…A Dangerous Thing

by Crider, Bill

  Burns recognized the serial; it was The Masked Marvel, not one of Burns's favorites, but still worth watching.

  "Some pretty good stunt work in that one," he said from Holt's open doorway.

  Holt froze the picture and turned to see who was there. "Good afternoon, Dr. Burns. Do you know about Tom Steele?"

  "He was The Masked Marvel, but he didn't get any screen credit. Doubled some stunts for the bad guys, too, didn't he?"

  Holt was as impressed as someone else might have been had Burns been able to recite a passage from Antigone in classical Greek. "That's right. You know your serials, Dr. Burns."

  "Some of them, anyway," Burns said. "Mind if I come in?"

  "Please do. We can watch chapter eight."

  "I don't really have time for that. I wanted to talk to you about something else."

  "All right." Holt turned off the VCR and monitor. "What did you have in mind?"

  "I guess you've heard about Tom Henderson."

  Holt looked concerned. "Yes. Terrible thing. Just terrible. I'm sure the students were greatly affected. It was an excellent idea for Dean Partridge to set up grief counseling for them."

  Burns, who didn't want to talk about grief counseling, studied Holt's face, trying to get some idea of what the chin would be like without the beard. It was impossible to tell. The eyes were right, though.

  "Yes," he said. "But I'm sure it was harder on you than on most of the students."

  Holt who had been leaning back in his chair, sat up a little straighter. "What? Why?"

  "Well, I had the impression that you and Henderson knew one another from way back. Weren't you in college together?"

  "Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

  Burns shrugged. "Something Tom said one day. About your looking like someone he knew in school. He seemed pretty sure he remembered you."

  "Impossible. I don't recall ever having seen him before coming to HGC."

  "Maybe I heard wrong. You didn't go to school in California?"

  "No. I went to North Texas State, as it was called in those days. I've never even been to California."

  Burns wondered why Holt was so insistent. "So there's no way you could have known Henderson?"

  Holt shook his magnificent head. "I don't see how."

  "There was someone else that Tom mentioned. Henry Mitchum. Sometimes called Hank. Did you ever know him?"

  Holt's mouth didn't fall open, but it was a near thing. "W-who?"

  "Henry Mitchum," Burns repeated.

  "Oh," Holt said, making a quick recovery. "I thought you said Robert Mitchum." He laughed weakly. "I hope you don't think I'm old enough to have gone to school with him."

  "I don't think he went to college," Burns said.

  "You're right. He didn't. I guess I couldn't have known him, then, could I?"

  "We weren't really talking about Robert, though," Burns said. "We were talking about Henry. Or Hank."

  "Afraid I can't help you there, either. Never heard of the fellow. Who is he, anyway?"

  "Just someone Tom Henderson mentioned to me. I thought you might have known him."

  "Sorry. I didn't."

  "That's all right," Burns said. "He was just someone Tom happened to mention. Someone he went to school with." Burns looked at his watch. "Well, I guess I'd better let you get back to your serial."

  Burns stepped out the door, walked a pace or two, then turned back in his best Columbo style. "Oh, there was one other thing I wanted to ask."

  Holt said, "What?"

  "The night Tom was killed. Where were you?"

  Holt didn't answer for a few seconds. "I was in my classroom, I suppose. I have a class on Tuesday evenings."

  Burns was well aware of that. "So you were questioned by the police?"

  "Uh, no. No, I wasn't questioned."

  "But I thought they questioned everyone in the building."

  "I . . . that was Tuesday evening, wasn't it?"

  Burns was nothing if not patient. "Yes. Tuesday."

  "Last Tuesday," Holt said, clearly stalling for time.

  "That's right," Burns agreed, giving Holt all the rope he needed. "Last Tuesday."

  "Um. Let me see. I think I was a little late to class that evening. Yes. That's it. I was late. By the time I got here, there were people swarming all over the building. I asked someone what the trouble was, and I was told that classes had been dismissed because of an accident. I went back to my apartment and read."

  Burns didn't say a word. He just stood there, waiting.

  "I know that was wrong," Holt said after a second or two. "I can see why you're concerned. You're the chairman, after all. I should have come into the building and checked on my students, but I assumed that they had all gone or were told the same thing I was told."

  Burns didn't say a word.

  "Of course you're wondering where I was. That's only natural. I know that you stress being in class on time."

  Holt was talking too much, and he didn't even know what he was talking about. Burns didn't stress being in class on time. The HGC administration did enough of that without Burns having to say anything.

  "I was with Dean Partridge," Holt went on. "She called me in for a conference to discuss how I was getting on. We were talking and lost track of the time. So I was a little late for class."

  Burns thought it was time for him to say something. "That's understandable."

  "Yes. Yes, it is. And of course it was on her own time. She didn't have a chance to meet with me during regular school hours, so she called me in after five. I thought it would be rude of me to call her attention to the time since she'd made a special effort to meet with me then."

  And Burns was sure that Dean Partridge would back Holt up about the meeting if she were ever questioned. So why did he think that it had never taken place?

  Maybe because Eric Holt was actually sweating, though it was quite cool in the office. For once, Main's erratic air-conditioning system was functioning perfectly, but Holt's forehead was damp, and a thin trickle of sweat ran down from Holt's hair past the corner of his eye.

  "Dean Partridge is pretty considerate, all right," Burns said. "I don't blame you for not mentioning that you were going to be a little late to class. Don't worry about it."

  "I won't," Holt said, looking more worried than ever.

  Burns left him that way, wondering why he felt so good about having made Holt feel so miserable. He also wondered which man looked guiltier, Holt or Melling. He decided it was a toss-up, though Melling was certainly the more dangerously physical of the two. The recruiter didn't sweat. He turned red and made fists. However, you could never tell about something like that. Holt might react violently if he were pushed or prodded in the right way.

  Burns was whistling "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" when he walked into his office, but he broke off the tune abruptly when he saw who was waiting for him there.

  It was George (the Ghost) Kaspar, and he didn't look happy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  George was no happier than he looked.

  "I saw your light on," he said. "So I stopped by. I didn't really think you'd be here this late."

  "I had a few things to do," Burns said. "How can I help you, George?"

  "It's probably too late for anybody to do anything," George said. "If you'd just never taught that poem, I wouldn't be in this mess."

  Burns sat behind his desk. "Did Ms. Tanner talk to Bunni today?"

  George nodded. "For all the good that did."

  Burns had hoped that Elaine would switch sides, especially after last night. Evidently she hadn't.

  "And that's not all," George said.

  Burns didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

  "Ms. Tanner told Bunni that lookism is everywhere. She said someone was guilty of it with her."

  Burns held in his groan. "Did she say who it was?"

  "Don't worry," George said. "It's not you."

  He sounded disappointed, Burns thought, not feeli
ng the least relieved. In fact, he dreaded asking his next question. "Did she say who it was?"

  "Sure. It's that cop. Boss Napier."

  Burns felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. There was only one thing worse than being accused of lookism himself, and this was it. It was worse because he knew exactly who Boss Napier was going to blame.

  No matter that there wasn't any justice in it. Napier would blame Burns.

  "Are you sure about this, George?"

  "Sure I'm sure. I talked to Bunni about it. She was thrilled to see that Ms. Tanner was a victim too. It just strengthens her case, she says."

  "How's the rest of the campus taking this?" Burns asked, hoping to distract himself from the issue of Boss Napier's lookism.

  George brightened, though not much. "Well, there are a lot of people on my side. And not all of them are guys."

  "That's encouraging," Burns said.

  "Yeah, but there are a lot of people who aren't on my side, too."

  "What about the Student Court?"

  "They've set a hearing. It'll be on Monday."

  "Monday?" Burns was a bit surprised. "That seems a little too soon for them to have gathered all the facts."

  "That's what I thought. But I heard it's Dean Partridge's idea."

  That made sense, Burns thought. The Dean wanted to get things out in the open and dealt with before too much pressure built up. There would be parents calling, wondering what was going on, and the local newspaper might get hold of the story. No telling where it might go after that; it might even get on the wire services. Dr. Miller wouldn't like the negative publicity that could result. He wouldn't like it at all.

  "What I was wondering," George said, "was whether you'd be sort of my defense attorney."

  That was all Burns needed. But he couldn't turn George down. So he said, "I'd be glad too, George," even though he didn't mean it. Maybe little white lies didn't count against you too much.

  George didn't smile, but he looked a little less glum. "Thanks, Dr. Burns. I didn't really mean it about this being all your fault. It's my fault, and I know it. I shouldn't have let appearances influence my affections."

  "Where did you get that idea?" Burns asked.

  "I guess I heard it from Bunni."

  It figured. "Well, don't worry about it," Burns said. "I don't think this will amount to a thing."

  "It might. The Student Court could ask the school to suspend me. My parents would never forgive me if that happened."

  "The court won't do anything like that. I promise."

  "Really?" George sounded more hopeful than he had so far. "You think they won't?"

  Burns had a sudden flash of himself as Al Pacino at the end of Scent of a Woman, pounding the table with his cane and screaming that he'd take a flame-thrower to the place. It was a nice picture, but it would never work. He was no Al Pacino. He was more like Jimmy Durante.

  "I know they won't," he lied. "You don't have a thing to worry about. I'm a great defense attorney. Taught Perry Mason all he knows."

  "That's great." George stood up and stuck out his hand. "I knew I could count on you, Dr. Burns. Thanks."

  Burns took the offered hand and shook it. He only wished he had as much faith in himself as George did.

  After George left, Burns looked around his office to see if there was anything he needed to take home for the weekend. There was nothing, and he was just about to close the door when the phone rang.

  Burns glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in his office at that hour on a Friday afternoon. Who could be calling?

  The phone rang again.

  Maybe it was Holt. He knew Burns was in. Or maybe it was Elaine. Burns hadn't had time to talk to her all day. She might be lonely. It was a nice thought.

  The phone rang again, echoing down the deserted hallway behind Burns.

  Well, Burns told himself, there was one sure way to find out who was calling. He went back into the office and picked up the phone.

  "Carl Burns," he said.

  "Burns. I'm glad I caught you in your office. I was somehow under the impression that the faculty didn't hang around the campus on Friday afternoon."

  It was Franklin Miller, HGC's president. Burns had no idea what he could want.

  "Some of us dedicated professionals do," Burns said, glad that he'd stayed around for once.

  "Excellent," Miller said. "Excellent."

  Burns didn't know how to respond to that, so he just waited.

  "As I was saying," Miller went on, "I'm glad I caught you in your office. There's something I wanted to discuss with you."

  Burns's day, which he had begun in such a good mood, was going downhill rapidly. It was never good news when the president wanted to have a talk with you, especially late on a Friday afternoon.

  "Do you want me to come to your office?" Burns asked.

  "No. No, I don't think so. I think I'll come over there."

  That would be a first. As far as Burns knew, no HGC president had ever climbed up to the third floor of Main. Miller must have something really serious on his mind.

  "Do you know where my office is?" Burns asked, just to be sure Miller knew what he was getting into.

  "I think I can find it. It's on the third floor of Main, isn't it?"

  Burns said that it was.

  "Excellent. I can find it, then. I suppose that there's hardly anyone else around?"

  It was a question, so Burns said, "Just Eric Holt. Unless he's gone home."

  "Why don't you check on that?"

  Burns said that he would.

  "Excellent," Miller said. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  Burns told him that he'd be waiting.

  Not quite fifteen minutes had passed when Miller appeared at Burns's door. He must have been in better shape that Burns would have guessed; he was panting only slightly.

  "Those stairs are quite steep, aren't they?" he said. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a subdued maroon tie.

  "They are," Burns agreed. "You can see why Dean Partridge is talking about an elevator."

  The thought of an elevator, and its cost, made Miller frown. Burns asked him to come in and sit down.

  "I hate to intrude on your Friday," Miller said as he settled himself into the chair. "Did you look in on Eric Holt, by the way?"

  Burns had, but Holt had already left.

  Miller thought that was excellent. "Ordinarily I wouldn't have asked about that. It's just that I needed to speak to you privately." He glanced around. "So there's no one else around, then?"

  "No. Eric's always the last to leave."

  "Excellent." Miller relaxed fractionally. "There are several things I want to go over with you."

  "All right," Burns said, wondering what they could be and knowing with a grim certainty that they weren't going to make him happy.

  "One is this 'lookism' business. I suppose you've heard about it."

  Burns admitted that he had.

  "Of course. Everyone on campus has. And a few people in town, as well. That young woman who brought the accusation. Bunni. She's your student secretary, isn't she?"

  "Yes. And a very good one."

  "I'm sure she is. But this lookism business, Burns, isn't good at all. It's going to cause trouble, and it's going to be a black eye for the college if it's not handled correctly. You can see that, can't you?"

  Burns could see it, all right. He'd already thought about it when talking to George. "But there's not really much we can do about it, is there?"

  Miller shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I just don't know what got into Dean Partridge when she sent all those memos. I tried to explain to her that we're a small school, a conservative school, maybe even an old-fashioned school."

  No maybe to it, Burns thought. HGC was definitely all of those things.

  "But she had all these new ideas," Miller continued. "And I thought that was good, in its own way. I thought that maybe we had become complacent, set in our ways, a
fraid of change. I thought it might be to the school's benefit to have someone new coming in, someone with new ideas and fresh approaches to the old problems."

  It was true that the school and most of the people who worked there didn't like the idea of change, Burns thought. But why change when you were doing a good job? Well, Eric Holt could no doubt tell anyone why, but Burns wasn't sure that he would agree.

  "Dr. Holt has certainly brought some new ideas into my department," he said.

  "I've heard a little about that. Does he really talk about comic books?"

  "Sometimes," Burns said.

  Miller shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand everything that's going on in education these days, Burns."

  "I'm not sure that I do, either, if that's any comfort."

  "It's good to know I'm not alone," Miller said, not sounding convinced. "But what I wanted to ask was whether there was anything you could do to help out in this lookism business."

  "I'm not sure there is. I did agree to speak for George Kaspar at the hearing of the Student Court."

  "Excellent. Excellent. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have on my side. I'm sure you'll represent him well and at the same time do whatever is best for HGC."

  "I'll try," Burns said. He lacked Miller's confidence. "It's not easy to predict how something like that might turn out."

  "I'm not as worried about that as I was, now that I know you're on the case. That's very good news." Miller rubbed his hands together. "Now. There's one other thing that's been worrying me."

  Here it comes, Burns thought. I've been buttered up sufficiently for him to get to the real heart of the matter.

  "It's about Tom Henderson," Miller said.

  "Oh," Burns said.

  "Yes. A bad business, and it's not going to look good for Hartley Gorman College. Not good at all, what with Dean Elmore's death and then Street getting killed when we invited him here for the seminar. But you were very helpful in those unfortunate events, Burns. Very helpful."

  "I didn't really do anything," Burns protested. Now he knew where the conversation was leading.