by Chris Orcutt
Since I wasn’t getting a fee for this “case,” I planned on splurging a bit on my expenses, and that meant starting my day with a legendary breakfast: three scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries, blueberry pancakes with Vermont maple syrup, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Watching the news as I ate, I noticed the WBZ morning anchor was the same buttercream blonde who’d anchored when I was in college. The woman was sexy then, and she still was—a fact that, in this constantly changing world, I found oddly comforting.
Today I’d meet my quarry—Miss Sally Standish. Since my task was to tempt her away from Dr. Malone, I had to look good enough to make a college girl’s heart throb. The trouble was, I had no idea what college girls found attractive nowadays.
Thinking back to the coeds I’d known in my undergraduate days, remembering the grad students or professors they’d pined for, I opted to wear jeans and a chocolate tweed blazer. For a shirt—because it was supposed to be warm today, and because my arms were one of my best features and it was a sin to keep them covered all the time—I wore a snug polo shirt. My blazer didn’t have elbow patches, but I was confident my academic peers would forgive this egregious breach of sartorial decorum.
Director Reeves had said an agent from the Boston office would “unofficially” assist me and bring the identification I needed (e.g., Harvard ID, handgun and PI licenses). But by the time I was ready to leave, nothing had been delivered. It seemed that, for this first day at least, Dr. Dakota Stevens would have to survive by his wits. I went downstairs to the lobby.
As I stood among the sumptuous leather sofas, and the walls of brick and dark paneling, it occurred to me that a hotel of this caliber must have a business center. Maybe the Boston agent emailed you, I thought. The front desk clerk, a lovely cobalt-eyed blonde named Augusta, directed me to the business center, where I logged into my email account. My inbox contained one email, from Director Reeves’s personal email address.
He wrote that Dr. Norman Cantor—world-renowned expert in criminal psychology, and one of Sally’s professors—would corroborate my cover story that I was a Ph.D. on sabbatical from the FBI. The Director was still lining up an agent with the Boston office who would bring me the other materials I needed. He ended his email with a gibe: “Finally, Stevens, a word of advice: If you wish to convey a professional image for your new investigations firm, I strongly suggest you acquire a better email address than ‘[email protected].’ Son…get your own domain name, for Pete’s sake. I look forward to reading your first report this evening. —Director Reeves.”
I frowned. Most annoying about his comment—once again, he was right.
Attached to the email were Sally’s class schedule and activities list, and a picture of her. At first blush, Sally Standish was rather plain looking. Although her complexion was smooth and makeup-free, she had a prominent—almost bulbous—forehead, and she wore nerdy black cat-eye glasses. Her hair, the dull brown of a beaver pelt, was parted in the middle.
When I went to print the photo and schedule, I couldn’t figure out how to print attachments, so I had to ask Augusta to do it for me. As she stooped over the keyboard, some of her lustrous hair fell over one shoulder. The shimmer of those locks—the color of wet straw drying in the sun—evoked part of a Yeats poem: “Only God, my dear/Could love you for yourself alone/And not your yellow hair.” Augusta’s pleasant efficiency reminded me how sorely I needed an assistant. Maybe I should hire Augusta.
While she was printing things, I also had her print out a map of the Harvard campus for me. After all, it had been over a decade since I’d lived in Cambridge. Finally, after I thanked Augusta and forced a sawbuck into her hand, I did a web search and found some information about Dr. Malone, including a photo of him. He was a Caucasian in his late 30s with blonde hair. A fairly handsome guy, but he looked soft. He was no heartthrob by any means. What a 19½-year-old Harvard girl saw in him, I had no idea.
Finished, I scanned Sally’s class schedule. Her first class of the day, beginning in half an hour, was “Psychopaths and Psychopathy,” taught by Dr. Cantor. Once I located the lecture hall on the map, I stowed everything in my messenger bag, shouldered it and left.
Outside, the sun was well up now, hinting at the hot Indian summer day to come. The sidewalks were still wet from the previous night’s rain, and I had to hop puddles. When I got to Harvard Square, it occurred to me that my bag was empty and that a Harvard Fellow would at least have something to write on. Inside the university bookstore, the Coop, I bought a legal pad, a clipboard, and a couple of pens. I also bought a copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Little Sister (for detecting inspiration), a bag of cashews and an apple juice, and stowed it all in the bag. Now I felt like I belonged in Harvard Yard. It was time to see if I passed muster with the real academics.
Crossing the brick plaza in front of the Au Bon Pain café, where the chess hustlers were setting up under the trees, I attached myself to a covey of chirping coeds and followed them across Mass Ave into Harvard Yard—the brick buildings that date back to the earliest days of the college. The 200-year-old maples and oaks in the Yard gleamed with vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. I checked my watch. Only ten minutes until class. I started to jog.
Out of habit I glanced over my shoulder and noticed a tall Japanese woman—her hair in a bun—following me. When I ran faster, she picked up her pace to match mine. I had no idea who this woman was, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Once past the steps of Widener Library, I scooted down a narrow, hedge-lined walkway on the side of the building. The Japanese woman followed. At the rear of the building where the path turned, I backed into some bushes near the top of a staircase and waited.
I could hear the hedge rustling as she drew nearer. A couple of prep school boys tossed me a jaded glance as they tramped up the stairs beside me; apparently, encountering men in tweed coats skulking in bushes was a routine occurrence for them. Turning the corner, they continued up the path, toward the front of the library. I heard the woman’s footsteps approaching. She muttered, “pardon me” as she edged past the boys. Meanwhile, I stood absolutely still with the hedge branches making my face itch.
As the woman jogged around the corner, I thrust out a leg and tripped her. She careened toward the bushes, but on her way to the ground she somehow morphed her fall into a front somersault, grabbing my messenger bag strap and pulling me down with her. While I landed hard on my back, tangled in the hedge, she tumbled smoothly onto her feet and brushed herself off. I tried to stand up, but I was caught in the branches.
Damn, Dakota…talk about hoisted by your own petard.
I was thrashing around, struggling to get out of my blazer, when she reached into a large handbag. So this was it: I was going to be gunned down by a Japanese woman assassin, without even knowing who’d sent her or why. I tried kicking her, but she had wisely placed herself out of reach. Then she showed me a badge.
“Special Agent Jennifer Suzuki, Mr. Stevens.” With a simper on her face, she tossed me a large padded envelope. “Compliments of Director Reeves.”
Finally on my feet, I rummaged through the envelope. There was a Harvard Fellow ID, a Massachusetts PI license and pistol permit, and a Smith & Wesson .40 semiautomatic in a shoulder holster.
“So, Miss Suzuki,” I said, “may I ask…are you of the violin school or motorcycle Suzukis?”
My comment elicited no reaction from her; not even a raised eyebrow. It was a little annoying because I considered it a pretty good impromptu line.
“Mr. Stevens,” she said, “I’m doing a favor for Director Reeves. He asked me to give you a message. This case involving Miss Standish is, and must remain, off the FBI’s books. He does not want any attention drawn to the Bureau. Finally, regarding the gun, he said you are to refrain from using it at all costs, unless—”
“I know the drill,” I said. “Thank you, Agent Suzuki.”
&
nbsp; She wore a snug-fitting navy pantsuit and a white blouse with turn-back cuffs. While admiring her splendid curves in the outfit, I extricated my blazer from the hedge and started to put it back on. Miss Suzuki approached me.
“Hold still, one moment.” She reached behind me and pulled a leafy twig off my back.
“Thanks,” I said. “Nice take-down, by the way.”
“I know.” She smiled. “Too bad I can’t say the same of you.”
“I’m rusty,” I said with a shrug. “But maybe we could get together and practice our grappling.”
“Hmm…and throws and arm-locks?” she said.
“Sure, if you’re up for it.”
She smoothed out her suit jacket. “That can be very sweaty work, Mr. Stevens.”
“No problem. My hotel has a pool.”
“And what if I can’t swim?” she asked.
“I’ll teach you. Or we could just frolic in the shallow end.”
“Frolic? That sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it is,” I said. “I’m staying at—”
“The Charles. Yes, I know.”
“So…see you after work then?”
“I highly doubt it,” she said. “I have friends in the District, Mr. Stevens. I’m afraid your reputation precedes you.”
“Really? What reputation is that?”
She was about to say something else when a light-skinned African American man, maybe 25, ran up the walkway. One look told me everything I needed to know about him; it was practically stamped across his forehead: “NEW FBI SPECIAL AGENT.” He eyed me warily.
“Suzuki,” he said, “you okay?”
“Yes, Winters,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Agent Suzuki,” I said. “Please do get in touch. I think we could both benefit from practicing together. You know where to find me.”
She walked away with a smirk forming on her lips. Winters followed her.
“Practicing what together, Suzuki?” he asked her.
Their voices faded. I brushed myself off, stuffed the padded envelope with the gun into my messenger bag, and located Sally’s lecture hall on the map.
Already late, I set off at a brisk jog.
* * *
The lecture hall doors were shut when I got there, and although I was able to open one quietly, when I stepped inside and let the door close, it emitted a loud groan behind me. Pacing back and forth down in the amphitheater pit, Professor Cantor stopped short and frowned up at me.
“Sorry, professor,” I said.
Having worked up a sweat getting here, I removed my tweed jacket and took an empty aisle seat in the back row. The room was packed; apparently a lot of young people were interested in psychopaths. I scanned the students, looking for Sally Standish, but the hall was dim and the students were all facing away from me.
A beam from an LCD projector shone onto a screen behind Professor Cantor. It was a PowerPoint presentation on the research of Dr. Robert Hare, a criminal psychologist renowned for developing the Psychopathy Checklist. I’d met Dr. Hare during a stint with the FBI’s Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center, so I was conversant with his work.
Professor Cantor clicked a remote in his hand. A new slide came up on the screen. On the left was a picture of serial killer Ted Bundy; on the right, Hare’s psychopathy checklist.
“Doctor Stevens,” he said, gesturing grandly to the top rows of the amphitheater. “I’m pleased you could join us this morning—albeit extremely tardy.”
“Pleased to be here, Dr. Cantor,” I said.
“Class, Dr. Stevens is a criminology expert and profiler with the F-B-I.”
The entire class turned in their seats to face me. I waved broadly.
“He’s also a Harvard Fellow,” Cantor said, “doing a sabbatical with us as he continues his research. Dr. Stevens?”
“Yes, professor?”
“Of the traits listed in the Interpersonal Quadrant of the PCL-R, which one do you think best applied to Ted Bundy?”
Unwittingly, Professor Cantor had pitched me a softball. Every Special Agent candidate at Quantico studied the Bundy case in detail.
“I think it’s a tie, professor,” I said, “between glibness-slash-superficial charm and conning-slash-manipulative. Unfortunately, Mr. Bundy was apparently very attractive to the ladies, and they often fell for his charm. In fact, it was only when one young woman escaped from him that Bundy was eventually caught.”
“Exactly, Dr. Stevens,” Cantor said. “Did everyone hear that?”
Pleased with my answer, I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. Glancing at the students now facing me, I spotted Sally Standish: smooth complexion, prominent forehead, brown hair and cat-eye glasses. She was in the opposite aisle seat, three rows down. Seeing her in person from a few feet away, I observed several details that hadn’t come across in the photo. Her hair was tucked behind a pair of slightly forward-facing ears, and gathered in a ponytail. Her teeth were straight and white, but almost horsey in shape and size. Her lower lip was considerably fuller than her upper one, and it seemed to hang, glistening, in a perpetual pout. I couldn’t imagine what a grown man, Dr. Geoff Malone, saw in this almost nebbishy-looking girl. And then I understood her appeal: seen in a photo, Sally’s individual features made her seem plain, almost an ugly ducking; but in the flesh, she was much more than the sum of her parts; in the flesh, the girl was striking.
While the other students turned back to Dr. Cantor, Sally continued to stare at me. With my fingers still laced cockily behind my head, I flexed my arms in the snug polo shirt. The swelled muscles strained the sleeve cuffs. Sally’s eyes widened. After she’d been staring at me for a few seconds, I winked at her, jolting her out of her trance. She spun around and whispered to her girlfriend. During the rest of the lecture, Sally and her friend kept stealing glances at me.
When class finished, I stayed in my seat and made sustained eye contact with Sally, smiling at her as she filed out with the other students. My first encounter with Miss Standish was an unmitigated success. I’d piqued her curiosity—step one in getting her away from Dr. Malone.
Eventually Dr. Cantor and I were alone in the amphitheater. He waved me down to the pit. Putting on my jacket and grabbing my messenger bag, I walked down and shook his hand.
“Interesting comment today, Mr. Stevens,” he said.
“Thank you, professor. Great lecture. I haven’t thought about Bundy since my training days.”
He stowed some papers in a briefcase and hoisted it off the lectern.
“I haven’t much time—appointment over at Grossman,” he said. “Perhaps you could walk with me?”
“Certainly.”
I followed him out a side door and down a hallway, and then we were outside, walking across campus.
“When Director Reeves called and asked for my help in this charade,” he said, “I must admit I was initially skeptical. But…I don’t care for Dr. Malone, so I’ll be happy to vouch for you.”
“I appreciate it, professor,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why don’t you care for Dr. Malone?”
“Because he’s a charlatan who gives those of us doing real psychology research a bad name,” he said. “ ‘Sexual Attractiveness Study,’ my eye. Honestly, I don’t understand why the administration allowed him here.”
“Maybe because he’s controversial and a minor celebrity,” I said. “Due respect, professor, this university does seem to enjoy controversy.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Anything to keep that endowment growing.” He turned to me with a wry smile. “There’s a joke in academia, maybe you’ve heard it—that we’re actually a multi-billion-dollar hedge fund running a university on the side.”
I chuckled. “No, I’ve never heard that, but it sounds apt.”
&n
bsp; When we reached Grossman Library, Professor Cantor said goodbye to me, walked up a couple steps, then stopped suddenly and considered me over his shoulder.
“Mr. Stevens?”
“Professor?”
“I know Miss Standish is the reason you’re here.” He looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, and spoke softly. “But somebody needs to look into Malone’s background. I mean really look into it—not the pro forma box-checking our illustrious HR department does. You could start by contacting the long list of prestigious institutions that have hosted his ridiculous sideshow. My gut tells me there’s something off about the man. Frankly, I’ve never met anyone who reminded me more of Ted Bundy than Dr. Malone.” He swallowed and gave me a trepidatious look. “Fair warning, Mr. Stevens…I think you’re dealing with a psychopath.”
“Thank you for your counsel, professor. I’ll be careful.”
Nodding perfunctorily, the professor spun on his heels and went up the steps and into the building. Even with the warm sun on my back, thinking about the professor’s warning, I shivered.
4
The Doppelgänger of a Predator-Eyed Supermodel
After saying goodbye to Dr. Cantor, I was passing Widener Library again when I noticed a tall, lanky man standing on the library steps with his nose in a thick book. As I got closer, I noticed the book was Moby Dick and the man was my college freshman roommate, Stanley Ford, whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade.
I climbed the steps toward him. His glasses were several prescriptions thicker. Looking up from the book, he paused as his eyes refocused, and then, recognizing me, his face lit up. He clapped the book shut and hugged me.
“Dakota Stevens! So wonderful to see you!”
“You, too, Stanley.” When he let go of me, I tapped his book. “Moby Dick, huh?”
