Tunnel Vision (13 page)

“You didn’t get along with him?”

“No one gets along with Brauner. They tolerate him.”

“And vice versa?”

Obregon stood up and placed his hands on top of his desk.

“Meaning what?” As he glared at her she noticed the distinct markings of homemade tattoos on his forearms and the backs of his hands.

“Are you still a member of the Latin Lords?”

He took his hands off the desk and shoved them into his pockets.

“You bet. This is an equal opportunity university just crawling with Black Panthers, Latin Lords, and a dozen other gangs.”

“It’s not easy to break away from a gang like that. Has it caused you any problems?”

“Only with the white academic establishment,” he answered. He looked her in the eyes and lowered his voice as he spoke. “The homeboys won’t bother me as long as they think I’m still the meanest motherfucker in the neighborhood.”

“Tell me about Dr. Brauner,” Maggie said, taking her notebook from her pocket.

“Ain’t that much to tell. He’s a son of a bitch.”

“Maybe you could be a little more specific. Is he a tough employer?”

“The little Jew is a tough everything, lady. Most hated professor on this campus. The students tried to get him fired a couple of years ago, but of course, the bigwigs didn’t want to hear any shit about that.”

“Isn’t he a good teacher?”

“For the five percent who can pass his class, he’s a fuckin’ genius. To the other ninety-five percent he’s a fuckin’ son of a bitch,” Obregon said with a grin.

“Which group are you in?”

Obregon stopped grinning. “I’m one of the select five percent, but still think he’s a son of a bitch. The guy’s sadistic toward students. Nothin’s ever good enough. Perfection’s all he gives a damn about. Musta been one of those Jews who turned their own kind in. Loves to humiliate students in front of everyone.”

“Is that what you argued with him about last week?”

“Who told you that?”

“I just heard it. Did he call you incompetent and careless?”

“Every fuckin’ day.”

“Did it make you mad?”

“No, I love bein’ called a moron. What do you think?”

“Mad enough to do something about it?”

“Oh, I get it! Brauner takes off for parts unknown and you think I helped him pack for the trip.”

“I don’t think anything, Mr. Obregon. I’m just asking questions.”

“Am I a suspect or something? Cause if I am, I know my rights and you better Mirandize me. Otherwise, I got nothin’ else to say to you.”

“No, you’re not a suspect right now, but I wouldn’t leave the area for a few days in case I have more questions for you later.”

“Oooh, I’m shakin’ all over, officer,” he sneered.

“That it?”

“Do you know what Dr. Brauner’s schedule for Friday was supposed to be? Did he have anything unusual planned?”

“Brauner is a very predictable man. The only thing he had planned for Friday was another exam which was guaranteed to fail the usual ninety-five percent.”

“Are you in Dr. Brauner’s class?”

“I’m his assistant. I can’t very well be in his class and be expected to grade the damn tests, now can I.”

“Did you administer his tests?”

“Sometimes, but I never see them until he hands them to me in the classroom. You’d think they contain the secret to how the universe was formed the way he guards them. Didn’t even trust me to type them. Just hand them out and grade them.”

“Did he ever accuse you of creative grading?”

“Nope. I can’t stand most of the elitist little pricks in his classes and he knows it.”

“Okay. If you think of anything else that might be useful, give me a call at the police department,” she said as she handed him a business card.

Obregon nodded as she walked toward the office door. “It was that asshole Chambers who told you about me and Brauner, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” she answered with a smile. Turning back toward him as he grabbed the door to close it, she asked, “By the way, do you know a man named Cruz Garcia?”

“The janitor?”

“Yes.”

“Met him once when I was working late in the lab. Jackass thought because I’m Hispanic I broke in to steal something. Why?”

“No reason. I wanted to ask him a few questions.”

“Come back later. Pretty sure he works the night shift.”

Obregon slammed the office door as she began walking down the hallway toward Malcolm Roth’s office. The hallway seemed amazingly quiet and she could hear her own footsteps as she walked. When she turned the corner into the main hallway, she heard music coming from the direction of Roth’s office and it took her a moment to remember where she had heard the same music before. Brodie had played it for her once. The Grateful Dead. Somehow the image of The Grateful Dead and Royce Ann Brodie never seemed to go together. She smiled and shook her head as she knocked on Roth’s office door and waited. No one answered. Turning the doorknob, she looked in the front office. Seeing no one, she went to the door of Roth’s private office and knocked. A minute later the door opened and Malcolm Roth smiled down at her. She smiled back, but more from amusement than friendliness. Roth was wearing a bright tie-dyed t-shirt over faded jeans and sandals. His graying hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail. Round wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses made his long thin face appear even longer and thinner. His eyes were wide and it was obvious that he hadn’t taken time to shave that morning.

“Can I help you, miss?” Roth asked.

“Dr. Roth?” Maggie inquired.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Weston with the Cedar Springs—”

“Ah, yes. Daryll told me you had been by,” he interrupted. “Please come in, Detective.”

She followed him into the office. He plopped down in a chair behind his desk and reached behind him to turn his stereo off. As she sat down across from him, she noticed the distinct odor of marijuana in the room, thinly hidden by the pungent scent of burning incense. Glancing around the room she saw a couple of Grateful Dead posters and a number of photographs of Roth apparently taken during another time in his life. Except for his graying hair, he hadn’t change appreciably over the years.

“Are you old enough to remember the sixties, Detective Weston?” Roth asked.

“Not really,” she answered, “but I’ve heard about them.”

“The last great era of personal and academic freedom,” he said with a touch of sadness in his voice.

“There certainly aren’t any groups like the Dead around anymore.”

“You know the Dead?” he asked with a smile.

“I had a friend who listened to them.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the sixties, as fascinating as they may have been. How can I help you?”

“I’m checking on a missing person report on Dr. Elliott Brauner. His wife hasn’t seen him for several days.”

Roth leaned forward. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him around lately either. But no one keeps tabs on Elliott. He’s a very private person.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“God, I don’t know,” Roth said scratching his beard. “Must have been at least last Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Are you close to Dr. Brauner?”

Roth laughed softly. “Elliott Brauner doesn’t have friends, Detective. Merely acquaintances. A shame really. I confess that I did force myself on him a few times, but mostly about academic matters. He has an exceptional mind, you know. And was educated at the finest institutions. It was a genuine coup when the university convinced him and his wife to teach here.”

“It’s my understanding he isn’t very popular with students.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it. An

extraordinary number of students fail his courses. But please notice I didn’t say he failed an extraordinary number of students. If a student works hard for Elliott, they pass. A ‘C’ in his course is considered an academic achievement.”

“Do you think anyone dislikes him enough to harm him?”

“I doubt it, but with students today you never know. They’re a fairly mediocre bunch. I doubt many of them ever had to work for a grade before they graced us with their presence. They’re not terribly motivated, so even if they thought about doing something to Elliott I doubt any of them would have the initiative to do it. And unless you’re a believer in the paranormal, thoughts usually won’t hurt anyone.”

“What do you know about Dr. Brauner’s assistant, Mr. Obregon?”

“All I know is what Elliott told me once in a rare burst of enthusiasm. According to him, Tony has the most potential of any student he’s taught in years.”

“I got the impression that Mr. Obregon doesn’t care much for Dr. Brauner.”

“That’s Elliott’s way. He’s not generous with his praise. He believes it will cause students to slack off if they know he’s impressed with their work. He is hard on Tony, but I get the impression he likes him. At least academically.”

“Your assistant said he overheard Brauner and Obregon arguing.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, but I wouldn’t take what Daryll says too seriously. Personally, I think he’s a little jealous of Tony.”

“Why is that, Doctor?”

Roth rubbed absently at his day-old beard growth.

“How can I put this politely. Daryll is no genius, Detective Weston. He’s one of Elliott’s students this term and it’s a coin toss whether he will pass or not. I’m not too happy with the work he does for me, but there simply weren’t any other assistants available to choose from. If I could have stolen Tony away from Elliott, I would have. And believe me, there is no way in hell Elliott would consider Daryll as his assistant. Elliott called him something quite appropriate once,”

he said looking at the ceiling. “What was it? Oh, yeah. A wealthy sniveling sycophant.”

“Why do you keep him as your assistant then?”

“Needed someone to answer the phone,” he

shrugged. “And he is an adequate typist. This is his last year with us anyway. If he can pass Elliott’s course, that is.”

IT WAS NEARLY noon before Maggie finished

interviewing Malcolm Roth. The only impression she came away with was that Roth seemed to genuinely like Elliott Brauner. Including his wife, that brought the grand total of his fans to two. As she drove to the police department she tried to piece together what she knew and concluded it wasn’t much. She pulled her car into a parking space in front of the station. The early spring air was warm and felt good against her face. She was glad she had moved to Cedar Springs. Brodie and Nicholls, their shirtsleeves rolled up, were going through a stack of folders when she entered the squad room. She noticed with a smile that Brodie hadn’t lost her habit of running her hand absently through her hair when she was preoccupied.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she sat down at her desk and pulled out her notebook.

Nicholls looked at her and nodded without

smiling. Brodie closed the folder she was reading and tossed it on her desk as she stood up.

“With me, Weston,” she said tightly as she walked away.

Maggie glanced at Nicholls, but his eyes remained riveted on the papers in front of him. She pushed herself out of her chair and followed the lieutenant, who was already halfway across the squad room. Walking down a narrow hallway, Brodie looked into rooms as she went, finally stopping and opening the door to a vacant interrogation room, holding the door open as she waited for Maggie to catch up to her. Motioning her trainee into the room, she entered and closed the door behind her.

“Do you know the meaning of the word ‘trainee’, Detective Weston?”

“Of course,” she answered, unsure what Brodie meant.

“A trainee is a person, male or female, who doesn’t know their ass from their elbow. Which is the reason that person is placed under the supervision of someone more experienced. So they can learn to at least find their ass,” Brodie intoned, her voice rising slightly.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Brodie, but I...,” Maggie began.

“What the hell do you think you were doing this morning?”

“I was checking on a missing person at the university. His wife...”

Brodie took a step closer, her eyes penetrating Maggie’s as she spoke through clenched teeth, her voice low and lethal. “Your job, for the time being, Detective Weston, is to report here every goddamn morning. Successfully achieving that assignment, your second job is to do what the fuck I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.”

“I understand that, but...”

“There are no buts here, Detective Weston. There are no Lone Rangers here. If you hope to succeed as my trainee, you
will
do things my way. Do you understand me?”

Maggie’s eyes never wavered from Brodie’s and she could see the woman was working hard to control her anger.

“Yes, Lieutenant. I understand.”

“If anything like this ever happens again, I’ll recommend to Captain Donaldson that you be relieved of your duties here. I will write this incident on your performance evaluation. Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Brodie turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her, leaving Maggie alone and slightly shaken. She had known there could be problems working with her former lover, but hadn’t expected to have them quite so soon. By the time she composed herself and returned to her desk, Brodie was engrossed in a conversation with another officer. Nicholls looked at her and handed her a couple of folders. “Go through these. We have a John Doe from Thursday night.”

She took the folders and began reading through the reports on the burned vehicle and victim. Her reading was interrupted by the phone ringing.

“Cedar Springs Police Department. Detective Weston speaking,” she said as she continued to look through the folder. She handed the receiver to Nicholls.

“Austin PD,” she said.

Nicholls took the phone from her. “Nicholls,” he said.He grabbed a pad and scribbled as he wrote. Finally he said, “Appreciate it.” He handed the phone back to Maggie and looked around until he spotted Brodie.

“Hey, Brodie. That was Austin PD. They located Clifford Jenkins.”

She walked to his desk. “What’s his story?”

“The vehicle was his. He reported it stolen this morning. Out of town on business for about a week and left it parked in long-term executive parking. He called it in as soon as he couldn’t locate it. Austin PD