The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces (13 page)

“From the cards,” she said. “The cards are ready now. Let's do this one question at a time.”

“Okay.”

“So, ask your first question.”

“Let's start with the obvious,” I said. “Who is the Documentalist Killer?”

“I see a man,” she said. “Yes, definitely a man. A white man, definitely not a boy.”

“Yes?”

“Not an old man,” she said. “He is filled with anger. He hates people who can't explain things properly.”

“So my theory was right?”

“Yes, the killer is killing people who produce bad documentation. He must be a person for whom documentation is very important. I see him as a person who has to read those awful manuals all the time. Day after day. Hour after hour he's reading those manuals, trying to look stuff up that can't be found. Maybe someone is pressuring him to get the job done fast? Yes, that's it. He needs the information right now, and the documentation is slowing him down, it's wasting his time, and he's very very angry!”

I could hear her suck in a big breath. I could feel her trembling after that psychic two-step with the killer.

I gave her a couple of moments to recover, and then I asked, “What about this SOAPY character?”

“That's not his real name,” she said. “I can see there is some deception going on with the name.”

“So, are you saying even though he seems to be saying he's the killer, he's really not?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “He warned Gerald and he warned Randy. But I don't see his name on the BOD list.”

“That's right,” I said. “Hey, wait a minute! I see where you're going. If SOAPY is the killer, how did he know about Randy's documentation? It was only circulated among members of the BOD list. So, if SOAPY's not on that list, he would never have had an opportunity to be irritated by Randy's manual!”

There was a pause, a short burst of throat clearing, and then she said, “Exactly!”

“But what about the warning to Gerald? Prudence practically told me it was there.”

“Well,” she said, “let me see. Hold on, I'm getting something.”

“Yes?”

“This Prudence person wants you to think Mr. SOAPY is the killer.”

“Why?”

“She has her reasons.”

“Yuri?”

“Yes, here it is,” Greta said. “I see Yuri and Prudence making plans behind your back. You'll need to watch those two.”

That sounded like good advice.

“And there was apparently a warning to Randy Casey, too,” I said.

“Umm,” she said.

“I wonder why Yuri and Prudence didn't tell the police about SOAPY,” I said.

“Umm,” she said.

“What do you think?”

“Yuri is a Russian?”

“Yes.”

“Umm,” she said.

“So, what are you picking up?”

“What I can tell you about Prudence and Pablo and Gerald and Yuri and Randy and Sadie and the killer and the Russians is that everything is connected to everything else,” she said. “Everything has something to do with everything else. You must step back and take a look at the big picture. Keep your eyes peeled. Never stop looking for clues.”

“That's what I need,” I said. “More clues. I need answers to key questions. I need to know what SOAPY means.”

“Can't you just look that up?”

“In my
Big Book of Clues?
”

“Do you have one of those?” she asked. “If you've got one of those, you should certainly use it.”

“That's what my mother said.”

“You should listen to your mother,” she said.

“So I will in the end solve the case?”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure you will. You will face the facts and prevail in the end.”

“And I'll find Pablo?”

“Hold on, I'm picking something up in regard to Pablo,” she said. “Let me see. Let me see. Yes, there it is. Are you sure Pablo's even real?”

Wow, now there was a thought. What if there were no Pablo? All I had was Prudence's word that she had a twin brother. What if the P in GP Ink stood for Prudence? Who better to have people suspect of murder than someone who doesn't exist? Which reminded me somehow of the deception Dennis and I were putting over on Lucus Betty. I didn't want to think about that.

“Maybe I should spend some time looking for people who have actually seen Pablo,” I said.

“Good idea,” Greta said.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, let me see,” she said. “Oh, here it is, the secret cooks will turn out not to be the guys pulling all the strings. That will be someone much higher up.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“Everything is melting,” she said.

“Melting?”

“Getting blurry,” she said. “I'm losing the connection.”

“Well, you've been a big help, Greta.”

“Maybe you can call back? Next time you call I'm sure there'll be more to discover.”

“You bet,” I said.

“Oh, here's something else before you go,” she said. “Frank really isn't fooling around on his wife.”

I put the phone down, but I could still hear her whispering to me. She sounded more like Lulu than ever now. “Your eyelids are getting heavy,” she said. “You're getting very very sleepy,” she said. “You want to get up and walk across to the couch.”

Yes, you do. That's right.

Put your head back.

Take a really deep breath. Another one. Another.

ten

The next day, I picked up the user's guide for the SuperJuicer III from the floor where Prudence had dropped it. Flipping through it, I could see reading it would be a frustrating experience. You couldn't just look things up; you had to follow along step-by-step from the very beginning to do even the simplest things. Whoever wrote the manual wanted you to have the full SuperJuicer experience. My irritation must have been (on a very micro level) something like what the killer felt when he picked a victim, but why was he concentrating specifically on computer documentalists? Why not something like this? Well, maybe he just hadn't gotten around to everyone yet. Sooner or later he might even pay a visit to the guy who wrote the infamous “fit the big end of Part A into Slot B,” when Part A was perfectly square and none of the slots were labeled.

I finally tossed the SuperJuicer docs in the trash and juiced some cantaloupe, apples, and this weird yellow thing with bumps and tiny black spots. I washed down a selection of vitamins from the bottles lined up on my desk. The juice was pretty good. In fact, it was wonderful. In fact, it filled me with so much energy that I jumped up and shouted (I don't know—something like “whoopee” or “yahoo”). I would have burst into song but I couldn't remember all of the words. I decided not to throw Yuri's machine out the window after all.

I needed to get moving! Just do it. Make things happen. Shake the trees and see what falls out. I drank the juice and made another batch. I ducked into the washroom and cleaned up. Put on a fresh mustache.

Back at my desk I pulled up the BOD list. Now that Sadie Campbell was dead, there were only four locals I could chase down.

Leo Unger—“Challenger Video”

Lucas Betty—“the university”

Bernie Watkins—“HS”

Ramona Simmons—“mean”

It was possible one of these people was the killer, but I thought it more likely that this was a list of victims. If the killer was on the BOD list, he (or she) would probably be one of the anonymous ones. The killer might be a BOD member from out of town, but that would mean he (or she) had made trips to our city just to kill bad documentalists. It's not like there was a shortage elsewhere. Why come to Eugene?

If the killer was not on the BOD list, there was the problem of how he (or she) knew about Randy Casey's manual for Seventeen Worlds.

Lulu tapped me on the head from the inside, and played back the memory of her standing on the sidewalk looking into the offices of SplashDown Software. We watched Arthur Snow looking down at a woman working at her desk. Surely he could see whatever she was doing. Surely he could have figured out how to look at Sadie Campbell's e-mail. Not that we were saying the head of SplashDown Software was our bad guy, but whoever the killer was, he (or she) could have gained access to the BOD list without actually being on the list.

I had already decided to catch Leo Unger at work, but I pulled out the Eugene phone book and looked up his home number and address just in case I missed him at Challenger Video. He wasn't listed.

Next, I discovered Bernie Watkins wasn't in the phone book, either. I spent a few frustrating minutes being irritated at Prudence for writing nothing but “HS” by his name. Was that another software company? High Software? Hot Software? Hairy Software? No HS in the phone book.

Bernie's handle was THE_DUNGEONEER.

“The Dungeoneer,” I said out loud. “The Dungeoneer.”

And then the sky opened up and the sun came out; a light bulb came on over my head, and it hit me like a ton of bricks that “HS” meant High School! Bernie wasn't in the phone book because he was still a high school kid living at home. It took me less than ten minutes to track him down. It turned out Bernie Watkins was a junior at South Eugene High School.

There was a number and address for Ramona Simmons, so I would find out just how “mean” she was sooner or later.

There was no home number for Lucas Betty listed, but I knew how to get in touch with him. Now might be the time to wrap that case up. Just put him in touch with Dennis, warn him about the Documentalist Killer, collect the rest of our fee, and call it a day.

I let Dennis take over. He found the number for Lucas Betty and dialed it.

“Experimental Support Services,” a woman said. “Ms. Divey speaking.”

Dennis asked for Lucas Betty.

“Mr. Betty is busy,” she said. “Can I take a message?”

“Tell him it's Dennis.”

“Dennis who?”

“He'll know.”

She put us on hold.

While he listened to the void, Dennis let his eyes roam over the top of our desk, and he spotted something sticking out from under the SuperJuicer. A card. He pulled it out and took a look. Yuri Kost,
EVIL EMPIRE SOFTWARE
, a phone number, and P.O. box.

“Lucas Betty.” Lucas always sounded impatient.

“Dennis here,” Dennis said. “A mutual friend tells me you're looking for me.”

“A mutual friend? Friends don't charge friends huge fees for so little work.”

“Nobody's charging me,” Dennis said. Huge fees? Who did Lucas think he was kidding? “So, what's the scoop?”

“The scoop,” Lucas said, “is that you have the know-how I need, and together we could make a lot of money. We need to get together and talk about it.”

“You want to do lunch?” Dennis asked.

We groaned inwardly.

“Next you'll want to ‘interface' with him,” Lulu said.

“No time for lunch,” Lucas said.

“I've come up with a couple of ideas,” Dennis said, “on what we might do in regard…”

“How about coffee? Let me check my book.” Lucas was the kind of guy who leaped ahead of you in conversation. It wasn't that he finished your sentences for you, but just as soon as he saw where you were going, he expected you to shut up.

He didn't bother to put Dennis on hold. He wouldn't be gone that long.

When he came back he said, “I can meet you at ten-oh-five.”

“Too soon,” Dennis said.

Lucas was gone again, then he was back.

“How about Starbucks at two-thirteen?”

“How about the Coffee Corner at four?” Dennis asked.

“How about Strictly Coffee at three-oh-five?”

“Which one?”

“Corner of Kent and Patterson?”

“I'll be there,” Dennis said.

Lucas hung up. Oddly, we thought, he didn't seem all that hot to talk with Dennis after all.

Sky took control.

I was ready to do some legwork, but first I wanted to see if my new theory had started any fires on the net. I was especially interested to see what SOAPY had to say about it. I wondered, too, if anyone would post their documentation gripes, and I wondered what my posting of the word “DATAPANTS” would scare up. I logged on.

The newsgroup alt.dead.nerds was gone. I looked for a name change and found it. The newsgroup was called alt.dead.docs. When I checked it out, I discovered that my posting had hit home. Almost everyone seemed to think I was on the right track with my theory about why the killer was killing people. There was the usual grumbling about the name change, and there was a full-scale flame war over my question about bad documentation. Everyone had a horror story. Or a defense. They all thought their own stories were the most horrendous. There were wild accusations and more than enough blame to go around. Hurt feelings. There was so much stuff that my original plan to build a model of the killer's mind from it would have to be tabled. There was just too much.

The most interesting thing, I thought, was the fact that there were no posts from SOAPY. Had he just given up? Did that mean he really was just a nut who had been taken by a new enthusiasm and was now off bothering someone else?

It was something to think about, but my energy level was way too high to sit around thinking about it. I made a few notes and grabbed my coat and hat.

The day was clear and warm—a beautiful fall day. It would rain later of course but that would be good, too. I bet I had a goofy grin on my face. I tipped my hat at a woman just outside my building, and she smiled at me.

I was whistling a tune by the time I got to the parking lot, but I cut that out quickly when I discovered my Cherokee was gone.

What could this mean? Who would steal my car? I could take Lulu's Ford, but I would still have to spend too much time with the police dealing with my stolen vehicle. My juiced-up mood took a nose-dive, but before it hit the ground, I remembered that I left the jeep at Mom's nursing home. I'd taken the bus downtown, and now I could take it back to get my car. That would slow me down, but it wasn't a disaster. I took a couple of deep breaths. I considered going back to the office for more juice. The mixture I'd made this morning certainly had made me feel good. I walked on toward the bus stop instead.