…A Dangerous Thing (28 page)

"You pretty much know the rest, I suspect," Holt said to Burns.
 
"I did well in school, stayed out of the limelight as much as possible, never went to any meetings.
 
Things were fine until I came here."

There was only a slight accusatory tone to the latter remark, and Burns chose to overlook it.
 
He wanted to know more about Holt's relationship with "Gwen," but he thought better of asking about it.

"Are you ready to come out of hiding now?" he asked.

Holt grinned wryly behind his beard.
 
"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Yeah, you do," Tomlin said.
 
"You can go to jail for the murder of Tom Henderson."

Holt stiffened, and Dean Partridge looked outraged.

"I hope you don't think I had anything to do with that," Holt said.

"Well, we do," Tomlin said.
 
"Henderson knew all about you, and you offed him."

"'Offed him'?" Holt said.

"Yeah.
 
Don't tell me you don't understand hippie talk."

Holt grinned.
 
"I understand, all right, but I didn't 'off' anyone.
 
I was in Gwen's office when it happened."

"That's right," Dean Partridge said.
 
"We were talking about Tom Henderson."

"What about him?" Burns asked.

"About what he knew," Holt said.
 
"I was surprised to run into anyone from San Diego State in a place like this, but there he was.
 
It took him a while to make the connection, but he remembered me."

Burns rubbed his grease-painted cheek.
 
"Did he show you his yearbook?"

"Yes.
 
Have you seen it?"

"I have it in my office.
 
That's how I got onto you."

"Oh.
 
Well, anyway, that's what we were talking about.
 
I told Gwen that Henderson was onto me, and we were trying to decide what to do about it."

Tomlin was interested in that point.
 
"So what did you decide?"

"We decided that I'd been in hiding long enough.
 
There was no need to let Henderson go to the police.
 
It was time for me to come out of hiding.
 
You can't imagine what it's been like all these years, never telling anyone who I really am, never being able to talk to anyone, to trust anyone.
 
I think that even if Henderson hadn't found me out, I would have cracked within the year."

"What about
Gwe
—uh, Dean Partridge?" Burns said.
 
"You seem to be able to talk to her."

"We've corresponded over the years," Dean Partridge said.
 
There was nothing in her voice to indicate that the correspondence was anything but that between two friends.
 
"But sparingly.
 
We thought this would finally be our chance to get together.
 
And you can see how it's worked out."

"Not very well," Holt said.
 
"Or maybe it has.
 
One way or another I'll be free of the past now."

"But you were still interested in seeing the yearbook," Burns said.
 
"You came to Henderson's office when I was searching it."

"Was that you?" Holt said.
 
"I didn't know.
 
I thought maybe it was the police.
 
You scared me half to death.
 
I never ran so fast in my life."

"I fell down the stairs," Burns said.
 
He didn't mention his tailbone, which was still throbbing.

Tomlin was obviously disappointed in what he'd heard.
 
"OK, you went to look for the yearbook.
 
But you say you didn't kill Henderson?"

"That's right."

"Damn," Tomlin said.
 
"If you didn't, who did?"

Holt said, "I wish I could help you, but I don't have any idea."

"And neither do I," said Dean Partridge.
 
"But I wish you'd find out, Dr. Burns."

"I'll try," he said.

S
aying that she wanted to spare Billy any further trauma, Dean Partridge let Burns and Tomlin out the front door.
 
Burns didn't much care about any possible trauma he might cause Billy, but he didn't want even to think about what another encounter might do for his aching tailbone.

As they walked through the den, Burns saw something sitting on the a wooden game table.
 
He detoured over to look at it more closely.

"What's this?" he said, looking down.

"It's a fort made of Lincoln Logs," Dean Partridge said.
 
"I collect things like that."

"And those little cavalrymen?"

"They're very authentic.
 
I bought them from a man who makes his own molds.
 
You can't get them in stores."

"Very nice," Burns said.

"Are you a collector, Dr. Burns?"

Burns didn't hear the dean's question.
 
He was thinking.

"Dr. Burns?
 
I asked if you were a collector."

"Oh," he said.
 
"No.
 
No I'm not.
 
But that's a very nice fort, and those are wonderful soldiers.
 
Such nice detail."

The dean smiled.
 
"Thank you.
 
I have others if you'd like to see them."

"Some other time," Burns said, and he and Tomlin walked on to the door.

When they were outside, Tomlin asked, "What was that all about?"

"Never mind," Burns said, but he was smiling.

W
hen they were back in
Burns's
car, Tomlin lit up a Merit and took a deep drag.

"You know," he said, letting the smoke trickle out his mouth, "they may not be guilty of murder, but they're sure hypocrites."

"What do you mean?" Burns asked.

"All that political correctness crap we've been getting memos about.
 
Did you see a single ashtray in the dean's house?"

Burns had to admit that he hadn't.

"Right.
 
No smoking, just like at the school.
 
Now if that's not discrimination, what is it?"

Burns didn't have a satisfactory answer.

"Of course you don't," Tomlin said.
 
"They can drive us smokers underground, just like they claim Holt was driven underground, but that's just fine.
 
Their freedoms are important, but ours aren't.
 
I say it's hypocritical."

Burns thought Tomlin should get together with Boss Napier for a discussion of cultural Nazism.
 
He said, "You may be right, but that's sort of beside the point."

Tomlin agreed.
 
"Yeah.
 
Do you think Holt's really going to turn himself in?"

"Yes.
 
Don't you?"

"I guess he has to.
 
If he doesn't, we will.
 
Won't we?"

"Yes," Burns said.
 
"We will."

Tomlin flicked ashes out the window.
 
"The thing is, that won't get me off the hook with Napier, will it?"

"Probably not," Burns told him.

Tomlin sighed.
 
"That's what I was afraid of."

B
urns didn't sleep well at all that night.

Part of it was the pain in his tailbone, but that went away after he took a couple of aspirins.
 
What wouldn't go away were his thoughts about Tom Henderson's murder.

Burns was convinced that Holt had nothing to do with it.
 
His alibi was solid; Dean Partridge—Gwen—wasn't lying about her meeting with Holt in her office.

And Burns didn't really think that Kristi Albert would have killed Henderson because of the harassment she'd suffered.
 
She was a typical student, more interested in her grade than anything else.
 
There was nothing particularly admirable in her attitude; in fact, she had been ready to blackmail Henderson, which wasn't to say he didn't deserve it.
 
But at the last moment she hadn't gone through with it.
 
Or so she said, and Burns believed her.

That left Walt
Melling
.
 
Burns was sure that
Melling
had lied about one thing.
 
He'd denied hitting Henderson, but the bruises on Henderson's face indicated that someone had struck him before his death.
 
And Burns believed that someone was Walt
Melling
.
 
He had the temper for it, and the fists.

While Burns hated to believe that
Melling
was a killer, there wasn't anyone else left on his list of suspects.
 
That might not be a good reason for confronting
Melling
, but Burns had to do something.
 
President Miller expected results by Monday, and Napier was pushing hard on Mal Tomlin.
 
If Burns didn't find the killer, both Tomlin and Miller were going to be very disappointed.

Burns finally went to sleep wondering how to approach Melling.
 
He dreamed of being stiff-armed all night long.

B
urns took Elaine to lunch on Sunday, not just because he wanted to see her but because he wanted to ask her advice.
 
He went over the whole case with her, filling her in on everything he knew or guessed.
 
She was fascinated by the story of Eric Holt.

"It's hard to believe that he could hide for so long," she said.

They were at the China Inn, and Elaine was daintily eating egg drop soup.
 
Burns had won-ton, and while he wasn't as dainty as Elaine, he was trying not to slurp.

"It wasn't so hard," he said.
 
"The beard really changed his appearance, covered the weak chin and changed the whole shape of his face.
 
After he graduated, he avoided going to meetings where he might run into anyone who knew him as Henry
Mitchum
and spent all his time at a little backwater school where it was highly unlikely he'd meet any of his friends from the old days.
 
Of course he couldn't resist sending out his articles, but as long as no one met him or circulated his picture, he didn't have much to worry about."

"Still, to be a fugitive all that time. . . ."

"He was tired of it, for sure.
 
He's going to talk to Napier tomorrow and give himself up.
 
It'll look good on Napier's record when he turns up someone who's been on the wanted lists for so long."

"But that still doesn't solve the murder, does it?" Elaine said.

Burns was about to agree when their waiter arrived with the main course, kung
pao
chicken for Burns, lemon chicken for Elaine.
 
Better make that
server
rather than
waiter
, Burns thought, though he wasn't sure why
server
was any better than
waiter
unless it was the fact that there had never been a
serveress
.

The server was a young man who had taken one of
Burns's
English classes.
 
It always seemed a little incongruous to Burns when a person who on Friday came to class wearing old jeans, worn boots, and a ten-gallon hat turned up on Sunday serving Chinese food.
 
Stereotyping again, Burns told himself.
 
He had to do better.

When the server was gone, Burns said, "No, it doesn't solve the murder.
 
That's what I wanted to ask you about."

While they ate, he went over his list of suspects with Elaine.
 
They agreed that Holt could be eliminated, and they both thought that Kristi Albert wasn't a likely candidate.

"So that leaves Walt
Melling
," Burns said.
 
"He has a real temper, no doubt about it.
 
I've seen it in action.
 
I suppose I should talk to him next."

"He said he was in his office, working on expense sheets?"

"Yes, and Dawn said he brought them home to work on them afterward.
 
That seems a little cold-blooded to me, but then he didn't like Henderson.
 
And maybe he killed him."

"And you want me to go with you when you talk to him," Elaine said.

Burns pushed away the remains of his kung
pao
chicken.
 
"That's right.
 
There shouldn't be any danger.
 
I don't think he'll try anything if you're along."