by Gregory Ashe
“I’m sorry about that,” Somers said. “Dr. Brigaud, we’re not allowed to turn off the recording equipment.”
“It’s for your protection as much as ours,” Dulac said.
This time, Somers did groan. Just a tiny one.
Brigaud turned toward Dulac for the first time, leveling a gaze that she must have used on her freshmen. It seemed to work just as well on Dulac; after a minute, the detective was shrinking, arms wrapping tighter around his chest.
“What do I need protection from?” Brigaud said.
“Dr. Brigaud—” Somers tried.
“What do you need protection from?”
This time, Somers went with a smile—tried and true, a frustrated little grin to show that he knew they’d gotten off badly. “Dr. Brigaud, I know you don’t want to be here any longer than you need to. It’s late. We’re all tired. I’m sorry for the way we’ve gotten started here.”
Brigaud’s stare lasted a moment longer; then she shifted her attention to Somers and blinked, waiting.
“I know you’ve already given your statement, but I want to talk to you about the victim, and—”
“Jim Fabbri was a racist, sexist asshole. He might not have deserved to be murdered, but I won’t shed any tears over him.”
Somers felt the charge in the room, like a spark that could ignite an oilfield. “Could you tell me a little bit more about that?”
Brigaud looked down her nose at Somers. “Do you know anything about Fabbri?”
“I believe he was a professor in the anthropology department. A recent hire. He’s relatively young—” Somers hated that he had automatically added relatively. “—and he’s single. Or without a spouse or partner that we know of.”
“He’s an illegitimate hire, and so his position was illegitimate, his time here was illegitimate, his pay was illegitimate. He should never have been a resident head. He should never have been allowed to set foot on campus.” Brigaud gathered herself, shifting forward on the seat. “Do you have any idea the ethical compromise that the college made by even allowing him to interview for this job? I nearly resigned my position.”
“But you didn’t,” Dulac said.
He set his shoulders and lifted his jaw when her gaze whipped back to him.
“No,” Brigaud said. “It’s more important that students see an empowered, LGBT woman of color in a position of authority. But I promise you that I made the dean and the chancellor aware of my feelings.”
“Tonight,” Dulac began.
“Before we get to tonight,” Somers interrupted, “can you tell me more about Fabbri?”
“I think you know how I feel about him.”
“But what’s his story? Why was it such a big deal for the university to hire him? An ethical compromise—isn’t that what you said?”
“Are you here to gossip, officer? Do you want to know all the trivial feuding and rivalries?” She sniffed and waved a hand. “Ask your questions. I’m tired and want to go home, and I’m not in the mood to dig up grudges that are meaningless outside the Ivory Tower.”
“People kill all the time over all sorts of things that seem meaningless,” Somers said. “It’s important to follow up on every aspect of a case.”
“What are you asking me?” Brigaud said.
“What was your relationship with Jim Fabbri?” Dulac asked.
“None.”
“You were colleagues,” Dulac said.
“Not at all. I teach in the department of mathematics; Fabbri, as you already know, gave courses in anthropology. A social science, in case you didn’t know.”
“So you had no professional interaction with him?” Somers asked.
“Of course not. I knew him by reputation only.”
“But you were invited to his party. That’s what tonight was, right? A Halloween party?”
“Yes. For children. Do you understand that? This man was resident head of an entire dorm; he was responsible for those children. And what did he do?” Brigaud leaned back. “Served them alcohol. Turned a blind eye to their indiscretions. Even if those children are eighteen, he had a responsibility not to—”
“Not to what?” Somers asked.
“Not to set a bad example,” Brigaud said. But that wasn’t what she had been about to say.
“Was Jim Fabbri in a relationship with a student?”
Brigaud’s blink was slow and delayed. “I have no idea.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing you’d like to tell us?”
“Quite sure, officer. There’s absolutely nothing in the world I want to tell you.”
Dulac shifted against the wall, but Somers ignored him.
“What about tonight?” Somers said.
“I’ve given my statement.”
“Would you please walk us through it? I’d like to hear it from you. It’s surprising that in a roomful of people, only a handful actually saw the attack.”
Brigaud seemed to consider this for a moment. “Really?”
Somers nodded.
“But he did—” She stopped.
“What?”
“He played a music video before . . . before the attack. It was very loud. Very harsh. Death metal, or something related. And everyone was looking at the television. Jim loved shocking people. Startling them. The television turned on with no warning, at full volume, and the video that accompanied the music was grotesque.”
“Violent?”
“No. But images of carrion feeding, slaughtered animals, parasites, infected wounds.”
Dulac made a gagging noise.
“And so everyone was looking at the TV?” Somers said.
“Most everyone was looking at the TV. I realized after a moment that Jim was planning something, so I looked back at him. Then the door burst open. He was shocked, of course. And furious. It was all over his face. Someone had ruined his whole performance.”
“What do you mean?” Somers said.
“You need to do some research on Jim Fabbri, officer.”
“Could you—”
“He was staring at the door, so I glanced back. The man was standing right there: very large, very tall. Very Aryan, of course.”
“Of course?” Dulac said.
“What do you know about the Ozark Volunteers?” Brigaud said, using a professorial voice, like Dulac had interrupted her lecture.
“I’ve heard of them.”
Brigaud waited.
After a moment, Dulac shrugged. “Some kind of militia group, right?”
“They’re white supremacists,” Brigaud said. “Neo-Nazis, although not in any sort of official affiliation. Homophobes. Ultra-conservative anti-government. So, this man was very Aryan. Of course.”
“What time was this?”
“Around ten-thirty. I was getting ready to leave; I was just going to wait long enough to see what Jim had planned, and then I was going to leave.”
“What else can you tell us about the man you saw?”
“The lower half of his face was covered with a bandana, and he was wearing a Cardinals hat and large, dark sunglasses. I believe his hair was brown. Maybe a very dark blond. He was wearing a camouflage t-shirt and cargo pants. Boots of some kind.” Brigaud frowned. “He smelled like coconut. Then I saw the swastika on his arm. At first, I thought it was just a tasteless costume.”
“You smelled him?” Dulac asked.
“Have you ever been in a roomful of college students? Hours of radiant heating, cheap alcohol, and wool? Any new smell is welcome, and he walked right past me.”
“You’re sure he had a swastika on his arm?”
“Yes, the tattoo was very clear.”
“Anything else that might identify him as a member of the Ozark Volunteers?”
“I think a swastika is enough.”
“How close did you get to him?” Somers said.
“As close as you and I.”
“And nobody reacted to t
his man?”
“Well, I watched him, of course. A masked man interrupts a party in this day and age? I had a moment where I thought he might be an active shooter. But then I remembered it was a Halloween party. Many of the kids were in masks. Many of the adults had their faces covered. It’s hard to believe in hindsight, but I thought he was just a latecomer. And, of course, he had interrupted Jim’s performance.”
“You keep mentioning a performance. What do you mean?”
“That was Jim’s preferred instructional method. He loved to be the center of attention.” Brigaud waved a hand. “Regardless, Jim was staring at this man, obviously ready to blast him to pieces. The man walked across the room, just a few feet away from me. As I said. Most everyone was still focused on Jim’s horrible video. And then—” Brigaud’s composure shattered; she covered her face with one hand, and her voice broke. “He stabbed him. Right there, right while I was watching.”
“Once?”
“God, no. He just kept doing it. And Jim was screaming, of course, but the man held on to him and just kept stabbing.” Brigaud took a breath and wiped her face. “People were starting to turn around. People were starting to notice. How could they not? Jim was screaming. God, I’ve never heard anything like it. And then the guy turned and ran. We all just stood there.” She covered her eyes again and laughed. “All except Mitchell, of course.”
“Mitchell Martin?” Somers said, glancing down at the papers in his hand.
“Yes. In gym class, I’d have picked him last for every game except hopscotch, but he was the only one who reacted. He grabbed the man, but of course, the man got away.”
“And then?”
Brigaud wiped her eyes again, but they seemed dry enough this time. “Well, most of us were useless. I called 911, but of course, I couldn’t hear anything over the screams—they were all screaming. I tried to get to the hallway, but everyone else was trying to leave too. Cynthia, bless her, was the only one who stopped to try to help Jim. He wasn’t quite dead, yet. You understand? He was still screaming. Not that anybody could do anything for him by then. There was so much blood.” Brigaud looked like she might say more, but then she shook her head.
Somers asked a few more questions, but Brigaud had nothing left to tell them. He let her go. She drifted out of the interview room, the white sheet billowing around her like she was a ghost.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NOVEMBER 1
THURSDAY
12:27 AM
SOMERS SAT IN THE interview room, tapping his pencil on a notepad, trying to figure out how to do this next part without burning a bridge.
“Do you want me to get the next one?” Dulac said.
“Not yet.” Somers met Dulac’s dark eyes. “I’m not very happy with how our last interview went.”
Again, Dulac’s creamy skin flooded with red. “Man, I’m an asshole. I know I came on too hard.”
“I like to use a soft touch, ok?”
“I know, man. I know. You probably think I’m the worst fucking excuse for a detective you’ve ever seen. It’s nerves, man. I’m fucking out of my skin with nerves right now. I mean, you’re John-Henry Somerset.” Dulac flapped his blazer as though he were hot. “I messed it up bad with Brigaud. I know. I didn’t read the room. I didn’t read her. I just kept opening my fucking mouth.”
“Let’s chalk it up to a new dynamic, ok? We’re figuring each other out. We’re trying to find our rhythm. But this is a small town, Gray. If you go after everybody with a hammer, your life is going to be hell.”
“I know, man. I know. It’s not going to happen again.”
But the thing was, Somers thought, that Springfield wasn’t a very big town either. So why didn’t Dulac seem to know any of this?
“Let me take the lead on the next one,” Dulac said, still flapping his blazer. “Jesus, please. I’ve got to redeem myself after that shit show.”
“Cynthia Outzen,” Somers said, scanning the statement. “She was the one who tried to perform first aid on Jim Fabbri after he was stabbed.”
“I got this.”
“For the record, I like bouncing questions off each other, working the interview from both sides. We just don’t want to shut an eyewitness down.”
“Man, I’m an asshole, I’m the biggest fucking asshole in the world, hand to God, I know it. But I’m good at this job. I swear to God, I am.”
And then Dulac had his fist out again.
Trying not to sigh, Somers rapped knuckles. “So let’s do this interview.”
Hoffmeister brought in a blond girl dressed in a long, black robe that had been strategically cut to show long expanses of toned, tan flesh. The girl’s hair was done in a crown braid, and she had plastered on white pancake makeup, giving her face a strangely expressionless quality. Blood stained the white. Drops of it had run around her mouth, down her chin, into the hollow of her throat. It gave her the gruesome appearance of having drunk Fabbri’s blood.
When she noticed their glances, she touched her chin. “It’s—it’s makeup. I was supposed to be a vampire.” Then she started to sob, squeezing out the words: “Some of it’s makeup.”
They got her tissues. She cried. The sound of the crying, especially as it dwindled to sniffles, was familiar. And the voice, now that Somers thought about it, had been familiar. Cynthia sat at the table with Dulac, wiping her eyes, and Somers studied her from his position against the wall.
“You were Fukuma’s girlfriend,” Somers said.
Dulac shot a look over his shoulder, and Cynthia’s eyes dropped again.
“Yeah. I mean, not technically. Because she didn’t like labels. But we . . . we were together. At the end.”
Dulac was still looking at Somers, a question on his face.
“Lynn Fukuma was a professor of anthropology at Wroxall. She died a few months ago; actually, Fabbri was the hire for her position, isn’t that right?”
Cynthia nodded. “But she didn’t die. She was murdered.”
“That’s true,” Somers said slowly.
Dulac discretely jerked a thumb toward the table, offering his spot, but after a moment, Somers shook his head.
“Miss Outzen,” Dulac said, turning back to Cynthia. “Can you tell us about tonight?”
“My statement—”
“I know. Thank you for taking the time to do that. We want to talk to you, though, while the memory is still fresh. And we have some questions that aren’t covered in the statement.”
Cynthia’s tears had slowed without stopping completely, and she continued to dab at her face. The Halloween gore around her mouth gave her an odd look, as though her mouth were wider than it really was, as though she were on the edge of smiling.
“I guess you want to know about the party.”
“Actually, why don’t we start with who you are and what your relationship was with Professor Fabbri, and we’ll go from there.”
“I’m a graduate student. In Women’s Studies. It’s only a Master’s degree, but I’m looking at Ph.D. programs for next year.”
“Did you do your undergraduate at Wroxall?”
“No.” Cynthia stopped and seemed to realize they expected more. “Drury. In Springfield.”
“I know Drury,” Dulac said, and suddenly everything in the room was clicking, those dangerous freckles making Dulac look like the boy next door, his smile just the right mixture of reserve and friendliness. “I grew up in Springfield, actually. I’ve been to more Panthers games than I’d like to admit.”
A real smile, not that bizarre effect of the costume makeup, flashed across Cynthia’s face. “Go Panthers.”
“Go Panthers. So you’re new to town? Relatively, I mean.”
“This is my second year at Wroxall.”
“And how do you like it?”
She shrugged and started crying again. “It’s not bad. I mean, it’s good. Hard, but good. I’ve learned so much about myself. I mean, not just about my sexualit
y.” It was hard to tell under the pancake makeup, but Somers thought she was blushing. “But about the real world. How the world works. Power dynamics. Invisible hierarchies. Deconstructing the shit out of everything.” The tears were coming harder, but she spoke in an even tone. “And then Lynk died. Lynn, I mean. She was murdered. And I had to . . . I had to deal with that. And now this. And I don’t know, I just want to go home and sleep and wake up and find out it was all a dream.”
“I’m sorry,” Dulac said. And, to his credit, he sounded like he meant it. “What can you tell me about your relationship with Jim Fabbri?”
“He was going to be my advisor.”
“Because he took Fukuma’s job?” Somers asked.
“No, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Why was he going to be your advisor?” Dulac asked. “Isn’t it late in the game to add someone new?” This time, Dulac’s grin was the pie-stealing, shit-kicking kid. “And what’s a guy going to tell you about women’s studies?”
Cynthia laughed. “Oh, it’s not like that. Men can do it too. And anyway, he’s kind of a big deal.”
“In women’s studies?”
“Well, in gender studies. He’s so young, you know, but he’s already got a name.” She blushed. “He’s what we call a rising star. He was, I guess.”
“Why?” Somers said.
Something flickered under Cynthia’s pancake makeup. “Just because of his research, I think.”
“What is his research on?”
“Oh, you can’t really pigeonhole him.”
“Not a pigeonhole,” Dulac said with that same smile. “Just an overview. A survey, you know.”
“I guess I’d say he works on intersectionality and power dynamics.”
“Break that down for a couple of dumb cops.”
Cynthia scooted forward. “Well, intersectionality is a really, really important idea, but it’s something that people have neglected for a long time. It’s the idea that race, class, and gender are all tied up in how power and discrimination work. You can’t sort them out.”
Dulac had a furrow between his brows.
“For example,” Cynthia said. “Take a gay man.”
“I try to,” Dulac said with that shit-kicking grin. “All the time.”