Bitter Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Burrwith stared into Kim's beautiful Creole features, his face scrunched in confusion as he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  “I'm a psychic, Dr. Burrwith, a psychometrist to be exact. When you and I shook hands, I got a reading on you.”

  “Really... really?”

  “A sure reading...”

  Kim's face remained impassive while Burrwith squirmed in the seat into which he had fallen, the air es­caping the cushioned seat as if to mock his own loss of breath. “So, have I passed your litmus test? How presump­tuous of you—both of you—to come in here and... and attempt to... what would a lawyer call it? Entrap me? I think our interview is over. It's really too bad. I may have been able to help you, but not so long as I'm being treated as a suspect.”

  “You're hardly being treated as a suspect, sir,” Jessica assured him.

  “No matter what sort of spin you put on it, I am being treated shabbily. Now good day.”

  He had done a sudden about-face since speaking to the student outside, and Jessica thought perhaps he was some­thing of a manic-depressive himself. “Yes, well, I think we're done here, Dr. Burrwith. Thank you for your time.” With that, she guided Kim out the door.

  “What was that all about?” she asked when they had gotten out of earshot of the man. “Do you think telling him you're a psychic at this stage was a smart thing to do?”

  “I wanted to see his response, see if it elicited a reac­tion.”

  “That kind of information always elicits a reaction.”

  “Yeah, I know, and I wanted to see his. See if I could get some sense of him from it. I think he may be hiding some­thing, that he's very practiced at being duplicitous.”

  “Wanted him to sweat it out, huh?”

  “Whoever our killer is, I suspect he believes quite strongly in psychic powers, is heavily into the afterlife and New Age thinking, and if he knows we have a psychic on his tail, he might give something away. But I fear it didn't work with Burrwith. I got nothing beyond the feeling that he's hiding something. I just don't know what that thing might be.”

  “Believe me, I've had the same reaction to some of the sociopaths I've run across. Do you have antennae strong enough to pick up the unfeeling, unemotional psychos among us?”

  “I know when a soul is ugly, and I don't get that off Burrwith.”

  “But then perhaps our killer's soul is not ugly. We're not dealing with the usual maniac here.”

  “Touche. You're right, of course.”

  As they exited the dark vaulted-ceilinged corridors of the neo-Gothic building, Dean Harriet Plummer again located them, a young woman in tow. She said, “You might wish to talk to Johnnie.”

  “Johnnie?”

  “My student assistant here. She knew your last victim.”

  “Please allow me to buy you coffee at the commissary,” said the dean, pointing to a cafe-front window across the way. “Sit down with Johnnie. Hear what she has to say about Burrwith and this business.”

  Taking a deep breath, Jessica said, “AJ1 right.”

  Young Johnnie Haley told them that a lot of students around the campus thought Dr. Burrwith might possibly be the pen-wielding poisoner.

  “Why is that, Johnnie?” asked Kim, seated across from her. “He's just weird. All the poems and stories we study in class are about gruesome stuff, child abuse, molestation, incest, death, disease, horror... you name it. Lotsa kids call him Dr. Death.”

  'Tell us what you know about his habits. Ever see him at nightclubs or bars or the coffeehouses down on Second Street, or anywhere else for that matter?”

  “Only once, the time he had a fight with Dean Plum­mer.”

  Plummer had left them alone with the student. “The dean was at a local nightclub?”

  “The Brick Teacup, checking out the action with Dr. Locke—”

  “Locke?”

  “Another professor. He's won awards for his poetry and stuff, I hear. Anyway, the three of them got into some sorta shouting match, but no one could make it out since the place is so—”

  “Loud, we know,” said Kim.

  'Tell us what you knew about Maurice Deneau,” asked Jessica.

  “Not much, really. Just saw him around, you know. He was just a kid, you know, a big kid. They were just kids, like me. Kids nowadays, we just wanna have fun, you know. Nothing about any of this makes any sense to me.” Despite more digging, they got very little else from Johnnie; clearly, using the girl to incriminate Burrwith was a desperate measure on Plummer's part. They learned that she had once slept over at Maurice Deneau's house, and that she knew Thomas Ainsworth, Deneau's friend. “Both the boys were nice, sensitive young men,” she told them, tears welling up now. “Just sweet, sensitive guys, you know. Could use more of their type in the world, you know?”

  The coffee left a bitter taste in Jessica's mouth, as did Plummer's overly helpful coaching of the girl to point the finger at Burrwith. After fifteen minutes of listening to ba­sically useless and superficial information, they sent the student on her way.

  As they were about to leave the English department building, where they had walked with Johnnie, once again the chairman of the English department clung to them as if she were afraid to be left so close to Burrwith. “You should speak to a Dr. Donatella Leare, also an expert in literature here.”

  “But let me guess, she's also had some run-ins with Burrwith?” Jessica said.

  “She has, but she's never confided the details. She has excellent insight into poetic expression, far more than any­one on my staff. I have given over the information I re­ceived from the FBI to her, and she has shown a great deal of interest in the case. You may find her at home late tonight or early tomorrow. Here is her card.” She had es­corted them to the parking lot now.

  “Thank you. Dr. Plummer. You have been a great help,” replied Jessica, tiring of the woman's overbearing manner.

  “We wish to cooperate as much as possible. This is a horrible blot on our community, these awful killings.”

  Jessica's police instincts made her suspect Dr. Plummer herself, perhaps not of the murders per se but of some connection to them. She was too eager to be of help, going out of her way, so far as to dig up a student who'd done little more than sit in a classroom with one of the victims, and who'd been in Burrwith's class. She also showed them registration forms indicating that another of the victims had taken Burrwith's class. This overzealousness was a sure sign that she was hiding something. Jessica wondered if the dean's secrets had anything whatever to do with the case; much more likely they had to do with the angry scene the student had referred to, the argument involving Plummer, Burrwith, and the third English professor, Locke, at the Brick Teapot.

  “Dr. Donatella Leare may be able to give you some ad­ditional insights, as I said.” Plummer continued talking as they made their way to the car. “Meanwhile, I can continue to delve into such things as student records.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Plummer.” Jessica attempted a smile. “You've been most helpful, indeed.”

  “And perhaps you should talk to Dr. Locke, Lucian Locke. We call him Lucky.”

  “Lucky?” asked Kim. “How is he lucky?”

  “In the vernacular of some of our students, 'He de man,' “ replied Plummer, standing now under a brilliant blue sky and a blinding, fiery setting sun from which she guarded her eyes. “Sir Lucky. Just won the well-funded if less than history-making R. J. Reynolds teaching fellow­ship. 'Lucky' Strikes, you see.”

  “A fellowship to teach, but isn't he teaching now?”

  “This will afford him the opportunity to teach and write in Japan.”

  “I see.”

  “That makes him number one on this campus. Reflects well on the entire university, you see. Makes my depart­ment shine. It's called professional development. We don't like our faculty to stagnate, you see.”

  “Publish or perish?” asked Kim.

  Jessica replied, “In the case of our killer, it's publish and perish.”


  “Guess I'll be packing my bags soon, hey, Dr. Plum­mer?” It was Dr. Burrwith. He'd exited the building from a basement door, a door that led out to the parking lot; as he stood at the top of the flight of stairs, his body was silhou­etted against the light. He'd come up from behind them, but none of them had noticed, so quiet was his footfall.

  “There's no need to deride your own work here, Dr. Burrwith. No one knows the classics like you. We all know that.”

  “Lucky Lucian, ladies,” said Burrwith, unmistakable an­guish in his voice. “L-U-C-K-Y with a capital dollar sign. The tobacco industry's latest weapon in their public rela­tions war—fund literature and literacy so they can point to their investment in people's ability to read the surgeon gen­eral's warning label on their products. Thereby further ex­cusing themselves for selling addiction and genocide.”

  “Let's not minimize the fact that our colleague has just won one of the biggest fellowships in all of academia, Dr. Burrwith,” Plummer soothed. “Queerly enough, everyone in the department has taken Locke's victory personally, as if it means a professional blow to others. Why is that, De­tectives? You know human nature better than most. Why does one man's or woman's success have to be viewed as another's failure?”

  “I'm sure I can't say,” replied Jessica, surprised by the question. She now sensed there was far more rancor in the relationship between the dean and her colleague than she at first realized.

  “Insecurity on the part of the second party,” said Kim Desinor. “Textbook psychiatry, chapter one.”

  “Usually Dr. Lucky is in by now, but he hasn't bothered showing up for his office hours since the big windfall,” said Burrwith. “Fortunately for him, the dean here is, in his case, lenient about such matters.” The implication that Dr. Lucian Locke was either figuratively or literally in bed with Dean Plummer was far from subtle. “His office is next to mine. It's the one office from which I haven't yet been displaced.”

  Jessica wondered momentarily if such professional jeal­ousy and bickering could spill over into murder and an at­tempt to frame someone.

  Burrwith swung out with his briefcase and strode off, his head held high. If he had at one time been infatuated with Plummer, he appeared well over it now.

  “Pay him no mind,” said Plummer. “The students have all flocked to Dr. Leare and Dr. Locke, you see, and Garri­son has been left with lecture classes the size of tutorials. I fear Dr. Burrwith has lost his touch with the young. His communication skills, while always questionable, are now definitely on the wane.”

  “The other instructors are more in tune with the stu­dents?”

  “The students persist in calling them a team, Locke and Leare, they say. If you've had Locke and Leare, you know you've covered the territory.”

  “Then Locke... he's a good teacher as well as an award-winning poet?”

  “Good? Good? He brings literature to startling life, and the man's forgotten more about the classics than I ever learned. Good man, fantastic teacher, really, and I think he, like myself, enjoys the work tremendously, and the rewards cannot be weighed. He loves his students.”

  “As do you?”

  “To keep my hand in, I continue to teach one course per semester, and yes, I do—love my students, that is. That's what makes this sordid business all the more shocking, to lean that two—no, three—of the victims were enrolled here. I found it rather astonishing, absolutely astonish­ing”—Jessica thought, Yeah, public-relations-wise—”to learn of the connection, while that smug Garrison Burrwith pretends he never had the least inkling this kind of thing was going on, which made me suspicious of him, you see. How can someone claim to know not the slightest about these horrible incidents? It's a bold-faced lie.”

  “There has to be more reason for your suspicions of Burrwith. What are they really, Dr. Plummer?” pressed Kim. He... he and I once had a thing, a romantic thing, you see, and well, as I mentioned before, he liked using a pen on me.”

  “Using a pen on you?”

  'To excite me; he would use a pen... down there... pre­tend to write in the area of my thighs, the lip of—well, you get the picture. At first it struck me as odd, but so is Burr­with. After we broke it off, he withdrew into himself, and when I learned how these young people, some our students, had died, he just naturally leaped into my mind. You will keep this private, won't you?”

  “As much as possible, yes, of course,” said Jessica.

  Kim bit her lip, saying nothing.

  “You will be discreet, won't you?” pressed the dean.

  “Of course.”

  “You never know around here if your job is secure, and should my superiors learn of... Well, they wouldn't be, how shall I put it, liberal in their thinking.”

  “We may have to speak with you again, Dr. Plummer. You don't have any plans for leaving the city, do you?”

  “Oh, gracious no. Are you suggesting, I mean, does this mean that I am... a suspect?”

  “No, not really.”

  But she wasn't listening. “How unusual. Wonder how one adds being a suspect in a murder investigation to one's curriculum vitae?” She half smiled at her own little joke and added, “Imagine, questioned in relation to a homicide investigation. What will the trustees think?”

  “We'll keep this as businesslike and as discreet as possi­ble, I assure you, Dr. Plummer.”

  “Thank you. Truth be known, Locke and I, we've visited some of the coffeehouses on Second Street, to 'plug in,' as he says.”

  “To plug in?”

  'To the youth thinking—the 'scene,' as they call it. We may well have been seated next to the victims, and then one night Garrison showed up. It's horrible to think of.”

  “Did you ever notice anyone there who struck you as out of the ordinary, unusual in any way?”

  “Only him—Burrwith. He made a scene one night at the Brick Teacup. Confronted me before Locke. It was most unpleasant.”

  “Did he in any way threaten you?”

  “He stalked me for several weeks after our breakup. That was threat enough. That night, I made it clear that in no uncertain terms... that whatever we had at one time was dead, absolutely and completely dead and over with. He got the message, believe me.”

  “He felt replaced by Dr. Lucian Locke?” asked Jessica.

  'To say the least, yes.”

  “And you think him capable of poisoning young people in order to... to get back at you and the university for feel­ings of having been wronged?” asked Kim.

  “Poison would be just like him, don't you see? You saw how he sneaks up on you. Beneath that calm exterior lies a volcano waiting to erupt.”

  “We'll keep an eye on him for you.”

  “Thank you... thank you. And I wanted to tell you out of Dr. Burrwith's hearing that both Locke and Leare are out of town at the moment—an academic conference in Houston.”

  “When do you expect them back?” Jessica asked.

  'Tomorrow, for their classes. They'll likely return some­time late today or tonight.”

  Jessica took down the addresses of the two professors. The three women shook hands and Dr. Plummer made her way back up the stairs and into the airless castle where she worked, a fortress no architect would construct outside a university campus. She was not a beautiful woman in any sense of the word; her legs looked like stuffed sausages, her waist had lost the battle to differentiate itself from her hips, and her hair was from another generation, down to the bangs and flip. She dominated these men through her power in the department, Jessica imagined, but now, with Locke's having won a lucrative if not prestigious award, he likely no longer needed her or the university.

  “Whole lotta shakin' goin' on here, wouldn't you say?” Kim asked, picking up on Jessica's mood. She had also picked up on the same vibes about Plummer. “That woman appears to rule here.”

  “Soon, I imagine, she will be repaid in kind by the men she uses.”

  “Some piece of work she is,” Kim agreed, the sun re­flecting a glint in h
er eye just before it sank below the hori­zon.

  “Yeah, let's get out of here before she comes back with another bogus eyewitness.”

  “What about Leare and Locke? Do you think we should talk to them sometime soon?”

  “Academics are scary, aren't they?”

  “Yeah, you got that right.”

  “Imagine, this woman has concocted this fantastic modus operandi and motive for the killer, and it all re­volves around her love life, her scorned lover. She believes herself the center of the universe?”

  “Yeah, it all revolves around me, me, me.”

  “How're we going to write up this report?”

  “Get in the car, and let's get out of here, shall we? We'll worry about the particulars later.”

  FIFTEEN

  Indolence is heaven's ally here,

  And energy the child of hell;

  The Good Man pouring from his pitcher clear,

  But brims the poisoned well.

  —Herman Melville

  Jessica and the team, man for man, woman for woman, felt stymied. Forensics had revealed little of the killer, and the poison he used continued to evade toxicologists at Quantico, Virginia, just as it had evaded DeAngelos's team. Another night had fallen on the case, and no one stood a step closer to ending the career of the strange Poet Killer.

  Jessica looked up from her notes and the killer profile that she, Kim, and James Parry had prepared for the PPD. Lieutenant Sturtevante and her people continued to be co­operative, pleased for the most part with the FBI involve­ment. The case had simply ground to a frightful halt, and for a time, it appeared that perhaps the Poet Killer had ei­ther committed suicide or left the city, or perhaps been ar­rested and imprisoned on some other charge.

  The PPD, under Sturtevante's guidance, looked over the suicide records and any recent arrests and incarcerations that might point to a suspect. With thousands of people leaving Philadelphia on any given day, there appeared lit­tle hope of locating the killer if the stepped-up pressure of police surveillance of Second Street and its nightlife had caused him to take flight .Jessica again looked up from her paperwork, intuitively feeling someone staring at her from the doorway of the temporary office she sat in. A squat little man with a cane who looked like Truman Capote, down to the dark glasses, stared back at her, giving her a moment's fright.