…A Dangerous Thing (29 page)

The waiter came to take their plates away, leaving the check and two fortune cookies on a saucer.

"Don't you think R. M. would be better?" Elaine asked.

"I don't want to bring him into it yet.
 
Not until I'm sure I have something.
 
I was thinking that maybe we could trick Walt into admitting something."

"What if he doesn't have anything to admit?"

"He has to have something," Burns said.
 
"Who else is there?"

Elaine reached toward the saucer with the fortune cookies.
 
"Maybe we'll find an answer in these."

She picked up a cookie and broke it open, then pulled out the fortune and read it.
 
"'The wise man knows himself.'
 
Is that Chinese?"

Burns didn't know.
 
"Not specifically.
 
It could be from any culture.
 
The ancient Greeks believed it.
 
So did Shakespeare.
 
'To
thine
own self be true.'
 
Hamlet
.
 
And then there's Ralph Waldo Emerson.
 
'Trust thyself.
 
Every heart vibrates to—'"

Elaine smiled.
 
"I should have known not to ask an English teacher anything.
 
What does yours say?"

Burns read it.
 
"'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'"

"Don't tell me," Elaine said.
 
"I know that one.
 
Alexander Pope?"

"Sort of," Burns said.
 
"It's a misquotation, though.
 
Pope said, 'A little
learning
is a dangerous thing.
 
And he qualified it by saying—'"

Elaine held up her hand.
 
"Never mind.
 
I get the idea.
 
Misquotations,
Hamlet
, you English teachers are always on the job."

"You sound a little like Boss Napier," Burns said.

"I wish you hadn't said that," Elaine told him.

"I won't say it again," Burns assured her, wondering why misquotations of Shakespeare and
Hamlet
were bouncing around in the back of his head as if they had something to do with the murder of Tom Henderson.

He thought about it as he paid the check, but he couldn't make any sense of it.
 
Maybe it would come to him later.
 
Now it was time to see if Walt Melling was at home.

D
awn
Melling
came to the door.
 
She was wearing a baggy black sweatshirt and jeans that were neither black nor baggy.
 
Burns tried not to stare.

"Hello Dr. Burns," Dawn said.
 
"And Ms. Tanner.
 
What can I do for you?"

"We wanted to talk to Walt," Burns said.
 
"Is he home?"

"He's in the den, watching some old fishing show," Dawn said.
 
"Come on in."

They followed her into the den, where Walt was sitting on a couch that had a yellow afghan thrown across the back.
 
He didn't look at them when they entered the room.
 
He kept his eyes on the television set, where a man in a gimme cap was standing in the bow of a boat and casting a lure into a lake full of rotting tree stumps.

"Walt," Dawn said.
 
"It's Dr. Burns and Ms. Tanner."

Walt still didn't look at them.
 
It was as if he were mesmerized by the fishing show, where now a large bass was jumping out of the water on the end of the excited host's line.

"Walt," Dawn said.
 
"Honey.
 
There's someone here to see you."

Walt deigned to look away from the TV set as the fisherman knelt down, reached into the water and grabbed the bass by the lip.

"What do you want?" Walt asked.

"Just to talk," Burns said.

"I've talked to you all I'm going to talk."
 
Melling
turned back to his program.

"Walt!" Dawn said.
 
"You know that's no way to behave."

"Why don't you and I go somewhere else and visit," Elaine said.
 
"We'll let Carl talk to your husband."

"No," Burns said.
 
"I think she should be here."

Melling
reached for a remote control and turned off the television set.
 
Then he stood up and turned to Burns.

"I think you should be leaving," he said.
 
His face was getting red.

"Not until you talk to me," Burns said, hoping that
Melling
wasn't going to hit him.

"Look,"
Melling
began.
 
"I don't have any intention—"

"Wait," Elaine said.
 
"There's no need for you to be defensive, Mr.
Melling
.
 
All Carl wants to do is ask you a few questions."

"That's right, Walt.
 
Why are you so upset?" Dawn asked.

"Because he thinks I killed that idiot Tom Henderson,"
Melling
told her.
 
"And he's going to try to trick me into saying that I did."

"But you didn't," Dawn said.
 
"You told me that you didn't have anything to do with it."

"You hit him, though," Burns said.
 
"Didn't you, Walt?"

Walt's head snapped around.
 
"Damn right I hit him.
 
And I'd do it again.
 
But I didn't kill him."

Well, that trick had worked.
 
Catch the guy off guard and ask him a quick question that he's not expecting.
 
Maybe he'll spit out an answer.

"Why did you lie to me earlier?" Burns asked.

Melling
slammed a fist into the afghan on the back of the couch.
 
The crocheted coverlet bounced up and settled back down.

 
"Because you think I killed that little geek," Walt said.
 
"And I didn't.
 
I can prove it."

"How?" Burns asked.

"I told you the other day.
 
Someone went into Henderson's office after I did."

"You didn't say who that was," Burns pointed out.

"Because I don't know.
 
But we can find out if we have to.
 
I can find her picture in the yearbook and then we can ask her."

"I've already found her and talked to her."

Melling
looked a little surprised.
 
"Well, then.
 
Now you know the truth."

"She says she doesn't remember seeing you."

"Then she's lying."

"I don't think so."

"She has to be.
 
No wonder.
 
She's probably the one who killed him."

"I don't believe that, either," Burns said.

Melling's
face was getting redder and redder.
 
He was getting ready to hit something again, and Burns was afraid that it wouldn't be the afghan this time.

"Calm down, honey," Dawn said.
 
"You look like you're going to have a heart infraction."

Burns didn't ask what that might be, and he agreed that
Melling
needed to calm down.

"She's right," Burns said.
 
"If you're innocent, there's no need for you to act like this."

Melling
took a deep, ragged breath and unclenched his fists.
 
Then he sat down on the couch.
 
Burns walked over and stood between him and the TV set.

"Look,"
Melling
said.
 
"If I killed Henderson, why did I tell you about that student?
 
If I'd killed him, and if she'd gone into his office, she'd know what happened.
 
She could convict me easily.
 
If I'd killed anyone, I would never have mentioned her."

"That's a point in your favor," Burns said.
 
"But she didn't go into his office."

"How do you know that?"

"She told me."

"Maybe she's lying.
 
Like I said, she's probably the one who killed him."

It was possible, maybe, but Burns didn't believe it.
 
Still,
Melling
had a point.
 
If he had killed Henderson, he wouldn't have mentioned Kristi.
 
He didn't seem to know that she hadn't gone into Henderson's office.

"I just don't understand this," Dawn said.
 
"I just don't understand it at all."

Burns didn't understand it either.
 
It was beginning to look as if none of his suspects was guilty.
 
And that just wasn't possible.
 
Someone
had murdered Tom Henderson.
 
At least that was what Boss Napier thought, and he had convinced Burns that was the case.

"Maybe I should put on some music," Dawn said.
 
"That might present a better atmosphere."

Burns wasn't sure how music could present an atmosphere, but something clicked in his brain.

"Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," he said, though Dawn had said
breasts
when he'd talked to her earlier.

"That's so true," Dawn said, moving toward the CD player atop the TV set.

But Burns wasn't interested in the truth or falsity of the quotation.
 
He was interested in the circumstances in which he'd last been reminded of it.
 
A lot of connections were being made in his head.

"Wait a minute, Dawn," he said.
 
"Do you remember that day in your office when we were talking about the time Tom Henderson said something . . . inappropriate to you?"

Dawn blushed glanced sideways at Walt.
 
"Yes," she whispered.
 
"I remember that."

"Good.
 
When I said something about Walt's knowing what Henderson had done, you asked me a question.
 
You said, 'Did you tell Walt?'
 
Remember?"

Dawn screwed up her face in thought.
 
"I guess I remember that.
 
Why?"

"Because I thought
you
told him."

"Well, I didn't."
 
Dawn looked more directly at her husband, who seemed to have no idea what was going on.
 
"I know how he gets when he's mad.
 
I would never tell him about a thing like that.
 
There's just no telling what he might do."

"Great, Dawn,"
Melling
said.
 
"Now Burns will be
really
convinced that I killed the little twerp."

"No," Burns said.
 
"I'm not convinced of that at all.
 
But I think I might know who did kill him.
 
The person who told you about what he said to Dawn."

"And who would that be?" Elaine asked.

"I don't know," Dawn said.
 
"But I know
I
didn't."

"And neither did I," Burns said.
 
"So that means someone else told him.
 
Tell us who it was, Walt."

And Walt did.

"I
should have known," Burns said.
 
"I can't believe I didn't figure it out."

"Don't blame yourself," Elaine said.
 
"Besides, you could be wrong."

"I don't think so.
 
I've been wrong all along, but this time I'm right."
 

Burns drove past the HGC library, turned into the drive, and pulled behind the building to the front of the boiler room.
 
The door was open, and Burns could see Dirty Harry tipped back in his chair, his feet propped against the wall.
 

"I'm going to talk to him for a second," Burns said.
 
"You wait here."

The old watchman was probably sound asleep, but that just made him all the more dangerous.
 
If he were awakened suddenly, he might draw his pistol and pull the trigger before he knew what he was doing.

"Don't surprise him," Elaine said.

"I'll try not to," Burns told her, slamming the Plymouth door as hard as he could.

The noise echoed throughout the boiler room, and Dirty Harry sat upright, the legs of his chair banging on the floor.
 
He looked around wildly, as if half-convinced that the boiler had exploded and sent him to heaven.
 
Just in case it hadn't and that there was some other threat to his life, his hand scrabbled for the butt of his pistol.