Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Could it?" I said. "Janie's murder never hit the news, so it had to be someone with inside information. And Schwinn's belief in science becoming a major investigative tool might play into it. That day has arrived, right? DNA testing, all that other good stuff. If semen and blood samples were saved-"

"I don't even know if there was any semen in her, Alex. Schwinn figured it for a sex thing, but neither of us ever saw the autopsy results. Once they closed us down, I never saw a scrap of official paper." A big fist slammed the table, and the murder book jumped. "This is total bullshit."

I kept my mouth shut.

He began pacing the dining room. "Bastard- I have a good mind to go face-to-face with him. If it was him- so why was it sent to you?"

"Covering tracks," I said. "Schwinn knew we worked together- another indication of an interest in police affairs."

"Or just someone who reads the paper, Alex. Our names were paired on the Teague case."

"And you came out of that one smelling sweet, big solve. Schwinn may not have liked you or respected or trusted you, but maybe he's followed your career and changed his mind."

"Give me a break." He picked up his glass. A thread of vodka had settled on the bottom, an icy ribbon of alcohol. "All this hypothesizing, my head feels like it's gonna split open. Sometimes I wonder what exactly it is that forms the basis for our friendship."

"That's easy," I said. "Common pathology."

"What pathology?"

"Mutual inability to let go. Schwinn- or whoever sent the murder book knows it."

"Yeah, well screw him. I'm not biting."

"Your decision."

"Damn right."

"Ah," I said.

"I hate when you do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Say 'Ah.' Like a fucking dentist."

"Ah."

His arm drew back and a big-fisted hand shot toward my jaw. He tapped gently, mouthed, "Pow."

I hooked a thumb at the blue album. "So what do you want me to do, toss it?"

"Don't do anything." He got to his feet. "I'm feeling a little… gonna take a nap. The spare bedroom fixed up?"

"As always. Pleasant dreams."

"Thank you, Norman Bates." He stomped toward the rear of the house, was gone for maybe ten minutes before returning tieless, shirt untucked. Looking as if he'd crammed a night's worth of nightmares into six hundred seconds.

"What I'm gonna do," he said. "- all I'm gonna do, is make a basic attempt to find Schwinn. As in make a call. If I find him and it turns out he did send the book, he and I will have a little chat, believe me. If it wasn't him, we forget the whole thing."

"Sounds like a plan."

"What? You don't like it?"

"It's fine with me," I said.

"Good. 'Cause that's it."

"Great."

Regloving, he picked up the murder book, headed for the front door, said, "Sayonara. It's almost been fun." As he stepped outside, he said: "Be there for Robin's call. Deal with it, Alex."

"Sure."

"I don't like when you get agreeable."

"Then screw you."

He grinned. "Ah."

I sat there a long time, feeling low. Wondering if Robin would call from Eugene. Figuring if she didn't within a couple of hours, I'd go somewhere, anywhere.

I fell asleep at the dining room table. The phone woke me two hours later.

"Alex."

"Hi."

"I finally got you," she said. "I've tried so many times."

"Been out. Sorry."

"Out of town?"

"Just errands. How's it going?"

"Fine. Great- the tour. We've been getting excellent publicity. Sellout crowds."

"How's Oregon?"

"Green, pretty. Mostly I've seen soundstages."

"How's Spike?"

"He's good… adapting… I miss you."

"Miss you, too."

"Alex?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What's- are you okay?"

"Sure… so tell me, are sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll what they're cracked up to be?"

"It's not like that," she said.

"Which part? The sex or the drugs?"

Silence. "I'm working really hard," she said. "Everyone is. The logistics are incredible, putting everything together."

"Exciting."

"It's satisfying."

"I'd hope so," I said.

Longer silence. "I feel," she said, "that you're very far away from me. And please don't be literal."

"As opposed to metaphorical?"

"You're angry."

"I'm not, I love you."

"I really do miss you, Alex."

"Nothing's stopping you from coming home anytime," I said.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" I said. "What, it's turned into a heavy metal tour, shackles and chains?"

"Please don't be like this, Alex."

"Like what?"

"Sarcastic- veiled. I know you're mad at me, and that's probably the real reason you didn't call me back right away, but-"

"You leave, and I'm the bad guy?" I said. "Yes, the real reason we missed each other was I was in no shape to talk to anyone. Not anger, I just got… hollow. After that I did try to call but like you said, you're busy. I'm not angry, I'm… do what you need to do."

"Do you want me to quit?"

"No, you'd never forgive me for that."

"I want to stay."

"Then stay."

"Oh, Alex…"

"I'll try to be Mr. Cheerful," I said.

"No, I don't want that."

"Probably couldn't pull it off anyway. Never been much of a performer- guess I wouldn't fit in with your new buddies."

"Alex, please… oh, damn - Hold on! They're calling me, some sort of crisis- dammit, I don't want to sign off like this-"

"Do what you need to do," I said.

"I'll call you later- I love you, Alex."

"Love-you-too."

Click.

Good work, Delaware. For this we sent you to therapist school?

I shut my eyes, struggled to empty my head, then filled it with mental snapshots.

Finally, I found the image I wanted and wedged it behind my eyes.

Janie Ingalls's brutalized body.

A dead girl, granting me momentary grace, as I lost myself in her imagined agony.

One thing about sensory deprivation: It does tend to freshen up your perceptions. And a plan- any plan- opens the door to self-importance.

When I left the house, the sun kissed me like a lover, and the trees were greener under a benevolent sun that reminded me why people kept moving to California. I collected the day's mail- junk junk junk- then walked around to the rear garden and stopped at the pond. The koi were a sinuous brocade, hyperactive, clamoring at the rock border, brought to the surface by my footsteps.

Ten very hungry fish. I made them happy. Then I drove to school.

I used my crosstown med school faculty card to get a parking spot on the U.'s north campus, walked to the Research Library, sat myself down in front of a computer, began with the in-house data banks, then logged onto the Internet and made my way through half a dozen search engines.

Janie or Jane Ingalls pulled up the Ingalls-Dudenhoffer family tree website from Hannibal, Missouri. Great-great-great-grandmother Jane Martha Ingalls would be 237 years old next week.

Bowie Ingalls connected me to a David Bowie fan club in Manchester, England, and to a University of Oklahoma history professor's site on Jim Bowie.

Several Melinda Waters hits popped up but none seemed remotely relevant: A physicist by that name worked at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, nineteen-year-old Melinda Sue Waters was hawking nude pictures of herself from a small town in Arkansas, and Melinda Waters, Attorney-at-Law ("Specializing in Bankruptcy and Evictions!") advertised her services on a legal bulletin board out of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

No crime stories or death notices on either girl. Perhaps Janie's friend had indeed surfaced, as Milo had suggested, and slipped back into society unnoticed.

I tried her mother's name- Eileen- with no success.