Paul Levine - Night vision

"Dunno."

"A Doberman."

He had another beer, and at the second commercial he asked, "What's the difference between a rooster and a lawyer?"

"Dunno."

"The rooster clucks defiance."

I was running out of beer, so I was happy when he stood up, turned off the tube, and simply said, "Passion Prince is an English professor with a potbelly."

Then he opened the briefcase, removed a file, and slid it across my sailboard, which, when propped between cinder blocks, makes a fine coffee table. I lifted the porcelain top on my last sixteen-ounce Grolsch, sat down, and started reading. Rodriguez had handled the old-fashioned gumshoe work himself, checking out the nighttime callers. Four to Marsha Diamond, nine to Mary Rosedahl the night each was killed. Two men chatted with both. Biggus Dickus never left his house either night, Rodriguez said. His wife corroborated the alibi. Wife?

They played the game together. Biggus bedded down the women, conversationally at least. They talked it right down to panting, penetration, and popping. The missus did the men. Made them both so hot, they'd get off together. For real.

Oh.

Of the other ten men, seven had alibis that also checked out. That left Passion Prince, Harry Hardwick, and Tom Cat. Passion Prince was Gerald Prince, fifty-one, an English professor at Miami-Dade Community College. Other than Biggus Dickus, the only man to talk to both women the night they died. Divorced, lives alone. No criminal record. Expressed shock at the deaths, Rodriguez said, but seemed to enjoy the attention. Was home alone at time of both killings. Or, in the words of Rodriguez's report, "Subject allegedly asleep between 2300 hours and 0600 on dates of homicides, no corroborating witnesses."

"Does Prince teach poetry, by any chance?" I asked.

"Nope. I checked. Specializes in theater."

I turned to the next file. Harry Hardwick was Henry Travers, forty-six, retired postal worker on full disability. Ordinarily found at the horses, dogs, or jai alai, depending on the season. Never married, no criminal record. Willing interview subject. Admits computer connection with Mary Rosedahl early on evening she was killed. Claims to have been at jai alai, maybe on way home at time of homicide.

Tom Cat was Tom Carruthers, thirty-five, wilderness guide. Never married, one arrest for assault in a tavern brawl, case dismissed. Refused to be interviewed, or as Rodriguez wrote, "Subject provided minimal assistance and informed undersigned officer to 'fuck off, asshole.'"

"What do you think?" I asked Rodriguez.

He sighed and stretched out on the sofa, one tired cop. "I don't know. Travers and Carruthers spoke only to Rosedahl, so you gotta start with the professor because of the double match. The retired guy walks with a limp and would have a hell of a time attacking anybody. The outdoorsman is a hardass, one of those survivalist freaks with about thirty guns, but…"

"Nobody got shot here."

"Right." Rodriguez grazed his chin with the back of his hand, scratching his five o'clock shadow plus seven hours. "And another thing. You deal with enough homicides, you get a feeling. Like you can talk to a guy and you just know he's a killer. I don't get that feeling here, not with any of them."

"I'm told that psychopaths can be very charming."

"None of them's exactly a charmer either." He paused, then said, "One's a weirdo, though."

"Which one?"

"Don't know, but look at this."

Rodriguez shoved a sheet of computer paper in front of me. "The crime-scene guys got this to print out of Mary Rosedahl's computer. According to the directory, it was her last Compu-Mate conversation. She saved it into hard memory about two hours before she was aced."

HELLO, FLYING BIRD, CARE TO CHAT?

SURE. HAVEN'T SEEN YOU AROUND THE CLUB BEFORE, HAVE I?

NO.

WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN, OH SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH? JOG, WORK OUT, RIDE. RIDE? YOU KNOW, HORSES. AH, FLYING BIRD. EQUUS THE KIND…THE MERCIFUL!

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

EYES LIKE FLAMES. GOD SEEST! ARE YOU ONE OF THOSE BORN-AGAIN GUYS? 'CAUSE I GOTTA TELL YOU THAT SHIT DOESN'T EQUUS…NOBLE EQUUS. GOD-SLAVE…THOU GOD SEEST NOTHING!!!! OH FORGET IT. NICE CHATTING. SIGNING OFF NOW…FLYING BIRD

"A real sicko, huh," Rodriguez said. "Wish she had mentioned his handle. Which one you think-" "Rod, that English prof, what's his name?"

"Prince, just like his handle."

"You say he teaches theater?"

Rodriguez flipped open his file and read aloud. "'American and British Drama, 1930 to 1980.'"

"Thought so."

"That shit's from a play?"

I nodded. "He's playing the disturbed boy. Trying to get Mary Rosedahl to be the psychiatrist, but she doesn't know the lines, has no idea what he's talking about."

" I got no idea what you're talking about," Rodriguez said. "Galloping horses. Passion. Seeing in the dark."

"Huh?"

"Welts cut into a boy's mind by flying manes."

"Sounds like you're the one needs the psychiatrist," he said.

"In due time," I said. "In due time."

I slid into an empty seat in the back row of the classroom and got my first look at the Prince of Passion. Gerald Prince had a fine thatch of silver hair swept over his ears, a florid complexion, and a face that had clearly been handsome in his youth. His shoulders were rounded and the brown sweater was threadbare at one elbow. A paunch hung over his belt, and the pants were baggy in the seat.

He was pacing in front of the class on an elevated stage, wagging a finger at a skinny young man near the front. About thirty students were scattered throughout the classroom in various stages of semi-somnolence. "And what does the playwright tell us about truth versus illusion?" The voice surprised me. Strong, resonant, a hint of a British accent. An aging actor, a tired Jason Robards maybe.

The young man shook his head. "No se, man."

"Now, Mr. Dominguez," Prince sang in soothing tones, "did you read the play?"

Si, sort of."

"And its theme? Its meaning? What did it say to you?"

"That bitch, man. Liz Taylor. What a ballbuster."

A few laughs from around Dominguez. I saw him only from behind. Dark hair short on the sides, a tail in back.

The professor strutted across the bare stage, coming closer to his student. "You're talking about Martha?"

" Si, Martha. I rented the video, man. I thought something was wrong with my Sony till I figured it was in black-and-white."

Prince's theatrical sigh carried to the back row. He spread his arms, threw back his head, and wailed, "'Blinking your nights away in the nonstop drench of cathode-ray over your shriveling heads.'"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I suppose it's better to have seen a few fleeting images than not to have encountered the playwright's words at all."

"I liked it okay."

"Good. Edward Albee will be pleased. And its theme, Mr. Dominguez? Its message?"

Dominguez scratched his head with a pencil. " No se, pero, si fuera mi esposa, I'd have popped her one, the way that bitch talked."

The class mumbled its agreement. Prince shook his head and turned to another student, a young black man in the front row.

"Mr. Perry, your review of the play?"

"What it is," Perry said, "talking trash like that, putting him down. My old lady do that, she'd be seeing stars. That George character, no balls."

" No cajones," Dominguez agreed, and his classmates-at least those who were conscious-mumbled their agreement.

"Has it occurred to any of you," Prince asked, quite certain that it had not, "that the conflict between George and Martha, the humiliation Martha heaps on him, is essential to their relationship? That they relieve the tedium with it? That it is part of their game?"