by Andrew Lanh
In the car he blasted the heater. “What did we learn?”
“First off, we learned that Dustin is lying to us.”
“True. But why? We’re helping him. What good does it do to lie about his relationship with Ben Winslow? Ben is dead. Possible murder charges against Dustin. Why lie to us?”
“People lie for all sorts of reasons.”
“A cliché, Rick.” He punched the dashboard. “They’re not gonna be any help to us.”
“Maybe she told us something important. I mean, her strong dislike of her own son. Her—cold indifference.”
“God, you’re hearing voices. Talk about ghosts.” He punched me in the arm.
“That’s a clue to something, Hank. Maybe that explains the anger under the surface of his life. His striking out—maybe those confrontations with Ben—were meaningless. Misdirected anger that got out of hand. He doesn’t know how to deal with people.”
“That’s because he hasn’t lived with any. No one ever gave him a road map.”
“A little cruel, Hank. They have their own battles, Hank. Uprooted from Vietnam…”
He broke in, not buying it. “So have a million others.” He blew out his cheeks. “Lots of questions from this visit.”
I lowered the heat and breathed out. “When we have those answers, maybe everything will fall into place.”
Chapter Eleven
I sat with Marcie and Vinnie in Marcie’s office, the three of us sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. A reading day at the college, and I’d planned to spend the afternoon at my Hartford office, finishing up an insurance investigation, perhaps catching lunch with Jimmy. He’d called a few times, leaving the identical message each time—“You’re either there or you’re not, but if you’re there and you don’t pickup, you’re a damned fool”—and I kept meaning to get back to him. After all, he was my partner.
Vinnie wore a pinched look. “What surprised you this morning, Rick? Anything?”
I waited a heartbeat. “David Laramie.”
That morning the college had held a memorial service for Ben—mournful, sad, a succession of students talking of Ben’s being their favorite teacher. His influence on their lives.
I’d spotted David Laramie sitting five rows behind me. Why was he there? The last person I’d expect at Ben’s memorial. Stony-faced, eyes unblinking, sitting with rigid posture, he looked right through me. It gave me the chills. He was the final mourner at the funeral, come to make certain the body is buried. For some reason Vietnamese words popped into my head: Buoc qua xac chet cua toi da.
Over my dead body.
That intrigued Vinnie. His brow furrowed as he pointed out the door in the direction of Laramie’s office. “The pain-in-the-ass IT prof. Farmington College’s contribution to the waste bin of floppy disks in the town dump.”
“Yeah. The fact that he showed up. He hated Ben.”
“And how,” Marcie noted. “Yeah, I was surprised to see him there.”
“To make certain Ben was really dead?” Vinnie wondered.
I tossed my coffee cup into the basket. “I found myself checking out his face.”
Marcie frowned. “I never liked him, you know.”
“That’s because his politics are to the right of Attila the Hun.”
“That’s true.”
“But why Ben, in particular? I never understood it.”
“Tenure committee,” Marcie told me quickly. “Laramie was up for full professor and Ben was on the committee. Laramie’s application touted a book he’d written on using computers in elementary school.”
“And?”
Her eyes twinkled. “And Ben pointed out that, yes, Laramie had written such a welcome tome, but he’d run off a dozen ungrammatical copies at Staples. More of a class handout. The vote went against Laramie, and Ben became persona non grata for life.” She shivered. “Until death, as it turned out.”
Vinnie scratched his chin. “It was more than that, Rick. Ben spouted his atheism as well as his jaundiced view of tent-city religion. And Laramie is deeply religious.”
“An evangelical?”
He shook his head. “Nah, not like Reverend Simms crazy, or televangelist crazy, but a charismatic Catholic. Ben’s place in a classroom was an affront to Laramie’s personal beliefs.”
“So personal and profession antipathies?” I summed up.
“Yeah, the whole package.” Marcie pushed papers into a briefcase. “Laramie saw Ben as everything that was wrong with the school—maybe society. He was Dustin’s advisor, which surprised me, though he was assigned the task. He does not care for scholarship students, especially ones of color.”
“Really? That’s a serious charge,” I told her.
“Make of it what you will.” She stood up and shrugged. “A narrow man with a narrow agenda.”
***
Headed out of the building, I spotted David Laramie balancing a tray of food as he maneuvered the key to his office. Alone in the hallway, he was humming some tune to himself—and that annoyed me. So I’d lingered in the hallway, giving him a chance to spill his tuna melt with fries onto his lap, then knocked on his door.
I heard rustling inside, then the voice of someone with a mouthful of food. “Office hours aren’t for an hour.”
“It’s Rick Van Lam.”
Silence. Then the sound of a squeaky drawer opening and closing. “Come in.”
Laramie was seated behind his desk, no food in sight, though the aroma of oily French fries was unmistakable.
“Did I interrupt your lunch?”
He glanced toward the drawer of a cabinet near him. Slightly ajar, he leaned forward and shut it quickly. “No. What’s up?” Nothing friendly in his tone.
“Do you mind if I talk to you a bit?”
He hesitated, then bit his tongue. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair opposite his desk. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
I’d never been in his office before, no reason to, and found myself surveying a wall of heavy-duty oak shelves. A collection of early computers, bulky and archaic, a museum wall of a PC collector’s dreamscape. Brands I’d never heard of: TRS-80 from Radio Shack. Altair 8800. The IBM SCAMP. An Olivetti Programma 101. A wall of gadgetry. I leaned in to check one out. “My God, one of my first computers. This Zenith. Nobody even knows that they…”
He half-rose from his chair, his voice cold. “What do you want, Mr. Lam?”
I stared into his face. “Dustin Trang. I want to talk about him. I’m convinced he’s not involved with Ben’s death.”
His mouth was set in a hard, tight line, his eyes flickering. “And you’re doing this—why?”
“I don’t like to see innocent people railroaded.”
He swiveled in his chair, glancing out the window behind him to the snowy landscape. “Fair enough. But I still don’t see…”
“I was surprised to see you at Ben’s service.”
His eyes widened. “Why not? A colleague of mine. The whole college community was there. Something called—respect.”
I was shaking my head. “But you had your battles with him. You didn’t like him.”
He sucked in his cheeks. “I don’t like a lot of people—in fact, I could write a book”—he laughed to himself—“but I know when to pay my respects. I wasn’t raised in a barn, you know.”
I said nothing, watching him. He kept his eyes on me, his pupils focused pinpoints, and he rocked in his chair, his fingers intertwined in front of his chest.
An unlovely man, almost purposely so. The way he put himself together. Average height, a little overweight with puffy jowls and charcoal bags under his eyes, a man in his early forties, my age, but a man who probably assumed middle-age when he was in college. A slapdash moustache that needed trimming, wispy hairs drifting over his upper lip. A blondish buzz cut that he probably spo
rted since adolescence, with just the hint of sideburns. A sloppy shave job. The sad sack father trailing after his kids at Disney World. The physiognomy of someone you’d never be able to pick out in a police line-up. If it ever came to that.
And his clothing: a baggy sports jacket with leather elbow patches. A simple white dress shirt. A poorly knotted red tie. A look he probably appropriated from watching the cool guys in Revenge of the Nerds. His cardigan-clad heroes.
“What are you smiling at?” he said sharply.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was.”
”Are you hired by his family?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then what business…?”
“Do you think Dustin killed Ben?”
The question startled him. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, of course you have,” I insisted, a little testy. “You had a lot to say to the cops about him.”
He rolled his tongue over his upper lip. The ice-cream parlor moustache twitched unhappily. “They asked me questions. I answer. That’s what good citizens do.”
“But you seem to have shifted your stories, no? To the cops. Even to the press. Your face on TV.”
He waited, deliberated what to say. “Not really.” He fidgeted. “I’m not used to microphones thrust into my face.”
“So you make things up? The first reports—the one that probably sent the cops to his door—mentioned that he’d threatened Ben’s life. That you heard him say that. Then you walked back from that statement.”
Clearly rattled, he scanned the wall of old commuters. Absently he reached out a hand, brushed his fingers against the keyboard of an old Atari model. He stammered, “I never thought it would come to…this.”
“To what? A boy suspected of murder.”
“Well, Dustin is my advisee. He sits in the chair you’re in, you know. I asked him how things were.”
“And he told you he was going to kill Ben?”
He swallowed. “No, not exactly. But he…he mentioned problems with Ben.”
“Like what?”
Suddenly he sat up, his face flushed with anger. “Look, Mr. Lam. I listen to what my students tell me. I’m not a fool. Ben wasn’t good for students. He poisoned their minds. Lies. Godlessness. I’d see him walking in the hallway, followed by a gaggle of fawning students. Vulnerable minds. Weak kids. He turned them against…There should be no place on a college campus for…subversion.”
I waited until he sputtered to an end. “Maybe he saw the world differently from you.”
“To put it mildly.” Nervous, he pointed a finger at me. “Dustin was troubled. I could see that. And the trouble was Ben—suddenly.”
“But what? Dustin won’t talk about it. No one knows.”
A moment of camaraderie, his voice softening. “You know, I asked him. The day before the murder. ‘Tell me.’ Nothing. But that boy has fire in his belly. A time bomb. He made me nervous. More than nervous—frightened. A whiz with computers, a quick learner, but I expect bad things from him.” He paused. “And maybe that’s what happened here. Bad things.” He drew in his breath. “A bad thing.”
“But maybe not from him.”
“Who’s to say?” A heavy sigh. “He did tell me that Ben failed him. That was his word. Failed. There might be”—a deliberate pause—“trouble. I didn’t understand.”
“What exactly did he say?”
He deliberated. “‘He failed us.’”
“Us?”
He slammed his fist down on his desk. “I don’t know. Stop this…badgering. I barely listened to him. It was like he had to tell somebody something.”
“And he chose you?”
He drew his tongue into cheek. “Weird, no? I’d expect you to say something—snarky. I made it clear to him that I didn’t—well, care for true confessions.”
I circled back. “But why talk to the cops?”
His eyes glazed over. “Right after the murder, I panicked. The cops confronted me—everyone. I…I don’t know. I read between the lines.”
“That’s a dishonest answer.” I crossed my arms and glared at him.
My words infuriated him. He bristled, drew his lips into a razor-thin line. “You have a hell of a nerve coming in here and accusing me.”
“I’m only trying to help Dustin.”
“I’m sorry I even spoke up. People look at me now, question in their expressions.”
“No,” I said sharply. “People look at him.” I raised my voice. “Tell me, David, do you like Dustin?”
A thin, wavering smile. “Not really.”
“Why?”
A smug look on his face. “If you must know—and I feel you are cut from the same intrusive cloth that dominates this campus—the college has evolved into a kind of…Salvation Army approach to education. Especially in my computer science classes. They dump scholarship students from other countries. Accents so thick I have to keep saying—What? What? What? I go home with headaches.”
“But Dustin speaks perfect English. An intelligent student. Born here.”
He didn’t answer. He rustled some sheets on his desk and glanced toward the door. “I have office hours shortly.”
“What about Darijo Delic?”
“The Bosnian kid? He identifies himself as a Bosniak. What the hell is that?”
“A Muslim from Bosnia.” I waited second. “Maybe a friend of Dustin.”
“Dustin has no friends. Look at him.”
“What do you think of Darijo?”
He squinted. “Yeah, a Muslim who leaves my lab to pray in the hallway.”
“You’re a religious man, David. You should applaud that.”
A harsh rasp. “I know who God likes.”
The answer stunned me. “Really? Isn’t that presumptuous?”
He half-rose from his chair. “You better believe it.”
“But…”
He stood over me, pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Lam. I had nothing to do with Ben’s murder. So this is all stuff and nonsense.”
“Not until a murderer is caught.”
“Knock your socks off.”
I stood. “David…”
“This conversation is over.”
Chapter Twelve
Glistening slivers of carrot and pickled daikon piled up on the cutting board. Chopped Thai basil and mint sent waves of sweetness throughout the kitchen. Peanuts, pounded into specks, rested in an enamel bowl. Lettuce leaves rinsed under a faucet, sparkling on the counter. Thin strips of pork, pounded wafer-thin and marinated in a slathered mixture of shallots, garlic, dark soy sauce, sesame oil, lemongrass, sizzled and popped on the grill. Nuoc mam, the aromatic fish sauce, ladle at the ready. Water boiling, ready for vermicelli noodles, firm but not too soft. Just right. Always just right.
Hank’s grandmother and mother were making bun.
Hank and I sat at the kitchen table, watching. Hank might be used to artists in his family kitchen, but I wasn’t. To me, wide-eyed, this was wonder. Vegetables dripped their color onto the counter. The barbecued pork glistened with a caramelized luster.
Outside light sleet pinged the windows. Wind snapped a tree limb against the siding. Inside the old cast-iron radiators clanged and hissed.
“Mom,” Hank said, “I’m hungry.”
His mother stopped peering into the boiling water. “All my life you’re hungry. A baby reaching for my milk.”
Hank held up his hand in mock shock. “Mom, Rick’s here. He’s delicate. Family secrets.”
Grandma was chuckling as she reached over to tap him with a wooden spoon, and said in her melodic Vietnamese, “Meo khen meo dai duoi.” A bird likes to hear itself sing. Then she added, “Rick has seen more of life than you ever will.”
Hank protested, “Grandma, I’m a state cop. We see
it all.”
Grandma twinkled. “You see the underbelly of life.”
“And what does Rick see?”
She deliberated. “He sees the stars in the nighttime sky.”
“Grandma, you’re not making any sense.” He stood up and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I see stars, too.”
His mother smiled softly. “Yes, when you bang your head into a wall.”
Hank danced around his mother. “I do that to get attention. No one listens to me.”
Grandma laughed. “When you were little, at the New Year’s parties, you’d stand on a table and sing. Jumping up and down. Chao chi. Chao chi.” She mimicked a little boy’s voice in English. “Hello. Hello. Hello.” Back to Vietnamese. “Like a parrot.”
His mother added, “I feared we’d brought a trained monkey into the house.”
Hank feigned horror. “I never did. Grandma, Rick will think less of me.” He made a face. “Besides, the Connecticut State Police would never hire a trained monkey.”
Grandma smirked. “Yes, the trained monkeys run for political office.”
Hank laughed out loud. “Grandma has a jaundiced view of American politics. She watches CNN and then Fox and then gets confused.”
Hank’s line was said in English, and Grandma, not fully grasping the meaning, was rocking on her heels, disapproving. Then, a wide grin, “Somebody in the family has to know what’s going on in this country.”
“It seems to me…”
Grandma wagged a finger at him. “Quiet, you chatterbox.”
I loved the Nguyen kitchen in East Hartford. Small, cramped, three or four calendars from different Asian markets gracing the walls, a sink that always dripped, a refrigerator that announced itself with a startling bang bang bang, but it was haven, warmth. Salvation. Years back when Hank was my student at the college, he’d been leery of me—me, the bui doi, dust boy, mixed blood Vietnamese, anathema to the cult of pureblood so beloved of Vietnamese. But once we found each other as friends, he’d integrated me into his close-knit family, slowly and sometimes painfully. Grandma embraced me immediately, this loving woman, although Hank’s father and irascible grandfather still harbored Old Country biases, especially when his dad has a little too much to drink downtown. But nowadays I was at home there—I ran to that room for shelter.