display.
Display and no display.
He turned to the right and duplicated his actions. His hand did not slip.
He’s left-handed.
It was a beginning.
He sat on the sofa, held his orange in his right hand, and peeled it with his left. A leisurely set of kills, a frenzy of butchery, an unhurried repast.
As usual, I had more questions than answers.
I opened my eyes and scribbled another note to Jaworski: Did the crime scene technicians find any trace of Susan’s or Kelly’s blood with Jaycie’s blood?
Then I stared again at the rain. “Why a fucking orange?” I muttered.
The narrow white box that contained my students’ gift of scrimshaw rested on the table beside me. As I reachedfor the piece of whalebone, the telephone rang. I glared at it. I have no tolerance for being summoned by an insistent whine that intrudes in my space whenever somebody has a whim and nothing better to do.
I grabbed the insidious blue plastic device. “What?”
Stu Gilman was my electronic interloper. It figured.
“This whole thing is so unbelievable,” he said. “Just terrible. I came back from Portland Friday night to help with calls from parents and the media. This is just like that business in Gainesville, Florida, several years ago. We’ve got national TV camped at the bottom of the drive. We’re not allowing them on campus. Listen, I called for a couple of reasons. I know you’re working with the police on this. The chief called the college to find out where you’re staying. You probably can’t discuss the murders in any detail, but are you making progress?”
“I can’t discuss the case at all, Stu,” I said, imagining Gilman’s head nodding, his eye twitching. “If you’re concerned about a press release, just say the usual for now: You have confidence in the local and state police.”
“That’s what I’ve written here,” he said. “We’re working closely with the authorities. It doesn’t seem adequate. Is it okay if I say that you’re working on the case?”
“No,” I told him.
“I thought that might reassure people.”
What was this guy thinking? I have never known of anyone who found it encouraging when cops turn for help to the sort of shrink that people view as a 900 phone call away at the psychic hotline.
“It would hurt more than help, Stu,” I said. “Keep it general for now. What else did you want?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, you’re probably busy. We’re having a memorial service for the three girls Tuesday morning. It’llbe in the old chapel. We’re going to have the regular afternoon schedule. I considered clearing the day, but decided to try and get things back to normal as soon as possible.”
Gilman hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “Jaworski told me that he’d have officers stationed around the chapel. He said it was routine. Is that true?”
“Standard procedure, Stu.”
“Huh. The college hasn’t had police on campus since the sixties. I’m not comfortable with that.”
I hung up and wondered again about Stuart Gilman. What were the president and her four deans doing while Gilman managed the college? His were administrative concerns. Why did it bother him to have police on campus? They were investigating a triple murder, not infringing on anyone’s civil rights.
AFTER THE PHONE CALL FROM GILMAN, I DROVE INTO town and dropped off my list of preliminary questions and suggestions with Herb Jaworski’s dispatcher. I came back home and heated a can of soup for dinner—something I often resort to on Sundays. I had just finished eating and was washing my few dishes when the chief arrived.
“Sorry to drip all over your floor,” he said.
I eyed him and grinned. “You look like you crawled out of the surf. Where’s your Mrs. Paul’s logo?”
“Rainin’ like hell out there.”
He slipped out of his raincoat, settled his bulk into a chair, and popped a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth. “Chewin’ gum hurts my jaw,” he said, “but it keeps me from
Display and no display.
He turned to the right and duplicated his actions. His hand did not slip.
He’s left-handed.
It was a beginning.
He sat on the sofa, held his orange in his right hand, and peeled it with his left. A leisurely set of kills, a frenzy of butchery, an unhurried repast.
As usual, I had more questions than answers.
I opened my eyes and scribbled another note to Jaworski: Did the crime scene technicians find any trace of Susan’s or Kelly’s blood with Jaycie’s blood?
Then I stared again at the rain. “Why a fucking orange?” I muttered.
The narrow white box that contained my students’ gift of scrimshaw rested on the table beside me. As I reachedfor the piece of whalebone, the telephone rang. I glared at it. I have no tolerance for being summoned by an insistent whine that intrudes in my space whenever somebody has a whim and nothing better to do.
I grabbed the insidious blue plastic device. “What?”
Stu Gilman was my electronic interloper. It figured.
“This whole thing is so unbelievable,” he said. “Just terrible. I came back from Portland Friday night to help with calls from parents and the media. This is just like that business in Gainesville, Florida, several years ago. We’ve got national TV camped at the bottom of the drive. We’re not allowing them on campus. Listen, I called for a couple of reasons. I know you’re working with the police on this. The chief called the college to find out where you’re staying. You probably can’t discuss the murders in any detail, but are you making progress?”
“I can’t discuss the case at all, Stu,” I said, imagining Gilman’s head nodding, his eye twitching. “If you’re concerned about a press release, just say the usual for now: You have confidence in the local and state police.”
“That’s what I’ve written here,” he said. “We’re working closely with the authorities. It doesn’t seem adequate. Is it okay if I say that you’re working on the case?”
“No,” I told him.
“I thought that might reassure people.”
What was this guy thinking? I have never known of anyone who found it encouraging when cops turn for help to the sort of shrink that people view as a 900 phone call away at the psychic hotline.
“It would hurt more than help, Stu,” I said. “Keep it general for now. What else did you want?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, you’re probably busy. We’re having a memorial service for the three girls Tuesday morning. It’llbe in the old chapel. We’re going to have the regular afternoon schedule. I considered clearing the day, but decided to try and get things back to normal as soon as possible.”
Gilman hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “Jaworski told me that he’d have officers stationed around the chapel. He said it was routine. Is that true?”
“Standard procedure, Stu.”
“Huh. The college hasn’t had police on campus since the sixties. I’m not comfortable with that.”
I hung up and wondered again about Stuart Gilman. What were the president and her four deans doing while Gilman managed the college? His were administrative concerns. Why did it bother him to have police on campus? They were investigating a triple murder, not infringing on anyone’s civil rights.
AFTER THE PHONE CALL FROM GILMAN, I DROVE INTO town and dropped off my list of preliminary questions and suggestions with Herb Jaworski’s dispatcher. I came back home and heated a can of soup for dinner—something I often resort to on Sundays. I had just finished eating and was washing my few dishes when the chief arrived.
“Sorry to drip all over your floor,” he said.
I eyed him and grinned. “You look like you crawled out of the surf. Where’s your Mrs. Paul’s logo?”
“Rainin’ like hell out there.”
He slipped out of his raincoat, settled his bulk into a chair, and popped a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth. “Chewin’ gum hurts my jaw,” he said, “but it keeps me from
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