he's kind of like a groupie.'
Kvellesenn emitted a wet laugh. 'I never seen him giving head.'
'I didn't mean literally, Ralf.'
'Whatever.'
'You don't seem curious about why I'm asking you about him.'
'I ain't a curious person,' said Kvellesenn. 'Curious gets you fucked up.'
She recorded Kvellesenn's address and phone number, sat down at a bare table as he stared, took her time rereading her notes and found the name of the bouncer who'd been on the night of Baby Boy's murder.
Val Bove.
She left the club, phoned Bove's home number, woke him up, described Shull.
'Yeah,' he said.
'Yeah, what?'
'I know the dude you mean, but I don' remember if he was there when Baby got offed.'
'Why not?'
'House was packed.'
'But you definitely know who I'm talking about.'
'Yeah, the professor dude.'
'How do you know he's a professor?'
'He calls himself that,' said Bove. 'He told me he was a professor. like trying to impress me. Like I give a shit.'
'What else did he tell you?'
'Basically, he's like "I'm cool." "I write books," "I play guitar, too." Like I give a fuck.'
'An artistic type,' said Petra.
'Whatever.' A loud yawn came over the phone, and Petra could swear she smelled the guy's rotten breath.
'What else can you tell me about the professor dude?'
'That's it, babe. Next time don' call so early.'
She made careful, copious notes, was about to phone Milo, call it a day well spent, but drove to Dove House, instead. The assistant director, Diane Petrello, was at the downstairs desk. Petra had brought her a few people.
Diane smiled. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and raw. Her expression said, What now?
'Rough day?' said Petra.
'Terrible day. Two of our girls OD'd last night.'
'Sorry to hear that, Diane. They were doping together?'
'Separate incidents, Detective. Which somehow makes it worse. One was right around the corner, she'd just left for a walk, promised to come back for evening prayers. The other was in that big parking lot behind the new Kodak Center. All those tourists... the only reason we found out so quickly is both girls had our card in their purses, and your officers were kind enough to let us know.'
Petra showed her Shull's photo. Diane shook her head.
'Is he involved with Erna?'
'Don't know yet, Diane. Could I please show this to your current residents?'
'Of course.'
They trudged upstairs together and Petra began with the males - six profoundly inebriated men, none of whom recognized Shull. On the women's floor, she found only three residents in one room, including Lynnette, the gaunt, black-haired junkie Milo had spoken to about Erna.
'Cute,' she said. 'Kind of like a Banana Republic ad.'
'Have you seen him before, Lynnette?'
'I wish.'
Behind smudged eyeglass lenses, Diane Petrello's eyes shut tight, then opened. 'Lynnette,' she said softly.
Before Lynnette could reply, Petra said, 'You wish?'
'Like I said, cute,' said Lynnette. 'I could do him so good he'd buy me pretty things.' She grinned, revealing ragged mossy teeth. Yellow eyes, hepatitis or something in that league. Petra felt like stepping away, but she didn't.
'Lynnette, have you ever seen this man with Erna?'
'Erna was a skank. He's way too cute for her.'
One of the other women was elderly and whisker-chinned, stretched out on the bed, sleeping. The other was fortyish, tall, black, heavy-legged. Petra glanced at the black woman, and she drifted over, sliding worn bedroom slippers over threadbare carpeting and sounding like a snare drum.
&
nbsp; 'I seen him with Erna.'
'Right,' said Lynnette.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 34
