Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"He says, changing the subject. Doing the workaholic thing as usual, night shift at the ER… Marrow? Why do I keep hearing jungle drums going oonka loonka ? Come across any missionaries in a pot?"

"Not yet, and Moreland says not to worry. There's no history of cannibalism here. Both he and the chief of police see it as a sicko killer trying to look exotic. Local opinion pins it on a Navy man who moved on."

"Moreland's a crime sleuth, too?"

"He's the only doctor on the island, so he handles all the forensics."

"Cannibalism," he said. "Does Robin know about this?"

"She knows there was a homicide, but I haven't given her the details. I don't want to make too big of a deal about it. Other than that, there's been no serious crime here for years."

" 'Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play.' Why a Navy man?"

"Because the locals aren't violent and the killer seems to be transitory."

"Well," he said, "I was Joe Army, so you won't get any big debate from me. Okay, hang loose, don't eat anything you can't identify, and stay away from jokers with bones in their noses."

"A creed to live by," I said. "Thanks for calling, and good luck on your cases."

"Yeah… all bullshit aside, I'm really glad you guys got to do this. I know what last year was like for you."

A phone rang in the distance and he grunted.

"Other line," he said. "More sludge. Sayonara and all that, and if you see a bearded French guy painting ladies in flowery muumuus, buy up the canvases."

Robin napped and I took a walk, crossing the rose garden and descending the sloping acres of lawn. Four men in drive-and-mows were working on the turf. The rotting-sugar smell of cut grass brought to mind childhood Sundays.

So had Victory Park, I realized. The war memorial in my Missouri hometown had been only slightly larger. Sunday meant my mother bundling my sister and me off to the park when my father chose to drink at home. Bologna sandwiches and apple juice, climbing the cannon, pretending to fire, Mother's sweet, forced smiles. When she died, Dad's drinking stopped, and so did the rest of his life.

Shaking off melancholy, I continued down to the fruit groves, stepping among fallen oranges and tangerines and a popcorn spray of citrus blossoms. The meadow Moreland had created out of wildflowers was brilliant. A collection of miniature conifers had been trimmed surgically and a boxwood knot garden was as intricate as any maze I'd encountered in graduate school. Then the greenhouses, every pane spotless, and trees full of orchids, the plants tucked into the folds and hollows of branches like hatchlings. I kept going till I spotted patches of granite and the brown, thorny fuzz of rusty barbed wire.

The eastern border. Plumbago and honeysuckle and wisteria covered most of the high stone walls, softening the wire but not hiding it.

On the other side, the banyan tops formed a greener-gray awning, aerial roots shooting through the canopy like the tentacles of a beast in pain. From what I could see, the tree trunks below were stout and kinked cruelly, whipsawing in a struggle for space.

For a second, the entire forest seemed to be moving, tumbling down on me, and I felt myself losing balance.

After I restored equilibrium, a tight spot remained at the base of my throat.

I looked up at the trees again.

Robin had mentioned a subtle coolness drifting over the walls, but all I felt was an internal chill.

I hiked along the border, listening for sounds from the other side but hearing nothing. When I stopped, the same illusion of movement recurred and I placed both hands on the stone and breathed in deeply.

Probably low blood sugar. I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

I headed back. When I got to the grove, I picked up an orange, peeled it, and finished it in three bites, letting the juice run down my chin the way I'd done as a child.

Back in my office, I tackled another carton of medical files. More routine; the only psychological diagnoses Moreland had noted were stress reactions to physical illnesses.

I pulled down another box and found myself growing bored till a folder at the bottom made me take notice.

On the front cover Moreland had drawn a large, red question mark.

The patient was a fifty-one-year-old laborer named Joseph Cristobal, with no history of mental disorder, who began to experience visual hallucinations-"white worms" and "white worm people"- and symptoms of agitation and paranoia.

Moreland treated him with tranquilizers and noted that Cristobal did have "a fondness for drink but is not an alcoholic." The symptoms didn't abate.

Two weeks later Cristobal died suddenly in his sleep, the apparent victim of a heart attack. Moreland's autopsy revealed no brain pathology but did discover an occluded coronary artery.

Then the doctor's final remark in large, bold print, the same red color as the question mark: A. Tutalo?

I figured that for a bacterium or virus but the medical dictionary he'd provided me didn't list it.

A drug? No citation in the Physicians' Desk Reference.

I returned to the storage room, squeezed my way past the columns of boxes, and searched the bookshelves.

Natural history, archaeology, mathematics, mythology, history, chemistry, physics, even a collection of antique travelogues.

One complete case devoted to insects.

Another to plant pathology and toxicology, which I went through carefully.

No mention of A. Tutalo.

Finally, in a dark, musty corner, the medical books.

Nothing.

I thought of the catwoman. Moreland's telling me about the case moments after we'd met.

Now another case of spontaneous death.

I'd reviewed perhaps sixty files. Two out of sixty was three percent.

An emerging pattern?

Time for another collegial chat.

When I reached the house, I saw Jo Picker near the fountain, watching Dennis Laurent's police car drive away. Water dotted her hair and face. As I came up to her she wiped her cheek and looked at the moisture on her hand. The spray continued to hit her. Slowly she moved out of its arc.

"That policeman came over to tell me what's going on."

She rubbed her eyes. Her new tan had been replaced by mourner's pallor. "They say Ly landed on the base and they're shipping him back today… I should've expected it, working in Washington. But when it happens to you… I've been calling his family."

One of her hands rolled tight.

"I didn't really chicken out," she said. "Though that would have been rational."

She looked at me. I nodded.

"I probably would've been stupid enough to go up even though I had bad feelings about it. But this time… he got mad at me, called me a… I just said to heck with it and walked away."

She moved her face nearer to mine. Close enough to kiss but there was nothing seductive about it.

"Even so, I still probably would've relented. But he wouldn't let up… as I was walking through that bamboo I heard the plane engine start up and almost ran back. But instead I kept going. To the beach. Found a nice spot on the rocks and sat down and stared at the ocean. I was feeling pretty relaxed when I heard it."

Our noses were nearly touching. Her breath was stale.

"I miss him," she said, as if finding it hard to believe. "You're with someone for a long time… I told his mother she could bury him in New Jersey near his father. We never made any plans for that kind of thing- he was forty-eight. When I get back we'll have some kind of service."

I nodded again.

She noticed a stain on her shirt and frowned. "My ticket out of Guam isn't for another two weeks. I guess I should say that I can't wait to get back, but the truth is, what's waiting for me? I might as well stay and finish up my work."