A Murder of Crows (17 page)

For a moment Decker couldn't figure out why this struck him as familiar, then the penny dropped. One of the Raymond Chandler novels adapted to the movies—or was it a Dashiell Hammett? Yeah, with Bogart but also that newer movie
The Big Lewinski
—no,
The Big Lebowski
.

He smiled at his mistake.

“Is there something humourous?” Professor Got's voice was deep but not produced properly, so it rasped in his throat. Then he coughed.

Yslan started with “Thank you for seeing us,” then quickly segued into questions about the journals he edited and the juries for those journals. Then a surprise.

“I often overrule the juries. The journals only exist because of my foundation's support of them, so I rule as I see fit.” He puffed up his chest, which caused him to cough again.

“So you overturn some jury decisions?” Yslan asked.

“Dozens of them.”

“May I?” Decker asked Yslan.

Yslan shrugged.

“Was it ever made public that you did this?”

“Of course.”

Yslan stated, “You didn't attend graduation this year.” Professor Got vaguely indicated his wheelchair. “Yes, but did people expect you to be there?”

“I assume. This is the first one I've missed in many decades.”

Decker asked, “Can you give us the names of academics whose papers you rejected in say the last sixteen months?”

The old guy's memory was sharp. Without referring to notes he named seven academics. Four died in the blast. The other three were from universities other than Ancaster College.

* * *

Associate Professor Ruth Judring sat in her office at Hislop College just down the road from Ancaster. A garish plastic painted bust of Elvis Presley sat on the windowsill behind the henna-haired professor. She was way too old for kitsch to be cool, but evidently didn't know it.

“Giuseppe Got—you mean Hitler in a wheelchair?”

Yslan looked to Decker, who did that shrugging thing. He'd have to stop that. He'd shrugged more in three days with Yslan than he'd done in the previous three years.

“Don't like the old guy?”

“Loathe him. Death couldn't come soon enough to that dinosaur.”

“Dinosaur?”

“Yesterday's news. A genuine throwback to the time when the rich controlled everything including the universities of this country. He probably worked for a dollar.”

“Can you explain that?”

“Sure. The old-time rich guys didn't need the college's money, so they often taught for a buck. Course they had trust accounts up the wazoo—shit, have you seen the house he lives in?”

“Yes.”

“The Got estate. You know where the money came from?”

“No.”

“His grandfather invented that liner in the top of the Coke bottle cap. He received some percentage of a cent for every one they sold—gazillions, fucking gazillions. So it was no hardship for him to work for a buck.”

“Did he refuse a paper of yours for his journal?”

Without hesitation she said, “Several times.”

“Do you know why?”

“Cause he's an old sexist? Cause his knickers were in a twist? Cause he can't read or think anymore? Who knows.”

Yslan looked to Decker.

“Professor Judring, did you know that he wasn't going to be at the graduation ceremony?”

“No, I didn't even know that he still attended them.”

Cold; slime on his fingers; two perfectly parallel lines—a truth.

* * *

Assistant Professor John Augustery's office had a large sign on the door: “This office is safe and open to gay, lesbian and transgendered students.”

Yslan knocked and there was a scuffling sound from inside. When the door finally opened, Professor Augustery was in somewhat of a sweat.

“Professor Augustery? I'm Special Agent Yslan Hicks, I called earlier today.”

As if something finally fell into place in his head he smiled and pointed to a seat. “I was just practicing for the maypole dance.” Seeing the confused look on Yslan's face he added, “Maypole dancing takes place every May first.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. Now how can I help you?” he asked as he pulled his long black hair back into a ponytail.

“You teach advanced chemical engineering here, don't you?”

“Yes. Have done at Prestwick College for many years.”

Decker asked, “Were you denied promotion when your last three papers were rejected by Professor Got's journals?”

A moment of anger crossed the man's pleasant features, then it was gone—like a cloud moving to reveal the sun. “Yes. Unfortunately Professor Got controls the three journals that I need to publish in for advancement.”

“That must hurt.”

“It does—but I'm tenured.”

“Yes, but still an assistant professor.”

Again that anger moment. “In these hard times having a tenured position of any sort is an honour.”

Cold; slime; two perfect trapezoids crossed his retinal screen. He nodded to Yslan.

“Are you sorry that Professor Got was unable to attend the graduation?”

After only a slight pause he replied, “Many fine people lost their
lives. Unfortunately the higher power, in his wisdom, decided to spare the life of an ancient rat. Unfortunate, wouldn't you say?”

* * *

Professor Ron Masinger was on the phone when they approached his office down the hall from Professor Augustery. He was evidently in full flight—yelling into his speaker phone. From what they heard it sounded like he was shouting at a Hollywood producer.

He waved them into the office and pointed to seats.

They sat.

He continued his rant, then with a theatrical flourish punched a button and the line went dead.

“Serves them right,” he said, then strode forward and introduced himself. His handshake was firm, his red hair receding. He wore clothes more appropriate for a man many years his junior.

“On the phone to the coast?” Decker ventured.

“Right you are,” he said and slapped Decker's knee.

“A film script?”

“
My
film script. They've had it for years.”

Decker knew from past experience that yes or no came quickly from Hollywood. Keeping a script for years was their way of not offending. So they must think they need this guy for something. “Do you do consulting on films, sir?” Decker asked.

“Yes. Boring, so boring! But it pays and it's a foot in the door.”

To the restroom,
Decker thought, but he asked, “Explosives?”

“Yeah. They always want to know about shit that blows up other shit.”

“But that's not hard to find on the Internet, is it?”

“No. It's all up there, but they like a full professor's name to put on their film—gives them a sense of legitimacy.”

Decker looked to Yslan. She was clearly annoyed with this guy. “Professor Masinger, do you hate Professor Giuseppe Got?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sorry that he wasn't at the graduation ceremony?”

“You bet, sister.”

“I'm not your sister, sir.”

“Just an—”

“Did you have anything whatsoever to do with the explosions at Ancaster College?”

“Yep.”

That gave Yslan pause.

“Exactly what?”

“Well, not with the blast, but with the forensic work after. They've contacted me several times, and my lab has analysed several of their samples.”

“And that's it?”

“Until they ask me for more.”

“No. Is that the extent of your involvement with the bombings?”

Finally getting their drift he put hand to heart dramatically and said, “Yes, that's it.”

Yslan looked to Decker.

He didn't need to close his eyes for this one—he just slowly shook his head.

* * *

By the time they got back to campus it was cold and well past sunset. Decker was beat, but too tired to sleep.

DECKER STOOD ON THE MAIN CAMPUS'S CENTRAL QUAD. SUCH
places were the stuff of many a nightmare for him. And one that he'd never been able to figure out. Always in a place like this. Alone and either late for a class that he had to take or that he was supposed to teach. And the appointed time was approaching and he was completely lost—unable to figure out even which direction he ought to go.

As a wave of fear took him he reminded himself that this was not about him teaching or studying; it was about finding out who murdered more than two hundred people—and earning the right to know where Seth was.

Decker forced himself to his feet, then ordered those feet to walk.

* * *

He followed his nose and wandered up the steep sides of the college hill. On the very top, as far from the science labs and engineering classrooms as could be, sat a modest, low-slung two-building complex.

Decker immediately knew that this was not like the rest of the campus. As he walked, motion sensors turned on powerful overhead arc lights that illuminated the first of many plaques: “Chapel House welcomes anyone of any religious tradition—or none.”

Decker pulled on the heavy door and entered. The arc light went out behind him.

A pamphlet near the entrance informed him that Chapel House was a gift from an anonymous donor who requested that her name never be mentioned, since “she was an old woman who would soon be going over to the other side.”

Decker crossed a flagstoned courtyard, passed the small rock fountain on one side, and entered Chapel House proper.

The silence there pleased him. He felt his heartbeat slowing. There was a reading room whose shelves were filled with volumes covering the world's great religions, a music room holding hundreds of recordings of religious music evidently from the earliest times to the latest experimental compositions, and a chapel that was set up more for contemplation than services. He was pleased to see that the only dedication read: “This chapel is consecrated by the worship of those who use it.”

In the chapel another pamphlet informed him that “no specific discipline is imposed, no instruction given, no lectures offered.”

Decker knew that the openly liberal tradition of this chapel was in stark contrast to the fire-breathing Baptist missionary types who had set up the college. But as a psychiatrist who was a student once assured him, “We get better. We forget and get better.”

Decker walked past the gossamer-curtained windows and sat in one of the straight-backed chairs and felt comfortable. Here, amidst this horror, this place was a possible refuge from the world—a way out.

Decker closed his eyes and gratefully saw nothing on his retinal screen.

He awoke moments, minutes, hours—he didn't know—later to a gentle touch on his shoulder.

The man standing beside him was about his age and had a pear's shape to him.
A sort of modern Friar Tuck,
he thought.

“You were snoring,” the man said.

“I'm sorry,” Decker responded.

“That's not why I woke you. You were beginning to rock—I was afraid you'd fall off the chair and hurt yourself.”

Decker wanted to ask “Was I talking in my sleep” but settled for saying, “Thank you.”

“No need to whisper. Only you and I are in the chapel.”

The man straightened out a few chairs and ran a cloth along an altar railing.

“Do you work here, in Chapel House?” Decker asked.

“No. I come here as a retreat. There are five modest rooms one can rent. As soon as I heard what happened here . . . I went to school here a long time ago. And I thought they'd need my help now.”

“You're a priest or a pastor?”

“No. Not a priest or a pastor.” Decker saw a kind of twinkle in the man's eyes. “Definitely not,” he repeated. Then the man leaned in close to Decker, completely unconcerned that he was staring. “You have a faraway look my friend. The look of a man in need of a path.”

Fortunately three people entered the chapel at that moment, grief and shock written clearly on their faces, and the man moved to them.

Decker headed toward the exit. Before he got there an exterior arc light snapped on, revealing the sharp silhouette of a figure behind one of the gossamer curtains.

Decker froze—someone behind the curtain?

He willed himself to leave but couldn't. He approached the curtain. When he pulled it aside he almost fainted.

“It's a Hindi doll figure from Namibia,” the pear-shaped man said. “Isn't it beautiful?”

How had this man managed to creep up on me?
Decker asked himself. He mumbled a vague affirmative reply to the man then stepped past him to the door. In the door he turned back to the chapel. The pear-shaped man was sitting with the newcomers, clearly offering them some solace. Yes, this was a path, but he sensed that it was a dangerous path for him, a cul-de-sac. One that offered him a chance to lay down his burdens—in return for living out his life in a windowless room with a locked door.

* * *

That night his dreams were laced with horror. Twice he woke with a scream in his throat.

His marine woke him late in the morning and brought him the laptop, some breakfast and a message from Yslan:
Work on these interrogations. The CLAs you singled out are being interrogated
although I doubt that will go anywhere. We're also checking the alibis of the people who were “juried out” by Professor Got. But, again, I doubt that will be anything. So on to plan B—be ready this evening.”

* * *

As he watched the sun set through his dorm window he heard a sharp knock on the door. Without a word except Decker's “How they hanging, boss,” his marine led him back to Yslan's makeshift office.

“Are they ready for us?” he asked.

“Close.”