Deception (27 page)

It’s hard to know what to say to such a statement.

“A rather Thomistic assumption, don’t you think?” Hedstrom said. “He was too eclectic and in many respects Hegelian.”

“I know that name. Pro bowler or NASCAR driver?”

He produced an unfriendly chuckle. “How quickly we make light of what we don’t understand.”

“That was a Wolfian assumption,” I said.

“Thomas Wolf?”

“Nero Wolfe.”

The professor grinned, but the grin started at his teeth. My inner child, wishing to correct this, considered whether to raise his lower teeth or drop his lower lip. I chose to resist the instinct to give him, as the old philosophers might have put it, a knuckle sandwich.

The verbal sparring continued: He tested me by using bigger words and more abstract concepts, citing names of sociologists and philosophers. I tested him by dropping the names Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, Lew Archer, and Jack Bauer. Before long we each knew the other was a moron.

“Anything unusual you can tell me about Professor Palatine?”

“Unusual?”

“I didn’t make the word up. It means different or remarkable.”

His head shook slowly, as if someone else were doing it for him. It was then that I noticed a little wooden mount on his desk, which contained a small ink bottle and a dark blue fountain pen.

“As the academic dean, sorry provost, you’ve probably heard your share of gripes about teachers, right? I’m looking for people who disliked Dr. Palatine. Any complaints lodged against him?”

I learned years ago never to take my eyes off someone’s face when I ask a question or when they’re answering. At the sound of one particular word, maybe a name or place, there’s a facial twitch, smile, frown, smirk, a flash of anger in the eyes, a look of fear or discomfort. That look may disappear in a heartbeat. Miss it, you miss everything. I’d just seen something in Hedstrom.

It took him time to find his tongue. Soon after he did, I wished he hadn’t. He jabbered ten minutes without saying anything. He spoke Sominex, wrapping it up with: “One would, indeed, have to have had a long history in academics to appreciate the high standards we have rigorously met over the decades. We are absolutely aware, if I may put it that way, of our responsibility to maintain the highest standards of academic achievement and with that to provide an example of personal and contextual fidelity to certain established ethical norms, as recognized by and indeed fostered by the larger university. We must operate consistently within our own consensus of mutually acceptable norms. Inevitably certain concerns are raised, but we cannot assume these to be authentic. We have a responsibility to our faculty, our students, and, yes, to our constituency. We make no pretense of perfection, but we maintain the highest standards of humanistic ideals, as it were. Do you follow my meaning?”

“Indeed,” I said. “Actually, I may possibly, to put it that way, have missed your meaning, so to speak. If there was one, as it were.”

He stared impassively, but I saw fire in his eyes, and I was glad to have lit it.

“This university,” Hedstrom continued, “must operate by our own consistent standards which may be beyond your grasp. I am not certain you comprehend either the intricacies or, shall we say, the delicacies incumbent upon one entrusted with the position that the stewards of this academic community have seen fit to bestow upon myself.”

“That sounds like a Plutonian approach.”

“Do you mean Platonic?”

“No. Plato was a philosopher. Pluto was a dog in the Disney cartoons. Smaller than Mickey Mouse, but he’s a dog … go figure. You may be more familiar with Goofy, who reminds me of some of your statements.”

He looked at me through half-closed eyes, trying to appear above it all. He wasn’t. The fire in his eyes was raging now. All the better, as I hoped it would cause him to say whatever he was holding back.

“Where were you the night of November 20, between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and midnight?”

“See here. I have been academic provost of this university for fifteen years, am a graduate of Dartmouth, and have been honored by the American Society of College Professors.”

“You must be proud of yourself. Where were you the night of November 20?”

“I wouldn’t know. That was last month.”

“Sixteen days ago. Care to guess?”

His head shook again, the same way, as if pulled by strings.

“In the Ivy League you had to use the little gray cells occasionally, didn’t you? Summon up that genius that got you through Dartmouth. Check a calendar; then tell me what you were doing two weeks ago Wednesday night.”

For the next fifteen minutes I tried to shake him empty, like a bag of peanuts. But he was a lot to shake, and I had little to show for it. He wasn’t telling me what I needed to hear. Feeling I’d lost a battle, I decided to leave him with something to ponder.

“Our discussion raises a question, something you can ask your students. If Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, and the world of Disney should operate by its own consistent standards, then how come Goofy stands on two legs and Pluto on all four? And why is Pluto’s nose on the ground, while yours is up your—” I pointed to his doctoral certificate in its golden frame. “A doctoral thesis has probably already been written on the Pluto/Goofy conundrum, but if not, you should tackle it.”

“What did you say your name was, Detective?” Hedstrom picked up his fountain pen, dipped it, then rested its point on fancy stationery.

“Cimmatoni, two
m’
s. Bryce Cimmatoni.”

He wrote it down.

It was getting dark, so I boarded a TriMet bus to get me back to the parking garage. As I drove home, I kept rolling Hedstrom over my investigative tongue. I didn’t like the aftertaste.

I considered changing my policy and conducting interviews unarmed. One of these times I was going to lose it. Pistol-whipping a professor does not look good on one’s résumé when you’re trying to get your next job as security cop at Toys “R” Us.

Maybe you wonder if I regret not having punched the academic provost in his piehole. The truth is, I
do
regret it. I wish now I would have.

Because if I had, he might not have stayed late at his office. And if he’d gone home early and his wife had nursed his aching jaw, fixed him chicken soup, and fed him Rocky Road ice cream, maybe he wouldn’t have taken Polo, his Yorkshire terrier, out for a 9:30 p.m. walk in Montavilla Park.

And if he hadn’t done that, maybe at 9:46 p.m. he wouldn’t have been shot to death.

23

“She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
A S
CANDAL IN
B
OHEMIA

S
ATURDAY
, D
ECEMBER
7, 9:15
A.M
.

“WHY WOULD SOMEONE KILL
Dr. Hedstrom?” Clarence asked.

“His wallet was stolen. Looks like a mugging.”

“You believe that?”

“Not for a second,” I said. “The killer thought Hedstrom knew something. You attended university. What would an academic dean know about professors?”

“He’d know the complaints filed against them.”

“I need to see those complaints.”

Hedstrom’s murder investigation fell to Chris Doyle and Kim Suda. Obviously, they’d be consulting me since I was one of the last to see him alive. I left them a message that I’d be spending most of my Saturday at the precinct. They dropped in around 11:00 a.m. Doyle’s lazy eyelids reminded me of a frog.

“Okay, that’s it,” he said, after five minutes.

“That’s what? You asked me three questions.”

“Lots of people to talk with.”

“You’ll be getting back to me?”

“We know where you work.”

“I’ll give you my notes from the Hedstrom interview.”

“If we want them, we’ll ask.” Doyle smirked at Suda. They seemed to be enjoying an inside joke.

“I need to search Hedstrom’s files to see what he had on Palatine.”

“Don’t think you can do that,” Doyle said, setting his meaty chin.

“Why not?”

“His records are part of our case. You handle yours, we’ll handle ours.”

“The cases are related.”

“You don’t know that. You’re the one who’s been saying the killer’s a detective. People are wondering if it’s you.”

“Who’s wondering that?”

“It’s our case. We don’t want any tampering.”

“And nothing picked up and removed from the crime scene,” Suda said. “Like gum wrappers, for instance.” She eyeballed me.

Pretending to ignore her comment and wondering who’d talked to her, I said, “Find out what complaints are on file against William Palatine. It’s vital to my case.”

“You’re on a fishing expedition,” Doyle said. “Outrageous speculations are your style.”

“Is it just me, Chris, or did you have a second bowl of stupid for breakfast?”

He glared.

“Really, what’s your theory?” I asked. “Why’d Hedstrom get killed?”

“Robbery that went south. Doubt they meant to kill him.”

“A shot to the head wasn’t meant to kill? Somebody could’ve watched and studied, then laid in wait. Is taking his dog out for a late walk a habit? After a nine o’clock program’s over?”

“Oh, is that how detectives do it? We talked with Hedstrom’s secretary. She said you picked a fight with him. The guy who picks a fight shortly before someone’s murdered is a suspect.”

“Hedstrom was arrogant and irritating, but I can handle that. I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

“One other question, Chandler,” Doyle said. “Where were you between 9:30 and 10:00 last night?”

“You’re wearin’ cheese underwear, Doyle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, goofball?”

I turned my back on him. I needed to create distance between my fists and his face.

I came home early and found the television on. I pulled my gun, but I wasn’t that concerned since when I leave the remote on the couch Mulch sometimes sits on the power button. Sure enough, he was watching the Fighting Irish at Nebraska.

Mulch had raided the garbage can under the kitchen sink. I’d forgotten to stretch the little bungee cord across the knobs. I gave him a stern look and threatened to reduce his bacon ration, but when I saw his face pucker up, I took it back.

I hadn’t fixed Mulch a home-cooked meal for a while, so I took out the George Foreman grill and treated us to Hillshire Farm sausages. I had Koch’s horseradish and Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce and a pan of Brussels sprouts for Mulch. He loves those puppies when the butter’s meltin’ all over them. It’s one of the few health foods Sharon introduced us to that stuck.

The kitchen phone rang. While I was looking at the phone waiting for the message, Mulch, seeing I was distracted, went for the plate. Sausages fell to the ground. I quickly crouched to put my body between Mulch and the sausages. Just then the room exploded.

Glass flew everywhere, and I didn’t know what hit my left shoulder, buckshot or window pieces. It sounded like a shotgun at close range. I wasn’t aware of feeling anything until I looked at my gray Mariners sweatshirt, with three holes in it, inches apart. My right hand reached above me to the King Cobra revolver, duct-taped beneath the kitchen table. I yanked it off, slowly opened the back door, and peeked out. Mulch rushed out, growled ferociously, and raced the intruder to the swinging gate. I heard him yelp when it slammed into his face.

Our neighbor, Mr. Obrist, looked over his fence.

“What’s going on now? A bomb?”

“Uh, no, it was just an … incident. Somebody paid me a visit.”

“Who?”

“My wife’s sister, maybe? Not much damage. Some glass to sweep up.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“No big deal … I just.” I looked at my sweatshirt. I could swear it had been gray. I didn’t remember having a red sweatshirt. It’s the last thing I recall, except my gun slipping from my fingers.

This time no wrangling with the EMTs about whether to go to the hospital. Unconscious men who’ve lost a quart of blood aren’t in a position to wrangle.

Next thing I knew I was hearing electronic noises and looking up at Jake and Clarence. Jake handed me a cup of ice.

“You guys keep showing up when I have an incident.”

“Incident?” Clarence said. “You were nearly killed.”

“Mulch okay?”

“He wasn’t hit,” Jake said, “but he’s concerned about you. Janet’s with him.”

“Mulch saved my life.”

“How’s that?”

“My left shoulder was where my chest had been a quarter of a second earlier. If Mulch hadn’t gone for the sausage right then, I wouldn’t have ducked.”

“Sounds like the providence of God,” Clarence said.

“I’m thinking it was Mulch liking sausage.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Jake said. “You think God couldn’t use the instincts He put in Mulch to save you?”

“That phone call? I wonder if I wasn’t supposed to stand and answer it to give the shooter a clearer look.”

“This is getting way too dangerous,” Clarence said.

I nodded. “Good thing I’ve usually got a bodyguard the size of a buffalo to take a bullet for me.”

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
8

I escaped the hospital the next day, leaving the other inmates behind. After being face-licked by my bullie, I entered the old brownstone and found my big Glock still on the coffee table in the living room, where I’d left him before heading to the kitchen and almost getting my head blown off while eating sausage. I held Daddy Glock close because it’d been years since we’d spent a night apart. He seemed okay.

Thanks to Jake, my kitchen now featured a four-by-five-foot piece of plywood where a window had been. I walked the house, checking my other guns. At the back of the closet was my original pellet gun, the one I shot out streetlights with forty-five years ago. Mom had threatened to confiscate it, even though I warned her that if she wanted to take my gun, she’d have to pry it from my cold dead fingers. She said she was glad to oblige and cracked me over the head with a broom handle, then hid my gun for thirty days. That was the last time I messed with Mom.

I like my guns spread around the house, like drink coasters. But I’d rather have to put all of them away someplace safe because grandchildren are visiting. Would Kendra let her kid come over? Did I dare hope? She’d visited me in the hospital, and though she’d scolded me for not being more careful, it was a Sharon sort of scolding.

Mr. Obrist had retrieved the King Cobra from the deck after I fell. I duct taped it back under the kitchen table, a three-foot portion of which was battle-scarred by buckshot. I considered replacing it, but now it was wartime memorabilia. Better than anything I could buy on eBay. Maybe someday my grandchild could point to it and say, “Tell me that story, Gramps!”

You can’t blame a guy for hoping.

The table would also remind me that life is short … and I’d once more teetered on its edge.

I thought about all those close calls, the times in Vietnam and on the streets as a patrol cop and a couple of car accidents and the situations I’d faced hunting down killers. The more I thought about it, the more I came to a realization.

I was one lucky guy.

“How blind we were to Your presence there,” Finney said to the Carpenter, shaking his head. “Looking back, with my memory so clear now, I’ve begun to see how You were with us, guiding, protecting, providing, hundreds of times each day.”

“Ten thousand times a day,” Obadiah Abernathy said. “We couldna got single breath widout You, my sweet Lord. Every heartbeat was a gift. Yet we was fools enough to wonder if You cared. We was so impatient. And ungrateful.”

“But you know better now, My friends,” the Carpenter said, smiling. “And even there, you’d begun to realize and to say thanks. For that I commend you both.

Well done.”

“It was so cloudy then,” Finney said. “Now it’s so clear.”

“It will become clearer still,” the Carpenter said, stretching out His right arm. “You have much more to learn. When you look back at your lives on earth, you’ll see much I was doing that you never guessed. What you called luck was My providence. I was there even in what you considered disaster. In the new world you’ll experience new joys daily. But you’ll also discover, as I peel back the layers, what I did for you in the old world. This is what My Father promised you: that in the coming ages He might show you the incomparable riches of His grace, expressed in His kindness to you … the kindness He demonstrated in Me.”

S
UNDAY EVENING
, D
ECEMBER
8

That night my tender shoulder, which was in far better shape than it could have been, was talking to me. Other aches and pains joined in. I sat back in the recliner and sipped a cream soda while Mulch chewed a soup bone.

When you make a living related to dying, it puts a curious spin on your life. I suppose morticians feel it and medical examiners and oncologists. I know homicide detectives do. On the one hand you feel sorry for the victim and his family. On the other hand, you’re excited, because there’s a problem to be solved. Mathematicians and scientists and accountants enjoy solving problems. I doubt they feel any guilt about it.

You’d think anyone who deals constantly with death would be forced to come to grips with his own mortality. But it’s possible to see your death as inevitable, as I do, yet never as imminent. Sure, I’ll die, but not this minute or hour or day or week or month or year. Always death seems decades away, years at least.

But when you take metal and glass in your flesh and realize how close it came to your head, it makes you stop and think. And yet, I found myself denying it even then. I’ve cheated death before, and I’ll do it again. Will I tell myself that until the moment I die?

I looked at my left hand and imagined it was the hand of a corpse, then a skeleton. The destruction of the flesh, accelerated in the
Indiana Jones
movies, seems fiction. Yet what is more certain than death?

When Sharon was dying, I wished her doctors were as good at finding out reasons for death as I am. I wished the problem could be solved with one more night’s work. And I wished that her Christian friends would just shut up. When I heard several of them say, “I know God’s going to heal her,” I almost believed it. When He didn’t, I wanted to hunt them down and smack ’em.

I’m not sure how I went from pondering my mortality to being ticked off at Christians, but it happened. See, in my thinking, Christians tend to be either idiots or hypocrites. I’m not fond of either. I’m not saying there aren’t good Christians—Jake and Clarence are, and Obadiah Abernathy certainly was. What I’m saying is that, to me, looking for honest Christians is like searching to find clams in a bowl of cheap chowder.

These people who think they can beat the devil with a big toothy smile ought to work homicide or vice or sex crimes for a week. Reality will put a sag on the corners of your mouth.

I hear this stuff about Jesus taking away people’s sickness and financial woes. Yet Christians are poor and get sick and die like everybody else, don’t they? I mean, do you know any two-hundred-year-old Christians? Sharon prayed to be healed. Her Christian friends prayed for her healing. Didn’t happen.

All that health-and-wealth mumbo jumbo on the Big-Hair Channel? It’s just pretense, isn’t it? And all those “Jesus wants you well” televangelists that collect offerings from people trying to buy their way out of suffering and death—don’t those preachers just quietly grow old and die of cancer and strokes like everybody else?

I can’t stand these holier-than-thous, with their swaggering self-righteousness, their spiritual one-upmanship.

Buddy Darson was my partner for two years when I wore a uniform. Buddy’s a deacon or a trustee or a grand pooh-bah in some church. But he lied on his reports, cheated the clock, stole supplies from the department, and looked down the barmaids’ blouses.

Some of the most racist cops I’ve ever known say they’re Christians. If that’s what it means to be a Christian, I’m better off a pagan. At least I’m not a hypocrite. That counts for something.

I hope.

I don’t live in the sweet by-and-by. I live in the nasty here and now. And if I can take down perps and save kids’ lives and keep women from being raped, it may not make me Saint Francis of Assisi, but hey, it’s better than turning my cheek while scumbags rule the city.