by B. V. Lawson
Back in the theater lobby, Sarg scanned his notes before putting them away. “Let’s say we’re talking two killers. If Jaffray offed Shannon, he copied the other guy’s MO. Unless he stabbed Cailan, too. I mean, he is an expert on ritualistic killing and those Athame knives.”
Drayco was about to reply when a different woman’s voice sounded behind them, “Fancy running into you here.” They both turned to see Adele Gilbow, who must be taking a break from bungee jumping and skydiving. “Agent Sargosian and Dr. Drayco on the case of Shannon Krugh’s murder, I assume?”
The look Sarg shot Drayco spoke volumes. Just as Gary had said, the crime scene was barely cleared and yet most of the campus knew. The texting and Twitter hotline strikes again.
As if reading their minds, she added, “Jerry Onweller called Andrew this morning and informed him of the tragedy. My first thought was serial killer, but Jer said something about a murder-suicide? I think he wanted Andrew’s analysis on Shannon’s state of mind. Since he had her in class.”
She sighed. “In fact, there’s been a flurry of calls. Caleb Thackeray phoned Andrew and Jerry. He was furious.”
Sarg said, “I’ll bet.”
“Poor Shannon. I didn’t know her, but Cailan talked about her some.”
Sarg asked, “What specifically?”
“As I mentioned earlier, their music rivalry. And they had a falling out over some boy. Gary, I believe? Cailan was afraid of Shannon.” Adele swung her purse around in front of her. “I have to confess, I didn’t take her fears seriously. And now, it’s too late. For both of them.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a photo. It was identical to ones they’d found hidden in Cailan’s pillow, with the warning painted in red on Cailan’s mirror. “Cailan gave me this. I know you’re going to judge me for it, but I thought she’d done it herself to get attention. When I showed it to Andrew this morning, he said I should give it to you.”
Sarg took the photo. “You must be stalking us.”
“Jerry Onweller said you’d be here. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. I’m friends with one of the theater’s board members, and we’re headed out for cocktails and some fundraising battle plans.”
The friend in question waved at Adele. The woman was clad in gray pants, gray shoes, gray sweater and gray hat. Didn’t get much more neutral than that, the Switzerland of outfits. Adele and her friend headed outside.
Sarg had mini-thunderclouds gathering across his face. “Since when does Onweller have the authority to deputize a psych buddy of his into the FBI? ’Cause it sure looks like he’s going behind our backs.”
Drayco was less surprised at Onweller’s behavior than Sarg was, having the benefit of time and distance. He was instead obsessing over what Adele Gilbow said about not taking Cailan’s fears seriously. It made him think of the “Da Capo” puzzle folded in his wallet.
Had it warned them of Shannon’s death? Here he’d been, angry at Parkhurst for not turning over the list of students in Reed’s project, wondering if doing so earlier would have prevented the second tragedy. Was he just as guilty? Then again, sometimes taking a threat seriously may prevent the surprise of the tragedy, but not its execution.
27
Friday, 24 October
The small makeshift shrine inside a display case at the Parkhurst Music School held a smiling photo of Cailan with a copy of the press release announcing her Met regional award. Tall glass candles decorated with musical notes, crosses, and the Parkhurst logo stood like spires among red carnation bouquets and stuffed animals.
The case had a new addition since the last time Drayco was here, a photo of Shannon. Maybe she hadn’t been popular at the music school in life. But in death, they hadn’t forgotten her.
Sarg was meeting Drayco on campus in a couple of hours, before noon. This gave Drayco a chance to talk one-on-one with Cailan and Shannon’s fellow music students. Some were reluctant to open up at first. But when he approached it by “talking shop,” one musician to another, the walls fell, and all of a sudden they were full of opinions and theories.
Gary’s name popped up, as did mentions of “that creepy guy,” whose description matched Elvis. No one knew of any cults. Most were ready to believe it was murder-suicide.
The one boy who’d been the most helpful seemed to be indifferent to the whole issue at first, making Phantom of the Opera jokes. But he turned serious when he recounted a brief conversation with Cailan two days before she was killed. “Said she was worried. Maybe a little scared. After getting these weird notes in the mail.”
“With music on them?”
“She didn’t give details. Just said she’d figured out who was sending them, and it wasn’t who she’d thought.”
Wasn’t who she thought? This was the first time anyone said Cailan knew the sender’s identity. He asked the young man, “Did she give a name?”
The young man shook his head, so Drayco asked, “When was this?”
He replied, “That’s what freaked me out. It was the day she died. I kept quiet about it because … My family doesn’t like publicity, you know?”
Doesn’t like publicity? After learning the young man’s name from other students, Drayco did a little cellphone research on the boy’s father. Wall Street investment banker. Right. He’d have to let Sarg handle that one.
The other tales—of rampant cheating, who was addicted to prescription drugs, which students were most likely to show up in class drunk—made Drayco depressed. These kids had everything those a few miles east of the Anacostia River lacked, wealth, privilege, opportunity. And the main difference seemed to be they could afford lawyers to keep them out of jail.
On an impulse, he ducked into the recital hall, which was empty and dark, except for a small spotlight on stage. The Bösendorfer called to him, and who was he to ignore such a command? He slid onto the bench, pushed up his sleeves, and launched into a Bach prelude and fugue. His hand didn’t cramp this time, another frustration of his—it was unpredictable.
Since his arm was in unusually good shape and not wanting to waste the deep timbres of the instrument’s rich bass end, he switched to Debussy’s La cathédrale engloutie. He still loved the warm, complex sound of his Steinway, but the dark, bell-like timbre to this Bösendorfer lighted up his brain like a field of black and yellow tulips in the middle of a thunderstorm.
He heard footsteps on the stage and stopped playing as a woman joined him and leaned on the edge of the piano. She smiled. “It’s lovely to see you again so soon. Here I was thinking it was going to be an ordinary day.”
“Is there such a thing for you, Adele? Your husband says you’re the thrill-seeking type.”
“What else is an English major good for? Mostly I meet people for brunch or tea. Whenever or wherever there’s money to be shaken from wallets and purses. Today, I’m trying to help set up a music scholarship in memory of Cailan. Is that why you’re here?”
“When Agent Sargosian joins me, we’re going to visit Reed Upperman.”
“Reed’s such a dear young man. Andrew and I are both fond of him.”
Maybe she was, but Sarg’s intel at the party indicated Gilbow himself was not. “Has Reed talked about his dissertation project?”
“In passing. Andrew doesn’t like to discuss work at home, but Reed’s project sounds fascinating. Being able to experience so many senses all at once.”
She walked around the crook of the piano and sat beside him on the bench. “Andrew told me about the brutal end to your piano playing. You’re still exquisitely good. Thinking of starting a second career?”
Second? He’d moved on to a third and might soon be switching to a fourth. “I can’t practice the long hours it takes to be a concert pianist.”
Adele looked at his left arm, exposed by the sweater pushed above his elbows, and then reached over to trace the uneven pink scars trailing down his right forearm into his wrist and hand. Scars not all that different from the ones he’d seen on Shannon, excep
t his had the chance to heal.
Adele said, “What a pity. We need more musicians in this world, not fewer.”
Drayco moved his arm to his lap and turned the conversation back to Reed and his project. “Cailan was one of Reed’s synesthesia students. Surely she must have mentioned him?”
Adele continued to stare at his scars. “It’s amazing such sensitive hands could kill. I notice you don’t carry a gun. I’m glad. I hate guns.”
She switched her attention to his face. “Cailan didn’t discuss school as much as you’d think. I suspect she was worried it would get back to Andrew. Or her uncle. We mostly talked girl stuff.”
“Did she mention her disagreement with Troy?”
“He was a doting uncle, if a stodgy one. I never can get him to come bungee jumping with me. If there were a contest for stodgiest professor, it would be a tie between Andrew and Troy. Cailan just wanted to sing. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be a prostitute. Or join the army and be sent to one of those unpronounceable countries.”
“Was she afraid of him? Of her uncle?”
“He had a temper, but who doesn’t? Me, Andrew, we all do.” She fingered his scars again. “You’re not very fond of my husband, are you? Every time I mention his name, you look cross.”
“He’s well respected in his field.”
She laughed. “Oh dear, you really do dislike him. He thinks highly of you.”
Drayco stared at her, stunned. “He hides it well.”
“Oh, he can bluster and babble with the best of them. Jerry Onweller’s told him a lot about you.”
Drayco shook his head. “Not sure Onweller knows what to make of me.”
“Ah, to see ourselves as others see us. The poet Robert Burns was right.”
Bobby Burns meant well. But if people really could see themselves from the viewpoint of others, it would mean more money for psychoanalysts. And sales of Gilbow’s self-help books.
Right now, Drayco tried to see Adele through the eyes of a twenty-year-old boy. “I chatted with Gary Zabowski, Cailan’s ex. To be honest, he said you came on to him.”
“It’s possible. I meet a lot of Andrew’s students. And I am an incorrigible flirt.”
As if to prove the point, she reached over and held his hand, but seemed more intent on studying his fingers. “Seems like a big jump from pianist to FBI. Or crime consultant.”
“Not as much as you think. A lot of analysis in both.”
She smiled at him, released his hand and slid off the bench. “You’re an unusual man, Scott Drayco. And now, I’d best head to my appointment before I forget what I came for.”
Once she’d left, he ran his index finger silently along the black keys, then launched into the Debussy, picking up where he’d left off. His music career, the FBI days—his past kept stalking him like a bounty hunter.
He reluctantly ended the Debussy and bid farewell to the Bösendorfer to go meet Sarg. The college had gotten a release from HIPAA regulations, and Sarg and Drayco were to get the names of participants in Reed Onweller’s project. Two days too late to help Shannon. Maybe not too late to prevent another murder.
28
Reed wasn’t alone. He and Andrew Gilbow were in the middle of an intense discussion but stopped talking when Drayco and Sarg walked into the lab. Gilbow greeted them with a full-blown scowl. “I knew you’d turn up here sooner or later. Another tragic death. And the death of a dissertation.”
Reed turned his back on Gilbow and limped over to take a seat, balling his fists in his lap. “I’m sorry about Shannon’s death. Genuinely sorry.”
He took a deep breath and looked at Drayco. “But I also found out Shannon Krugh was faking synesthesia the other day. Guess you know all about that.”
When Drayco nodded, Reed confronted Gilbow. “This doesn’t have to mean my project is through. I still have eight participants.”
Gilbow thrust his hands in his pants pockets. “It won’t be that easy. Graduating at the end of the year looks doubtful.”
Sarg had no sooner opened his mouth to speak, when Gilbow handed him a piece of paper, adding, “Here’s the list of the students in Reed’s project, Agent Sargosian. Not that it matters.”
Sarg looked at the list. “And why is that, sir?”
“It’s highly unlikely it had anything to do with the deaths of the two girls. Especially since Shannon wasn’t a true synesthete.”
“But no one knew she was faking. The link could still be there.”
The caution-flag wrinkles on Gilbow’s brow unfurled slowly. “According to Reed here, Gary Zabowski knew. But even though beer-stewed college kids aren’t the model of discretion, Agent, you have a point.”
Drayco read the list after Sarg handed it over, not recognizing any of the other names. “So you believe Gary is our murderer?”
“I don’t know the young man in question personally. He fits some of the serial killer profile. In his early twenties, higher-than-average intelligence.”
Drayco folded the list and put it in his pocket. “I’m not as enamored of blueprint profiles as you are.”
“Well then, Dr. Drayco, what is your expert opinion on our killer? Or killers, if a copycat is involved.”
Drayco would take inordinate satisfaction if he were able to prove Gilbow wrong, but his own bag of theories was half-empty. “I think I’d like Reed to tell us more about Shannon’s behavior during recent lab sessions.”
Reed hesitated until Gilbow nodded at him. “You understand I’m not speaking on behalf of the college or Professor Gilbow. Just my own observations. I was already worried about her participation in the project before I knew she was a fraud. The bipolar probably should have disqualified her.”
“Her unpredictability?”
“Among other things.”
Drayco perked up. “Other things?”
Reed nodded. “I caught her trying to erase Cailan’s data in the computer.”
Sarg asked, “You believe her capable of murdering Cailan, then?”
“Capable of suicide, yes. Murder, no.”
Reed reached to turn off his computer monitor, and his hand bumped into a switch, sending a sudden loud noise through the speakers hanging on the wall. Drayco winced, but the others were unaffected. When Reed quickly turned the switch off, Drayco said, “That is an amazingly ugly sound.”
Reed’s face lit up. “Really? How so?”
“Brownish-green spikes that feel like hot tar on bare feet.” Reed grabbed a pencil and jotted something down.
Gilbow peered at a wall clock. “I’d be happy to talk more with you gentlemen whenever my schedule allows. Right now, I have a class on the first floor. If you’ll excuse me … ”
Reed barely looked up from his notation as Gilbow left. “You feel textures with sounds, too, Drayco? That’s three senses involved at the same time. Amazing. I do wish I had you in my project.” He put his pencil down and sighed. “Gilbow’s right. It may not matter.”
Sarg moved a stool next to the table to sit. “Your dissertation really under the gun?”
“I got a leave of absence from U Penn to finish my degree. Taking an additional semester is a non-starter.”
The painful noise from Reed’s machine still rang in Drayco’s ears. He tried to ignore it. “Surely something can be worked out.”
Reed rubbed his forehead. “Did you know I only get to see my kids a couple times a month? Makes me wonder if it’s all worth it.”
Sarg pulled out his notebook and laid it on the table but didn’t open it. “Mr. Upperman, would I be right in saying this dissertation is your last chance at U Penn? If you don’t get it, you won’t be given tenure?”
Reed pulled out a cloth and removed his glasses to clean them. “It’s hard to get tenure without a PhD, sure.”
Sarg tapped the notebook. “We contacted your school. There were complaints you were getting too graphic in your Abnormal Psych class, using personal sexual references. And you also wanted to add midnight classes?”
> “Political theater and sour grapes, that’s all. The Dean and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. You can’t teach Abnormal Psych without the ‘abnormal’ part. As for the midnight classes, that’s not a new idea. Even community colleges have added them.”
Reed smiled mockingly at Sarg. “Unless you suspect I’m a vampire?”
“No sir, I can see your reflection in that mirror over there,” Sarg nodded his head at the wall.
Reed got up and limped over to a coffee machine in the corner. The coffee, the color of burned wood, smelled just as appetizing. “If you want to know my sad story, Agent Sargosian, you could just ask. My marriage is on the rocks. So is my career. And the funny thing is, I’m not sure I care.”
He gulped down several sips of hot coffee, without so much as a cringe. “You know any police psychologist openings?”
Sarg said, “If you’re referring to a profiler, there’s no such position at the FBI.”
“I mean forensic psychologist. Psychometrics, PTSD. Criminal case consultations. Fascinating stuff.”
Drayco immediately remembered Dr. Simms, the FBI psychologist he’d been asked to see prior to leaving the Bureau. It hadn’t struck Drayco until now, but Simms resembled an older version of Reed, minus the glasses. Reed could squeak by under the maximum age limit to qualify as an FBI agent.
Reed limped to his chair, and for a moment, his leg buckled under him, making him spill some coffee on the floor. Drayco reached him in two long steps to steady him, rescuing the coffee before it could cause burns.
Reed slipped into his seat and massaged his leg. “Legg-Calve-Perthes disease. Doesn’t bother me most of the time.”
The chart of synesthesia subjects made a window frame behind Reed’s head. A thick red line now covered up a row Drayco assumed was Shannon’s, X’ing her out of the project. Another trace of her existence fading away.