Bloody Genius

by John Sandford

  She pointed at the visitor’s chair, sat down herself, and asked, “Have you really killed someone with your shotgun?”

  “Yes,” Virgil said. “He was trying to kill me at the time. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was recalcitrant and continued trying to kill me. So, I shot him. I feel bad about it. But not too bad. The memory isn’t incapacitating or anything.”

  “That would be an interesting study . . . people who have killed other people and how they feel about it,” Green said. “Has modern American gun society so deadened our reactions to killing that we don’t even experience an emotional toll when we ourselves kill someone? A longitudinal study, going back after a month, six months, a year, two years, and so on, would be interesting. Does the memory fade? Does the shooter avoid negative psychological consequences because of cultural conditioning through social media? How do American reactions to killing compare with non-gun societies? England, perhaps. Or Denmark.”

  Virgil crossed his legs, settling into his chair, and said, “I personally know several guys—actually, I know a woman as well—who’ve killed other people and their reactions are all over the place. Some of them, it doesn’t seem to affect, but others are screwed up about it. Still others seem screwed up, but only to the extent that it gets them time off or disability pay or job preferences.”

  “Interesting,” she said. She made a note on a desk pad. “Now, what can I do for you? On this Quill murder? I’ve told the police—”

  Virgil held up a hand. “I know, I read Sergeant Trane’s account of your testimony. I just wanted to push it around the plate.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve encountered that idiom before, ‘push it around the plate,’” Green said. She scribbled another note. “Where’d you hear it?”

  “My mother used it,” Virgil said. “So. What was your personal relationship to Dr. Quill?”

  She recoiled. “None. I never . . . Are you suggesting—”

  “No, no, no.” Virgil smiled. “I’m not talking about sex, heaven forbid. I’m asking if you talked, outside of these conflicts you had recently, about the t-word thing?”

  “‘T-word’? You mean ‘twat’?’”

  “Yes. Did you talk—”

  “I don’t believe I ever said a word to him in my entire life before he came to my lecture and began yelling at me,” Green said. “Then I went to his seminar, and, well, we didn’t actually speak, we shouted at each other.”

  “And you didn’t kill him?”

  “Of course not! I mean—”

  “I had to ask,” Virgil said, holding up his hands, flashing another smile. “How about other people from Cultural Science? Is there anyone involved with your department that you might think capable of murder? Even if the murder was impulsive, as opposed to planned?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then said, “I suppose you do have to ask.” She turned away, looking out a window at the brick wall of another building, then turned back and said, “Do you know about Clete?”

  “Clete? Was he the guy charged with assault after your speech?”

  “Yes. Clete May. He has what I’d call a machismo thing—sometimes a problem, sometimes not. That can be quite useful when doing cultural research. You know, he’s happy to carry heavy things for us women, pick up the check more often than he has to, possibly defend us in the more misogynistic cultures. That kind of thing. He also has a tendency to lean into our female students and staff.”

  “‘Lean into’? You mean ‘grab’? ‘Pressure’? ‘Assault’?” Virgil asked.

  “No, I meant what I said: lean. He leans into them. He moves into their spaces, whether he’s welcome or not. Somehow, I feel that you might be familiar with the concept.”

  “I would never lean into anyone’s space if I weren’t welcome,” Virgil said.

  “How can you tell without trying?” Green asked.

  “You’d have to be a moron not to know,” Virgil said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. Differing levels of empathy among males. Does it begin in childhood? Is a dominant mother involved?” She made another note, then asked, “Would you consider your mother to hold the dominant role in your kinship group?”

  “Who?”

  “Your nuclear family?”

  “Well, I never thought about it. Now that you ask, no, not especially. We were all pretty equal.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “Did your family group hold any extensive moral attitudes?”

  Virgil shrugged. “My father’s a Lutheran minister. I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday night until I was eighteen.”

  “Interesting,” she said, and she made another note.

  * * *

  —

  Virgil tried to regain control of the interview. “This Clete May. Do you think—”

  “He might be capable of violence, but he’s not a stupid person, a thug, by any means. I know that he’s studied martial arts, but also that he’s deeply interested in Zen Buddhism. He makes friends easily enough, yet I sense a certain . . . calculation . . . in all of it. I’ve heard him talk about fighting—street fighting—but I’m not sure he’s done it, but he sure talks about it. Maybe he gets it from movies, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Virgil said. “You won’t come into it.”

  “I appreciate that,” Green said. “There’s another man, Terry Foster, who served in the military in the Middle East. He’s quite mild-mannered. I’ve never seen anything that would suggest that he could become violent, but I’ve been told that he was wounded in action over there. I’ve never heard him speak about it and I never asked.”

  Virgil noted the names, and Green said he could get contact information from the secretary. He pushed her on her relationship with Quill, and if she was telling the truth, there was nothing there but an academic conflict.

  “Quill was trying to get your department abolished. If that happened, who’d be hurt worst?”

  “Well, me,” she said. “I’m the head of the department. If the university abolished the department, I might be able to move to Anthropology, but it would certainly be a step backwards. Most of the students could probably transfer their credits there, but we have two Ph.D. candidates who’d be badly damaged by such a thing. They are deep into their thesis work and might have to start over.”

  Virgil took their names. They were both women, and Virgil said, “Women are less inclined to this kind of violence. A heavy physical attack. When women kill, it’s usually a last resort to fend off what they see as a life-threatening situation. They use a gun or a knife, but they don’t bludgeon somebody, because they recognize that men are larger and stronger. If they feel desperate and cornered, they go for a real kill, with a real weapon. And they’re often older than student age. Not always, but usually.”

  “Then you think the killer is male?”

  “Oh, probably. Not a sure thing, but probably,” Virgil said. “Women do bludgeon people to death, but it’s usually a child. Usually their own.”

  Green winced, then asked, “Anything else?”

  Virgil shook his head. “No, not at the moment. I might come back to consult with you if anything suggests that one of your students or staff was involved . . .”

  She smiled for the first time, but her smile reminded Virgil of Lucas Davenport’s smile, which could turn predatory and even downright mean. “Do that.”

  * * *

  —

  In the outer office, Virgil got contact information for the people mentioned by Green. He asked the secretary, “The Wilson Library is around here, isn’t it? I went to school here, but it was quite a while ago.”

  “It’s right next door,” she said. “You gonna go look at the murder scene?”

  “I guess,” Virgil said, “since I’m right here.”

  The secretary
dropped her voice. “It was pretty gory. The blood soaked into the floor, and I’m told there’s no way to get the stain out. They’ll probably cover it with carpet, but it’ll be there forever.”

  “That would be a little grim for the next occupant of the room,” Virgil allowed.

  The secretary shivered. “I wouldn’t take it.” She leaned forward in her chair to look down the hall to Green’s office, then sat upright again and asked, quietly, “If I tell you something, would you promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Sure, unless it’s awful and illegal.”

  “It’s not, though some people”—she tilted her head toward Green’s office—“would probably think so. Things are so dangerous in the world now that my husband made me get a carry permit. I have a Sig 938 and a carry purse. If I get attacked, somebody’s gonna get three Speer Gold Dots right in the breadbasket.” She snapped her gum.

  “Be careful,” Virgil said. “Really, really careful.”

  “I am careful,” she said solemnly.

  Virgil moved closer, and asked, “You think Professor Green is clear on this thing, right?”

  “Oh, sure. She likes to create a lot of commotion, but she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Do you think that there are any males—you know, who have attachments to her or fantasies about her—who might be thinking they’re protecting her? By killing Quill?

  “In the department?” She thought for a moment. “People will tell you Clete May, but he’s a big cream puff. No, I can’t think of anybody.”

  * * *

  —

  Virgil left the truck where it was and walked around to the Wilson Library. The director, who looked like a library lady should, with horn-rimmed glasses and a doughy oval face, reacted as Green’s secretary had. “You’re sure you’re a police officer?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to worry about it, so”—Virgil dug Trane’s card out of his ID case and handed it to her—“call Sergeant Trane and ask.”

  “No, no . . .”

  “If you don’t, you’ll worry about it,” Virgil said.

  She called Margaret Trane, identified herself, asked the question, smiled, said, “Yes, he is wearing an Otis Taylor T-shirt. I think he looks quite handsome in it.” She listened some more, then exclaimed, “Shut up! Three times?” She looked at Virgil, reevaluating. “He doesn’t look old enough.”

  When she got off the phone, she led him up a flight of steps to Quill’s carrel, which was on an outer wall, behind deep stacks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The carrel had crime scene tape across the door. Virgil pulled the tape loose and unlocked the door with a key he’d gotten from Trane.

  As he stepped inside, the library lady asked, “You’ve really been married and divorced three times already?”

  “Yes, but I was only fourteen the first time, so nobody expected that one to last,” Virgil said.

  The library lady said, “Oh,” and vanished, and Virgil smothered the impulse to run after her and tell her he was joking. So much for his awkward sense of humor.

  * * *

  —

  The carrel was a small room, narrow, maybe ten feet long. There was indeed the shadow of a stain on the tile floor, no doubt Quill’s blood. Traces of black fingerprint powder were everywhere. He tried to avoid it as best he could. The stuff was like slime mold: it would stick to anything and spread like chicken pox.

  The carrel had a built-in desk, with a shelf above it, and an expensive-looking leather office chair. A half dozen heavy-looking texts rested in the bookcase, all of which looked as though they’d been roughly handled by investigators. A rolled-up yoga mat sat behind the books on the shelf. The silver metal wastebasket was empty.

  The place smelled like . . . nothing. Not smoke, not sweat, not even like the cleaner that would have been used to get rid of the blood. Not much to see, with plenty of room to swing a laptop—if a laptop, in fact, had been used to murder.

  He was about to leave when he noticed the yoga mat again. He reached over the chair, pushed a couple of books aside, and took it down off the shelf. It was a thicker than normal mat made of a soft, nubby light blue plastic. Why would anyone be doing yoga in such a confined space and often enough to bring a mat?

  He thought about that for a moment and flashed back to his junior year: a hasty relationship with a young woman named what? Jean? Under a library table on the third floor, just before closing. Was it Jean? His mind was going, he thought.

  He unrolled the mat on the floor, got down on his knees. As he did, the library lady returned, opened the carrel door, gasped, and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you praying?”

  “No. I’m looking at Dr. Quill’s yoga mat,” Virgil said. “If you could step back, you’re in my light.”

  She stepped back, and he scanned the mat from one end to the other, flipped it over, did the same thing with the back. Halfway down, he stopped, squinted. The library lady was peering over his shoulder. Virgil stood up, stepped back, and said, pointing, “I want you to get down and look right there.” He took a pencil from his pocket, bent over, and laid it on the mat.

  “Well . . .” She got down on her knees anyway, looked where the pencil tip pointed, and after a moment said, “Oh.”

  “You think that’s an eyelash?” Virgil asked.

  “No, I—”

  “Mustache hair?”

  “No, I—”

  “What, then?”

  “I think it might be a . . . You know . . .”

  “Dr. Quill was blond. Do you think his pubic hair would be that color? Dark brown, almost black?”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  “Neither do I,” Virgil said. He got on his phone to Trane. “There’s a yoga mat in Trane’s carrel.”

  “Yes, I saw it,” she said.

  “Did you unroll it?”

  “Yes, just to make sure nothing was rolled up inside. Why?”

  “I unrolled it and found what a pubic hair expert here at the library thinks just might be one. In her preliminary opinion, she doesn’t think it came from Dr. Quill since he’s a blond and this hair is not.”

  “Shit! Shit! We missed it,” Trane said. “I knew you were gonna be trouble, Flowers. I’ll call the lab, see how closely they scanned the mat. If they really missed it, I’ll get somebody over there to collect it.”

  “Okay. Tell the lab guys to bring new crime scene tape. I’ll wait until they get here.”

  “Shit! Shit! Listen, I’m coming, too. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  When Virgil got off the phone, the library lady said, “I’m not a . . . hair . . . expert . . .”

  “I must have misunderstood,” Virgil said.

  * * *

  —

  Virgil left the yoga mat unrolled on the floor, stepped out of the carrel, and closed the door as the library lady hurried away, glancing back over her shoulder only once. As Virgil was picking up the clump of crime scene tape, two uniformed campus cops walked past the far end of the book stacks, hesitated when they saw Virgil at the carrel door with the tangle of tape. They walked over, and the older one asked, “What were you doing here, sir?”

  Virgil said, “I’m with the BCA. I’m working with Margaret Trane on the murder of Dr. Quill.”

  He slipped his ID out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the ranking cop, a sergeant. The cop glanced at it and handed it back. “Figure out anything?”

  “Couple of things. Like, maybe I ought to be wearing a shirt and tie. Nobody seems to believe I’m a cop. Anyway, Margaret’s on her way over right now, to take another look at the carrel.”

  “Kinda stuck?”

  “Ah, we’ll get there,” Virgil said. “What’s up with you guys? Anything to do with Quill?”

  “Nah. You know the Andersen Library, across the street?” the sergeant asked.

  “The
y were building it when I was a student here. I was never inside.”

  “Well, it’s where they keep the rare book collections and other valuable stuff. Most of it’s underground. Anyway, they’re missing maps. At least several. They’re doing an inventory now, but there are a hell of a lot of maps. We were looking at the cleaning staff because they’ve got keys to most things and could probably get keys to everything if they set their minds to it. One of the janitors told us he thought he saw a woman over there, well after hours, who actually works over here. She used to work over there. She denies it, said she never goes over there anymore except during the day. She does know the janitor by sight. She says she sees him over here, late in the day, out back. She says he’s toking up before he goes to work. So, you know, stoned, confused, familiar with her face . . .”

  He shrugged.

  Virgil asked, “How much are the maps worth?”

  “Several thousand dollars each, maybe more . . . The library hasn’t tried to market them, so they don’t know for sure. The thing is, the missing ones are all old European maps and would probably get the biggest bucks if they were sold in Germany or France. And if they’re sold there, through a private dealer, we’d never hear about it.”

  “The woman here . . . What’s her name?”

  “Genevieve O’Hara. First name is pronounced the French way: Jzhan-vee-EHV.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, the janitor wasn’t sure that it was her he saw. If he was stoned . . . and knew her face . . . that’s a problem. Whoever took the maps knew what they were doing—they’re valuable, but not the most valuable; they weren’t often referenced; and they’re not so uncommon that their sale would get special attention. So there’s all that.”

  “Huh. Is this woman French?”

  “No. Not Irish, either. Born right here in Minnesota.”