The Devil's Menagerie

by Louis Charbonneau

  Eighteen

  RICHIE SAW THE Buick again Friday morning on the way to school.

  Billy Dickerson had just dug an elbow into Richie’s shoulder, laughing, and when Richie swung around to give Billy a knuckle shot on his bicep he saw the big blue sedan pulling out of a side street and falling in behind the school bus. He confirmed at a glance that it was a ‘93 LeSabre. The car fell back quickly. Richie had only a glimpse of the driver’s face behind the wheel, but that glimpse made him a little dizzy with excitement.

  The babble of the school bus whirled around him. This morning Richie felt removed from it, as if he were floating up around the roof of the bus, watching all the kids at their horseplay. His excitement gave way to the odd confusion he always felt about the stranger who was his real father. He remembered the rush of emotions a week ago when the man on the telephone made his stunning announcement. Richie had been assaulted by a bewildering compound of anger, resentment and excitement—and something deeper that he couldn’t name, something that left him shaking, his heart hammering in his chest like a blind thing trapped in a cage.

  He told himself that he might be wrong about the driver of the Buick. He might just be someone going to work. Richie peered out the back window. The Buick continued to follow the bus, staying one or two car lengths behind. Sometimes it would drop farther back, but even when traffic became heavier it stayed in sight, keeping pace.

  It was him, Richie thought. Ralph Beringer.

  His father.

  Richie knew exactly what he looked like. Besides the one photograph his mother kept in a frame, showing her with Beringer and Richie as a baby, she had other pictures in a cardboard box in one of her dresser drawers. Several years ago Richie had found them. Seeing the unposed snapshots of the young, muscular soldier in his air force uniform, Richie had experienced that peculiar mingling of anxiety and excitement Beringer’s image evoked in him. He took one of the photos, and for weeks afterward he waited in terror for his mom to announce that she had discovered the theft. She never did. Maybe she never looked at those old pictures anymore. Maybe she didn’t care.

  Richie hadn’t been worried about physical punishment for taking the snapshot. Neither his mom nor his dad—Dave, that is, not his real father—believed in spanking. Mom exercised discipline in other ways. A sad disappointment in her voice (“Oh, Richie”) was enough to bring tears to the boy’s eyes. A cool distancing in her tone of voice, or a silent stare, were as effective as blows. Richie’s feelings for his mother were not ambivalent, and he never wanted to disappoint her.

  It was the same with Dad—Dave. He would lose patience sometimes, raise his voice, but he never threatened Richie. His way was to talk things over quietly. That was why Richie had been hurt and resentful the night Dave shoved him so hard he cracked his head against the door frame, the same night Ralph Beringer had telephoned.

  His anger hadn’t lasted, of course. He had been okay with Dave afterward, like when they went to the beach on Sunday. Richie had seen right away what his parents were up to that day. He wasn’t stupid. There had been something warming and delicious about their mutual anxiety over him, Dave suggesting they go off together, Mom watching them go with that worried look she sometimes wore.

  Ignoring the babble on the bus, Richie fished inside his jacket pocket for his wallet. He slid out a plastic sleeve and peeked at the snapshot. The man in the photo didn’t look like a Ralph. Ralph seemed like a wimpy name, like the kid in Richie’s class who was always out sick. The soldier—Richie’s real father—was obviously no wimp, even though he wore glasses. You could see that right off. You could see how tough he was.

  “Hey, Richie, lemme see. Whatcha got?”

  Richie shoved the sleeve back into the wallet and the wallet into his pocket. Billy grabbed at it. “Come on, Richie, show us.”

  “Get lost.”

  “What is it? Dirty pictures?” Grinning, Billy raised his voice. “Whatcha holding out on us? Feelthy pictures?”

  With no recognition of the fury he was unleashing, Billy danced in the aisle by Richie’s seat, leading a taunting chant that was quickly picked up by others. “Dirty pictures! Dirty pictures!”

  Gene Couzzens, the balding, potbellied bus driver who had grandchildren Richie’s and Billy’s age, became annoyed over the commotion. He called out, “Cool it back there. You, Billy, sit down!”

  “Feelthy pic—”

  All of the turmoil Richie had felt over the past week exploded. He hurled himself out of his seat at his tormentor. “I’ll kill you!” he cried.

  He punched the startled Billy Dickerson in the face. Blood spurted from Billy’s nose. Then they were pummeling each other, wrestling more than hitting, their punches hampered and ineffective in the narrow aisle. The other boys on the bus jumped to their feet or stood on their seats, yelling gleeful encouragement. Some of the girls shrieked with exaggerated panic.

  The bus pulled over to the curb. The usually amiable driver bulled his way along the aisle. He grabbed Richie by his shirt collar and forcefully pushed him into his seat. Then he did the same with Billy. “Cut it out! I’m reportin’ both of you.”

  “He hit me first!” Billy complained tearfully. The tears came more from a sense of injustice than from his battle wound. He held a bloody tissue under his nose.

  “You ast for it,” Couzzens growled. “Now sit down, put your head back and keep it there. That’ll help stop the bleeding. I don’t want any more trouble from either one of you. And that goes for the rest of you.”

  Mocking cheers and applause followed the driver along the aisle to the front of the bus.

  Richie sat rigid in his seat, eyes staring straight ahead. He was humiliated and angry out of all proportion to the incident, which had amounted to no more than everyday razzing from his friend Billy. My real dad wouldn’t take it, Richie muttered to himself. He wouldn’t take any shit from anybody.

  Ignoring Billy Dickerson’s glower, Richie swung around and stared out through the bus’s back window. He was just in time to see the dark blue Buick make a left turn onto San Anselmo Drive, a wide street flanked by rows of condominiums and apartments.

  Richie’s first reaction was disappointment. Maybe he had been wrong about the driver’s identity. Maybe it was only a coincidence, the Buick pulling out of a street near his house and following the bus.

  But he didn’t believe it. He had seen the Buick before. One of the teachers at Elli’s school had seen it too.

  Richie guessed that Ralph Beringer’s presence in San Carlos had a lot to do with the way his mom had been acting lately. He didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but one thing seemed very clear: His real father had come back into his life.

  He wondered if Ralph Beringer was staying somewhere on San Anselmo Drive.

  THAT AFTERNOON, ON the other side of town, Special Agent Karen Younger met Edith Foster’s roommate in the dormitory room Sheri Kuttner had shared with the murdered girl. The room had already been searched without anything significant turning up—no tell-all diary or little black book of phone numbers, no packet of love letters pointing directly at the probable killer. Sheri had provided Detective Braden with a list of Edie’s friends, teachers, and activities on and off campus, supplementing the class list Braden had obtained from the Dean of Women. The names of the faculty members and other college personnel had already been screened and forwarded to the FBI for comparison with military records.

  Sheri sat on the edge of one of the two twin beds in the room, unable to keep from glancing at the other bed, which had been stripped down, sheets and a blanket neatly folded at the foot. The built-in shelf in the headboard, a student desk and a small chest of drawers used by Edie were all bare, the girl’s effects having been released to her family.

  Sheri Kuttner was more than a little in awe of the FBI agent. Sheri admired the woman’s outfit—loose brown herringbone jacket over a yellow silk blouse and beige slacks—her somewhat full figure, short straight nose, the stylish cut of her
short blond hair. Most of all, though, Sheri was impressed by the agent’s intelligent gray eyes and the cool self-confidence in them. Sheri wondered if she would ever know that kind of composure.

  “You’ve had time to think about things, Sheri,” Karen Younger said quietly. “Is it okay if I call you Sheri?”

  “Uh … sure.”

  “I’m Karen, okay?”

  Sheri didn’t think she would ever be able to call the FBI woman Karen.

  “I told that detective everything I knew. And I gave him a list of Edie’s professors and other stuff.”

  “I know, and we appreciate your help. We just thought you might have remembered something else … anything Edie might have said about who she was going to see that Friday night.”

  Sheri averted her gaze, thinking that those quietly observant gray eyes could peer right into her mind.

  “You told Detective Braden—at least that was his impression—that Edie had been seeing a married man, perhaps one of her teachers.”

  Sheri was silent. She twisted a Kleenex between her fingers. “I don’t know, maybe I said that, but … I don’t know.”

  “I see.” The agent studied Sheri speculatively for a moment. Then she said, “Did you and Edie take any of the same classes?”

  “Well, not many. I mean, she was going for a BA, majoring in English. I’m in pre-med.”

  “You want to be a doctor?” There was approval in the agent’s voice.

  “Maybe. I don’t know now … after visiting that morgue I’m not so sure.”

  “Don’t let that stop you, Sheri, if that’s what you want to be. You’ll learn to handle that part of it.”

  “Will I?”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  After a slight hesitation Sheri said, “We did take one class together last semester.”

  “What class was that?”

  “Contemporary Film Studies. Everyone wants to take it.”

  Karen Younger smiled. “Why is that? Because it’s easy? Or because you all like to watch movies?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But the girls all like him … the professor.”

  “Who is that?” Karen glanced down the list of Edith Foster’s teachers. “Dr. David Lindstrom?”

  “Yes.”

  Something in Sheri Kuttner’s tone caused Karen to glance up quickly from her notes. “What is it, Sheri? What do you know?”

  “I never actually saw them together. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but … I know how Edie felt last year when we were taking his class. We used to kid about all the excuses she made to stay after class or go to his office. I mean, Edie could be pretty obvious when she wanted to. She made sure we sat in the front row, and the way she would dress and all …”

  “Making sure the entire package was on display?” The agent seemed more amused than disapproving.

  Sheri giggled nervously. “Yeah, sort of … like that. Then she started going out at night without saying where she was going, and she was real closemouthed about it, and I used to wonder if he was, you know, the one she was seeing.”

  “Dr. Lindstrom?” Karen repeated the name quietly. “This is very important, Sheri.”

  “I know. Edie never actually said she was seeing him, but she was seeing somebody she wouldn’t talk about. And I know she sometimes acted as if she thought Dr. Lindstrom was the Second Coming.”

  “Do you think she still felt that way? You’re talking about last semester, but you told Detective Braden Edie was seeing someone over the past month or so.”

  Sheri frowned. The question was one she had asked herself without coming up with an answer. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s funny you should say that. I mean, I thought before summer vacation she’d begun to cool off about the guy she was seeing. Edie was like that.”

  “Is that why you hesitated? Because Edie was acting excited again this semester about who she was seeing, and you thought it had to be someone new for her to feel that way?”

  “Well, you know, she wouldn’t let anyone string her along. I mean, Edie didn’t have to. There were plenty of others wanted to go out with her.”

  The agent studied her thoughtfully. “That’s very astute, Sheri … very observant.”

  “Well, uh …” Sheri felt warmth in her cheeks at the unexpected praise. “I don’t actually know for sure that Edie ever went out with Dr. Lindstrom. She hinted at it a couple of times, but sometimes she’d do that just to make you jealous.”

  “She knew you also liked Lindstrom?”

  The perception startled Sheri. Her heart thudded. How could she have named Dr. Lindstrom? My God, what was she thinking? Just because Edie boasted how she could make any of her professors jump through hoops if she really wanted, and she knew how Sheri felt about Lindstrom …

  “He’s really nice,” she blurted. “I mean, Dr. Lindstrom’s not the kind …”

  “No one is,” the FBI agent said.

  * * *

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Karen met Braden by prearrangement at The Pelican, the coffeehouse on the downtown promenade where Edith Foster had gone the night she disappeared. The place was not full at that hour, and Karen had to imagine what it would be like later that night for a poetry reading and a TGIF conclave of students celebrating the end of the week.

  “One of Foster’s friends saw her here that night,” Braden said, bringing her up to date. “And the girl who read her poems that night knew Edie and recognized her. That was around eleven o’clock.”

  “Did either of them see anyone with Foster?”

  “The poet was too busy doing her thing. The friend thought Edie might have been with someone but she isn’t sure. It was crowded. The place is a zoo on weekends, she says, especially Friday night. People come and go, and there’s a lot of mixing.”

  “Good place to meet someone if you don’t want to draw attention.”

  “Exactly,” Braden said. “You like this Viennese coffee?”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “I can’t stand milk in my coffee.”

  They both fell silent, having quickly run out of small talk. They were on the Job, not a date. Braden was already impatient to return to the station. Still, Karen thought, he was bending a little … more than she had expected.

  “So who does Sheri Kuttner think Edie was seeing?” the detective asked in his abrupt way. “Did she open up at all?”

  “She’s not sure who Foster was seeing this past month—she thinks it might have been someone new. But Sheri is fairly sure that last semester Edie was seeing one of her professors, a Dr. David Lindstrom. He teaches in the Film and Television Studies program.”

  “They give you college credit for watching movies and TV?”

  “Maybe not just for watching, Detective.”

  “Lindstrom, huh … yeah, he’s on the list.” Braden frowned. “He’s a volunteer firefighter. Supposedly that’s where he was last Friday.”

  “That kind of lets him out.”

  “Not necessarily. They got that fire under control late Friday. Maybe the volunteers were released early. Maybe in all that confusion it would’ve been easy for someone to slip away.”

  “It’s possible,” Karen said, not hiding her skepticism.

  She studied Braden’s profile as he sipped his coffee and gazed around the room, which was beginning to fill with college-age youngsters in pairs and groups. Braden wasn’t half bad-looking, she thought, though he would probably look considerably better if he were getting more sleep. He was tough and stubborn, but less of a Neanderthal than some cops she had met. Watching him at work, she was inclined to accept his version of the events that had won him notoriety on television. After their initial abrasive encounter the SCPD detective had been cooperative, civil, even pleasant. She didn’t know if he was humoring her because he had been ordered to, or if he had miraculously had his consciousness raised over the past few days.

  “There’s another reason Lindstrom isn’t the one,” she said.

  “Now what would that be?”r />
  “I’ve had a report from military archives on the faculty list I faxed back to Washington. No one on the list was in Germany eight years ago, or in military service at that time. There are several Vietnam vets on the faculty, and two army reservists who were called up during the Gulf War, but neither of those was sent to Germany.”

  “Yeah, well …” She recognized the stubborn denial in his eyes. “Maybe that just means your German killer was someone else. What we could have here is simpler—someone who knew Foster or was involved with her, someone like Lindstrom. Maybe Foster dumped him, or she wanted him to dump his wife and threatened him, and he lost control. Bye-bye, Edie.”

  “It could just as easily be someone who didn’t know her at all. Do you always have to act like you don’t give a damn, Detective?”

  “Who said it was an act?”

  “I do,” Karen snapped. “And you’re wrong about Lindstrom.”

  “I like him,” Braden said, unwilling to back off.

  “I think Edith Foster’s killer was more than a jealous or angry or frightened lover. He’s a serial killer who’s let the genie out of the bottle. It’s been a week already, Braden. I think he’ll kill again, and we’re running out of time.”

  Nineteen

  AFTER SHE HAD a hamburger at Burger King that Friday evening, eating by herself, Natalie Rothleder returned to the San Carlos College campus and spent two hours in the library working on a research assignment, a term paper for her Lit class on the English Romantic Poets. Two hours with Wordsworth and Coleridge, Byron and Shelley were her idea of a neat way to usher in the weekend. Something of a loner, Natalie didn’t mind being alone with her favorite poets.

  San Carlos College, which had built its academic reputation on its Liberal Arts program, was not exactly a liberal bastion. From Natalie’s viewpoint it was a WASP school with a sprinkling of token minorities—blacks, Asians and Hispanics. Natalie regarded herself as the token Jew in her class. She was attending the school on what she called a free pass—in reality, a hard-won scholarship. She felt like an outsider. She had suffered enough casual slights and rebuffs to make her defensive, touchy, a little arrogant and fiercely independent.