Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Like what?” said Milo.

  “Snobs.”

  Milo picked up a piece of garlic bread and ate it. “If he didn't commit suicide, what do you think happened, Dr. Branch?”

  “He was murdered. Detective Connor said he had a wound on his forehead from falling but couldn't it also mean someone came from behind and slammed him down on the table, then injected him with the potassium chloride?”

  “Any suspects in mind?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Zena. The only thing I can't figure out is why.”

  “Is she a large woman?” said Milo.

  “No, on the contrary. She's tiny— a real shrimp. But coming from behind, she could have compensated for that.”

  She coiled linguini around her fork. “She took Malcolm from me but that's not why I suspect her. She's a nasty little witch. Very taken with her image: bad little girl. When she worked at PlasmoDerm she'd walk around with weird reading material— magazines on body-piercing, serial killers, those violent, X-rated alternative comics. One time I saw her handing something to Malcolm in the hall and went up to him later. He showed it to me. A photo of a man with a wire connecting his tongue to his penis. Piercing both. It nauseated me.”

  “What was Malcolm's reaction?” I said.

  “He said, “Isn't that strange, Sally?' As in, why would anyone do anything so foolish.”

  “Was he repulsed by it?” I said.

  “He'd have had to be. Did he show his repulsion? No, Malcolm rarely showed feelings.”

  She put the fork down. “This conversation is frustrating me. He's coming across as an oddball and he wasn't. He was just different because his IQ was up in the ionosphere. Even at PlasmoDerm he stood apart.”

  “Zena Lambert was a clerk at PlasmoDerm,” I said. “Who'd she work for?”

  “The maintenance office— keeping track of the janitors. See what I mean?”

  “Not exactly intellectual stuff,” said Milo.

  Her shoulders sagged. “I'll never understand it. What could Malcolm have seen in her? The only thing I can come up with is she was a good listener. Maybe I challenged him too much. We used to have little debates. About technical things. Social issues— I'm an unapologetic liberal and as I said, Malcolm didn't have much patience for . . . problems. We debated all the time, I thought he enjoyed it.”

  “You think Zena may have been submissive to him?” I said.

  “That's what doesn't make sense! Submissive's the last thing you'd call her. At PlasmoDerm she had a reputation for being cheeky. Relating to the professional staff as if she were one of them.”

  She pushed away her plate.

  “Now I sound like a snob, too. But the fact is, Zena was a file clerk who acted as if she had a doctorate. Insinuating herself into conversations she couldn't have really understood— pretentious. That sums her up better than anything: intellectually pretentious. Yet, Malcolm became infatuated with her.” Her eyelids quivered.

  “Was there anything appealing about her?” I said.

  “I suppose you could think she was attractive. In a contrived way. She has a decent figure— meet her, judge for yourself.”

  “Where can we find her?”

  “Malcolm said she was working at a bookstore named Spasm. An amusing place, he called it.”

  “More body-piercing?” said Milo.

  “Probably. Spasm. Does that tell you something?”

  “Was she fired from PlasmoDerm?”

  “Malcolm said she left.”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks before Malcolm's death.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No. Her occupational history wasn't of very much interest to me. I was glad she was gone. . . .” She looked down at the table. “I guess I was hoping with her out of the immediate environment, Malcolm and I might reconnect.”

  “Was she at his funeral?”

  “There was no funeral,” she said, still studying the white linen. “Malcolm's parents had him shipped back home and they cremated him. Look, I know you think the fact that she took him from me is coloring my opinion, but the facts are clear: She got her hooks into him, and not long after, he was dead. For no good reason.”

  I said, “Detective Connor told us she got Malcolm into some kind of high-IQ group—”

  “Meta. People who thought Mensa was for dummies. Malcolm went to a meeting with Zena and joined up. He said it was great even though the food was lousy and the wine was cheap. To me it sounded like losers with nothing to do but talk about how smart they were.”

  “What did Malcolm like about it?”

  “He said it was a pleasure to meet like-minded individuals— but how selective could they have been? Zena was a member!”

  She smoothed her hair back and let it fall and the thick waves reverted to their original shape.

  “I'm glad someone's finally looking into it. Maybe if Malcolm's parents had insisted, it would have happened sooner, but they didn't want to rake things up.”

  “That's unusual,” said Milo. “Parents generally deny suicide.”

  “You'd have to know Malcolm's parents. Both are professors of physics at Princeton— Dudley and Annabelle Ponsico. He's mechanical, she's particle, they're both geniuses. Malcolm's sister is a physical chemist at MIT and his brother's a mathematician at Michigan. We're talking major gray matter in the lineage but none of them talk. They just calculate.”

  “You met them?”

  “Once, last Christmas, they all visited and we had dinner at their hotel. Silent. The person I spoke to after Malcolm's death was the father and he just said let it rest, young lady, Malcolm has always been a moody boy.”

  “A moody boy,” I said.

  “Quaint,” she said. “But he's English. Maybe it was too soon after and they didn't want to hear about foul play. I guess I was insensitive.”

  I'd read Ponsico's file this morning. Both parents had been interviewed over the phone by Petra Connor. Both had been grief-stricken, saying only that Malcolm had never done anything “unexpected” before but that he had been subject to mood swings since adolescence and, at age fifteen, had been treated for a year by a psychiatrist for sleep disturbance and depression.

  Things he'd never told Sally.

  “Did anyone else from PlasmoDerm belong to Meta?” said Milo.

  “No one I know about. Why?”

  “You suspect Zena. We're trying to learn more about her.”

  “Well, that's all I know— would you like to see a picture of Malcolm?”

  Before we could answer she produced a color snapshot from her handbag.

  She and a tall young red-haired man in a rose garden. She wore a sundress, a big straw hat, and sunglasses and stood with her arm around Malcolm Ponsico's waist. He was well over six feet, narrow-shouldered, slightly overweight. The red hair was curly and thinning and he wore a ginger Abe Lincoln beard with no mustache. He had on a red polo shirt and brown slacks and had the loose-muscled stance of someone with no use for mirrors. She was grinning. His expression was noncommittal.

  “We took this at the Huntington Library. An exhibit on Thomas Jefferson's scientific letters.”

  Milo gave her back the picture. “Those letters on Malcolm's computer screen— DVLL. Mean anything to you?”

  “Probably some devil reference that she put there. That's exactly the kind of thing she would have gone for.”

  “She was into satanism, too?”

  “It wouldn't surprise me— the salient point here is she stole him and got him involved in who-knows-what and soon after he was dead. I'm not a paranoid person, gentlemen, but the facts speak for themselves. Ask anyone who knows me, my reputation is for being dependable, level-headed, rational.”

  Her fingers twisted around one another. “Perhaps that's the problem— I was too rational. Perhaps, if I'd yelled and kicked and put up a fuss when she went for him instead of standing back and assuming Malcolm would come to his senses, he would have understood how I really felt about him. P
erhaps if I'd emoted, he'd still be alive.”

  34

  She thanked us for listening, put her lab coat on, and left the restaurant.

  “Woman scorned,” said Milo. “And Ponsico had mood problems, even his parents didn't doubt the suicide. Without DVLL and that Meta article you found, I wouldn't spend another second on it.”

  “Some pattern we've got,” I said. “Retarded kids and a genius with no sympathy for the genetically impaired. The only link I can see to our murders is Ponsico learned something at Meta that made him a threat. The killer chitchatting too explicitly about his plans, and Ponsico's contempt for the unfortunate didn't extend to homicide.”

  “Dr. Sally's convinced this Zena was the killer but Zena's tiny and that part about her surprising Ponsico from behind is nonsense. The wound would have hurt but a big guy like that could have fought her off easily. So if he was murdered it was by someone strong. Just like our kids.”

  “What about Zena and someone else?”

  “A killing team . . . why not, we're entertaining all kinds of fantasies, but the only strike against this girl is the other girl hates her guts. Somewhere down the line, though, she may turn out useful.”

  “As an entrÉe to Meta.”

  He nodded. “Meantime, let's see what our Israeli friend has to offer.”

  In the daylight, Sharavi's house was shabby. When he came to the door he was close-shaved and neatly dressed. Cup of tea in his hand. Mint sprig floating on top. I became aware of my own stubbled face.

  He looked out at the street and let us in. The tea gave off steam.

  “May I offer you some?”

  Milo said, “No, thanks. Hope your computer's working.”

  We walked to the back room. The PC was on, a screen-saving pink hexagon dancing on the black screen. Sharavi had arranged two folding chairs in the middle of the carpet. The velvet bag for his prayer equipment was gone.

  Milo showed him the article about Farley Sanger's Meta editorial and told him about Malcolm Ponsico.

  He pulled up to the workstation and began punching keys, using a one-handed hunt-and-peck that was faster than I would have believed.

  The bad hand rested on his lap, an inert hunk of flesh.

  I watched data bank after data bank flash and disappear.

  After a while, he said, “If this group has done something criminal, none of the major agencies knows about it. I'll check academic bases.”

  The keyword Meta brought up hundreds of irrelevant topics from university data stations: meta-analysis in philosophy, scores of chemical compounds, references to metabolism, metallurgy, metamorphosis.

  When we'd waded through all of it, he said, “Let's try the Internet. It's become an international trash can, but who knows.”

  “Let's try the phone first,” said Milo. “New York Information for Meta.”

  Sharavi smiled. “Good point.” He dialed 212 Information, waited, hung up. “No listing.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “the publicity about Sanger's article drove them out of business.”

  “Could be,” said Sharavi. “Though hate's a hot commodity. It could also drum up more business. Shall I try the Internet, now?”

  Using a coded password, he hooked into an on-line network I'd never heard of. No cute graphics or chat lines, just stark black letters on white screen.

  Several seconds passed and he sat there without moving or blinking.

  WELCOME R. VAN RIJN flashed.

  Rembrandt's surname. Had the Israeli police assigned him the moniker or did he fancy himself an artist?

  A brown hand flew nimbly over the keyboard and within seconds he was web-crawling.

  Another flood of unrelated topics: an entomologist in Paris doing research on a larva called metacercaria, a holistic healer in Oakland promising to cure aches of the metacarpal bones.

  Twenty minutes later, he stopped.

  “Suggestions?”

  “Try Mensa,” said Milo. “Meta's an imitator, meaning there's probably some hostility between the groups. Maybe some Mensa faithful wants to express feelings.”

  Sharavi swiveled around, attacking the keyboard.

  “Plenty on Mensa,” he said.

  We watched him scroll slowly through page after page. Times and places for Mensa meetings around the world, Mensa-related topics.

  A similar organization in London calling itself Limey Scumdogs discussing its favorite things. Members with nicknames— the Sharp Kidd, Sugar Baby, Buffalo Bob— listing “bad puns,” “strong coffee and dialectics,” “debates from hell,” “cuddles and housebroken Afghan hounds.” And so on.

  Some of the notations were in foreign languages and Sharavi seemed to be reading them.

  “What was that?” said Milo, pointing, as Sharavi skipped one.

  “Dublin Mensa. Probably Gaelic.”

  More scrolling.

  A real-estate broker in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, advertising his services and listing Mensa membership as a job qualification.

  Same for a personnel manager in Chicago, a dental hygienist in Orlando, Florida, an engineer in Tokyo, dozens more.

  Unemployment hadn't spared the top of the bell curve.

  Next came an IQ MEASUREMENT section. Several writers, all men, displaying questions from intelligence scales— quickie tests, the type featured in know-your-IQ-paperbacks. Most selections were followed by variations of the assertion that “this is an extremely rigorous set of questions constructed to show a stratospherically high level of intelligence.”

  The Punchline:

  ROBERT'S IQ.

  HORACE'S IQ.

  KEITH'S IQ.

  CHARLES'S IQ . . .

  Some pages had accompanying artwork— Einstein's face was a favorite.

  All with CLICK HERE TO SEE MY SCORE boxes.

  Sharavi's clicks brought up graphs with little stars for Robert and Horace and Keith and Charles and . . .

  All in the 170-plus range.

  “Such smart people,” said Sharavi. “So much free time.”

  “Weenie-land,” said Milo. “Send 'em applications to the Get a Life Club.”

  Sharavi moved through several more pages with no success.

  “The information age,” said Milo. “You spend lots of time doing this?”

  “Less and less,” said Sharavi, hand continuing to move. “When the Internet began it was more valuable as an investigative tool. Professors talking to professors, scientific data, agencies communicating. Now, there's too much to wade through for the little you get. It seems to have become one big chat-room for lonely people.”

  He turned and looked at me. “I suppose that serves a purpose, Doctor.”

  “Keep going,” said Milo.

  After two more hours of viewing, we had nothing.

  “I assume you've already looked up DVLL,” I told Sharavi.

  “That and all the hate groups who run bulletin boards. No progress, I'm afraid.”

  “What about a different keyword,” I said. “Galton, sterilization, eugenics, euthanasia.”

  He typed.

  Sterilization brought up more references to food-safety than castration and most of the discussions of eugenics were glorified personal ads: “I hereby splay my DNA out on the platter of public scrutiny. Women desiring choice nucleic protein are cordially invited to apply.”

  Sharavi printed it all out, anyway, page after page landing in the bin silently. From time to time Milo got up, removed sheets, scanned them, put them back.

  At five-thirty, he said, “Enough. They obviously keep a low profile.”

  “We could act rather than just react,” said Sharavi. “E-mailing something about Meta into some of the data banks and see what turns up.”

  “Can you be sure your identity's totally protected?” said Milo.

  “No. I change passwords and addresses regularly but you can never be sure.”

  “Then, no, not yet. I don't want to alert anyone.”

  “I already did that with my call to Mensa,�
�� I said, describing the message I'd left.

  Milo said, “No big deal,” but I could tell he was bothered and I felt like an amateur.

  He turned to Sharavi. “Any other insights?”

  “Ponsico's suicide. Despite the lack of evidence, it does sound irregular. Using poison, for starters. Poisoners tend to be women, right?”