When the Bough Breaks (33 page)

“He became attached to a young lady, one of the Two Hundred, pretty enough, but vapid. This in itself, was no error, as the heart and the gonads must be satisfied. The mistake was in choosing a female already coveted by another.”

“By Tim Kruger?”

Van der Graaf nodded painfully.

“This is difficult for me, Doctor. It brings back so much.”

“If it’s too difficult for you, Professor I can leave now and come back some other time.”

“No, no. That would serve no purpose.” He took a deep breath. “It comes down to a smarmy soap opera of a tale. Jeffrey and Kruger were interested in the same girl, they had words in public. Tempers flared, but it seemed to pass. Jeffrey visited me and vented his spleen.
I played amateur psychologist—professors so often are required to provide emotional support to their students and I confess I did a fine job of it. I urged him to forget the girl, knowing her type, understanding full well that Jeffrey would be the loser in any battle of wills. The young of Jedson are homing pigeons, as predictable as their ancestors, reverting to type. The girl was meant to mate with one of her own. There were better things, finer things, awaiting Jeffrey, an entire lifetime of opportunity and adventure.

“He wouldn’t listen. He was like a knight of old, imbued with the nobility of his mission. Conquer the Black Jouster, rescue the fair maiden. Total rubbish—but he was an innocent.
An innocent”

Van der Graaf paused, out of breath. His face had turned a sickly greenish shade of pale and I feared for his health.

“Perhaps we should stop for the moment,” I suggested. “I can return tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not! I’ll not be left here in solitary confinement with a poisonous lump lodged in my craw!” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be on with it—you sit there and pay close attention.”

“All right, Professor.”

“Now then, where was I—ah, Jeffrey as a White Knight. Foolish boy. The enmity between him and Timothy Kruger continued and festered. Jeffrey was ostracized by all the others—Kruger was a campus luminary, socially established. I became Jeffrey’s sole source of support. Our conversations changed. No longer were they cerebral exchanges. Now I was conducting psychotherapy on a full-time basis—an activity with which I was most uncomfortable, but I felt I couldn’t abandon the boy. I was all he had.

“It culminated in a wrestling match. Both the boys were Greco-Roman wrestlers. They agreed to meet, late at night, in the empty gymnasium, just the two of them for a grudge match. I’m no wrestler myself, for obvious reasons, but I do know that the sport is highly structured, replete with regulations, the criteria for victory clearly drawn. Jeffrey liked it for that reason—he was highly self-disciplined for one so young. He walked into that gym alive and left on a stretcher, neck and spine snapped, alive in only the most vegetative sense of the word. Three days later he died.”

“And his death was ruled an accident,” I said softly.

“That was the official story. Kruger said the two of them had gotten involved in a complicated series of holds and in the ensuing tangle of torsos, arms and legs, Jeffrey had been injured. And who could dispute it—accidents do occur in wrestling matches. At worst it seemed a case of two immature men behaving in an irresponsible manner. But to those of us who knew Timothy, who understood the depth of the rivalry between them, that was far from a satisfactory explanation. The college
was eager to hush it up, the police all too happy to oblige—why go up against the Kruger millions when there are hundreds of poor people committing crimes?

“I attended Jeffrey’s funeral—flew to Idaho. Before I left I ran into Timothy on campus. Looking back I see he must have sought me out.” Van der Graaf’s mouth tightened, the wrinkles deepening as if controlled by some internal drawstring. “He approached me near the Founder’s statue. ‘I hear you’re traveling, Professor,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’m flying to Boise tonight.’ ‘To attend the last rites for your young charge?’ he asked. There was a look of utter innocence on his face, feigned innocence—he was an actor, for God’s sake, he could manipulate his features at will.

“‘What’s it to you?’ I replied. He bent to the ground, picked up a dry oak twig and sporting an arrogant smirk—the same smirk one can see in photographs of Nazi concentration camp guards tormenting their victims—snapped the twig between his fingers, and let it drop to the ground. Then he laughed.

“I’ve never in my life been so close to commiting murder, Doctor Delaware. Had I been younger, stronger, properly armed, I would have done it. As it was, I simply stood there, for once in my life at a loss for words. ‘Have a nice trip,’ he said, and, still smirking, backed away. My heart pounded so, I was assaulted with a spell of dizziness, but fought to maintain my equilibrium. When he was out of eyesight I broke down and sobbed.”

A long moment passed between us.

When he appeared sufficiently composed I asked him:

“Does Margaret know about this? About Kruger?”

He nodded.

“I’ve spoken of it to her. She’s my friend.”

So the awkward publicist was more spider than fly after all. The insight cheered me for some reason.

“One more thing—the girl. The one they were fighting over. What became of her?”

“What do you expect?” He sneered, some of the old vitriol returning to his voice. “She shunned Kruger—most of the others did. They were afraid of him. She attended Jedson for three more undistinguished years, married an investment banker and moved to Spokane. No doubt she’s a proper hausfrau, shuttling the kiddies to school, brunching at the club, boffing the delivery boy.”

“The spoils of battle,” I said.

He shook his head. “Such a waste.”

I looked at my watch. I’d been up in the dome for a little over an hour, but it seemed longer. Van der Graaf had unloaded a truckful of sewage during that time, but he was a historian, and that’s what they’re
trained to do. I felt tired and tense, and I longed for fresh air.

“Professor,” I said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Putting the information to good use would be a step in the right direction.” The blue eyes shone like twin gaslights. “Snap some twigs of your own.”

“I’ll do my best.” I got up.

“I trust you can see yourself out.”

I did.

When I was halfway across the rotunda I heard him cry out: “Remind Maggie of our pizza picnic!”

His words echoed against the smooth, cold stone.

23

A
MONG CERTAIN PRIMITIVE TRIBES
, there exists the belief that when one vanquishes an enemy it is not enough to destroy all evidence of corporeal life: the soul must be vanquished as well. That belief is at the root of the various forms of cannibalism that have been known to exist—and still exist—in many regions of the world. You are what you eat. Devour your victim’s heart, and you encompass his very being. Grind his penis to dust and swallow the dust, and you’ve co-opted his manhood.

I thought of Timothy Kruger—of the boy he’d killed and how he’d assumed the identity of a struggling scholarship student when describing himself to me—and visions of lip-smacking, bone-crunching savagery intruded upon the idyllic verdancy of the Jedson campus. I was still struggling to erase those visions when I climbed the marble steps of Crespi Hall.

Margaret Dopplemeier responded to my coded knock with a “Wait one second!” and an open door. She let me in and locked the door.

“Did you find Van der Graaf helpful?” she asked airily.

“He told me everything. About Jeffrey Saxon and Tim Kruger and the fact that you were his confidante.”

She blushed.

“You can’t expect me to feel guilty for deceiving you when you did the same to me,” she said.

“I don’t,” I assured her, “I just wanted you to know that he trusted me and told me everything. I know you couldn’t until he did.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said primly.

“Thank you for leading me to him.”

“It was my pleasure, Alex. Just put the information to good use.”

It was the second time in ten minutes that I’d received that mandate. Add to that a similar order from Raquel Ochoa and it made for a heavy load.

“I will. Do you have the clipping?”

“Here.” She handed me the photocopy. The death of Lilah Towle and “Little Willie” had made the front page, sharing space with a report on fraternity hijinks and a reprint of an Associated Press report on the dangers of “mariwuana reefers.” I started to read but the copy was blurred and barely legible. Margaret saw me straining.

“The original was rubbed out.”

“It’s okay.” I skimmed the article long enough to see that it was consistent with Van der Graaf’s recollection.

“Here’s another story, several days later—about the funeral. This one’s better.”

I took it from her and examined it. By now the Towle affair was on page six, a social register item. The account of the ceremony was maudlin and full of dropped names. A photograph at the bottom caught my eye.

Towle led the mourners procession, haggard and grim, hands folded in front of him. To one side was a younger, still toadlike Edwin Hayden. To the other, slightly to the rear, was a towering figure. There was no mistaking the identity of the mourner.

The kinky hair was black, the face bloated and shiny. The heavy framed eyeglasses I’d seen a few days before were replaced by gold-rimmed, round spectacles resting low on the meaty nose.

It was the Reverend Augustus McCaffrey in younger days.

I folded both papers and slipped them in my jacket pocket.

“Call Van der Graaf,” I said.

“He’s an old man. Don’t you think you’ve questioned him enou—”

“Just call him,” I cut her off. “If you don’t I’ll run back there myself.”

She winced at my abruptness, but dialed the phone.

When the connection was made she said, “Sorry to bother you, Professor. It’s
him
again.” She listened, shot me an unhappy look and handed me the receiver, holding it at arm’s length.

“Thank you,” I said sweetly. Into the phone: “Professor, I need to ask you about another student. It’s important.”

“Go on. I’ve only Miss November of 1973 occupying my attention. Who is it?”

“Augustus McCaffrey—was he a friend of Towle, too?”

There was silence on the other end of the line and then the sound of laughter.

“Oh, dear me! That’s a laugh! Gus McCaffrey, a Jedson student!
And him touched by the tar brush!” He laughed some more and it was a while before he caught his breath. “Mary Mother of God, no, man. He was no
student
here!”

“I’ve got a photograph in front of me showing him at the Towle funeral—”

“Be that as it may, he was no student. Gus McCaffrey was—I believe they call themselves maintenance engineers today—Gus was a janitor. He swept the dormitories, took out the trash, that kind of thing.”

“What was he doing at the funeral? It looks like he’s right behind Towle, ready to catch him if he falls.”

“No surprise. He was originally an employee of the Hickle family—they had one of the largest homes on Brindamoor. Family retainers can grow quite close to their masters—I believe Stuart brought him over to Jedson when he began college here. He did eventually attain some kind of rank within the custodial staff—supervising janitor or something similar. Leaving Brindamoor may very well have been an excellent opportunity for him. What’s big Gus doing today?”

“He’s a minister—the head of that children’s home I told you about.”

“I see. Taking out the Lord’s trash, so to speak.”

“So to speak. Can you tell me anything about him.”

“I honestly can’t, I’m afraid. I had no contact with the nonacademic employees—there’s a tendency to pretend they’re invisible that’s acquired over time. He was a big brute of a fellow, that I do recall. Slovenly, seemed quite strong, may very well have been bright—your information certainly points in that direction, and I’m no social Darwinist with a need to dispute it. But that is really all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. One last thing—where can I get a map of Brindamoor Island?”

“There’s none that I know of outside the County Hall of Records—wait, a student of mine did an undergraduate thesis on the history of the place, complete with residential map. I don’t have a copy but I believe it would be stored in the library, in the thesis section. The students’ name was—let me think—Church? No, it was something else of a clerical nature—Chaplain. Gretchen Chaplain. Look under C, you should find it.”

“Thanks again, Professor. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Margaret Dopplemeier sat at her desk, glaring at me.

“I’m sorry for being rude,” I said. “It was important.”

“All right,” she said. “I just thought you could have been a little more polite in view of what I’ve done for you.” The possessive look slithered into her eyes like a python into a lagoon.

“You’re right. I should have. I won’t trouble you further.” I stood
up. “Thanks so much for everything.” I held out my hand, and when she reluctantly extended hers, I took it. “You’ve really made a big difference.”

“That’s good to know. How long will you be staying?”

Gently I broke the handclasp.

“Not long.” I backed away, smiled at her, finally got my hand on the knob and pushed. “All the best, Margaret. Enjoy your blackberries.”

She started to say something, then thought better of it. I left her standing behind her desk, a circle of pink tongue-tip visible in the corner of her unattractive mouth, searching for a taste of something.

The library was properly austere and very respectably stocked with books and journals for a college the size of Jedson. The main room was a marble cathedral draped in heavy red velvet and lit by oversized windows placed ten feet apart. It was filled with oak reading tables, green-shaded lamps, leather chairs. All that was missing were people to read the august volumes that papered the walls.

The librarian was an effete young man with close-cropped hair and a pencil mustache. His shirt was red plaid, his tie a yellow knit. He sat behind his reference table reading a recent copy of
Artforum
. When I asked him where the thesis section was, he looked up with the astonished expression of a hermit observing the penetration of his lair.